SUNFLOWER

By Elaine Joy Edaya Degale

In the Philippines, the reactions to my existence were split: those who regarded Americans as traitorous, self-interested imperialists met me with great discontent, while others responded with inquisitiveness, of which there were many levels. In my mind, I ranked them in accordance with how many personal boundaries were transgressed upon. 

“Where are you from?” seemed pretty benign in terms of introductory greetings. Despite the fact that I never really invited such interactions, polite eye contact on my end was alluring enough to commence the impromptu interviews. The initial question was followed by a polite “Are you half, ma'am?” To which I would respond affirmatively and volunteer that it is my mother who is Filipina. Then: “The other half, ma’am?” 

“American.” 

“African, ma’am?” 

“American.” 

“But Americans have blue eyes and blonde hair, like the Hollywood movies, ma’am.” 

To which I responded with silence. 

Some would then ask, “Your mother in the military, ma’am?” Again always polite, but now at a point of intrusiveness in terms of discerning class status. 

“No, not military,” I would say. “My mother was a civil engineer and professor here before she left for the States.” 

“Wow ma’am, where in the States?” 

“New York City.” 

“Like the movies, ma'am?” 

“Yes, like the movies.” 

And it was always this question that didn’t make a lot of sense: “Saan ka sa Filipinas, maam?” (“Where in the Philippines is your family living?”) 

Here, I would proudly beam, “Mindanao.” 

During this time, the southern provinces of the Mindanao were not a typical place where people aspired for anything like the United States. I could typically tell if the person interviewing me was from the north or south based on how they reacted to this answer. Most people from the capital of Manila regarded Mindanao as backward, poor, and full of hicks. They typically responded with a dishonest smile and horror in their eyes when I said I was from there, because the media had painted Mindanao as dangerous. 

They then concluded, “Are you Muslim? Be careful, the food has pork.” The conclusion assumed that I must be the kid of a datu, a rich Muslim tribal chief, or some other type of Muslim royalty. This was not true, of course. But there had been times when I would just indulge and pretend to be who people needed me to be in that moment. 

“Ang galing naman ng life mo maam, gala-gala lang,” they would say. (“Your life seems to be a never-ending vacation. I wish I had that too.”) 

“Oh, no, no. I’m just passing through,” I’d say with a smile. 

“Can I get a picture with you?” “Can I get an autograph?” “Can we be penpals?” 

I endured variations of this conversation throughout my childhood. These were the conversations I would be greeted with no matter what corner of the world I found myself in—simply existing. Anywhere there was a touch of the Philippine diaspora, the routine sketch that is my life was the same. The same conversation happened in China. The same in Portugal. The same in Spain, France, Curaçao, and Germany. It’s a song and dance that is a piece of home wherever I go. To be honest, maybe I invited myself into these conversations when I spoke in Tagalog or Ilonggo every time I heard a Philippine accent embellish English with the tunes of my hometown glory.

Returning to the Philippines as the only Black American person—probably even the last one most people will see in their lifetime—is like being famous in a charming sort of way. The curiosity that random acquaintances regarded me with swung between extremes: some regarded me with immeasurable envy or even hatred, while others idolized me as a source of inspiration that mitigated the great distance of being American versus being a southern Filipino with indigenous roots. 

To most in our humble town of Sto. Niño, the United States of America feels worlds away. Too many oceans to cross, too much time to waste, too much money to spend. Every time I returned home more than once a year, the farmers that toiled the fields (which included my extended family) never commented on the weather, as most Americans might. Rather, comments were typically like: “Ay kanami lang gid sa imo daw Marbel lang tana ang America.” (“What a charming life of yours, to have the freedom to regard the U.S. as if it were just the next town over.”) 

I’ve been flying internationally since I was three and traveling from New York to the Philippines alone (except with plane crew supervision) since I was eleven. Being on sixteen-hour flights and traveling for two days straight to cross the imaginary boundaries, separated into what they called the first, second, and third worlds, has always been normal for me. International demarcations that required visas, saving prodigiously for “show money” to prove I was wealthy enough to be granted a tourist visa, proving that I was fit for travel through medical examinations, marrying for convenience and achieving citizenship, seducing Americans for a shot at the American Dream, were not something that my existence ever required.

I was born American. Abraham Lincoln, Black Civil War heroes, abolitionists, and Martin Luther King Jr. gave their lives for me to enjoy this global privilege. 

In the same vein, from an objective standpoint, many Filipinos fought and died so that access to the American Dream inadvertently became solely accessible to the rich and intelligentsia classes of the Philippines. These were things I never had to contemplate as someone born in Long Beach, California. The first time I understood the privilege of being American was when my mom’s undocumented friend, Corai, buried her face into my blue passport—the thing that gave me freedom of movement all over the world. 

I’m Black, and I am very lucky. 

In New York City, to be Black is to be cool, a trendsetter, and this was true of my existence in the Philippines. I felt like royalty and my popularity unnerved me mostly because I just wanted to be left alone. I simply wanted to blend in. But I couldn’t. My skin, my hair, were spectacles to be observed, my aura to be suffused by, my life to either be coveted for or imposed upon. 

I was viewed as a liberated American, with pubic vulgarity as a crown. I can’t tell you how many times a curious person would caress my hair and make comments like, “Look at the purity of this kink!” or “Ooo, such kinky hair!” I didn’t understand why sexual terms were always used to describe my hair. Though my classmates in New York City would view me as someone who is prudish and uninformed when it comes to the callings of the flesh, my acquaintances and friends in the Philippines viewed me as an American of liberated values and vulgar humor, because I said things like “shit” and “fuck.” Or because my hair reminded them of you-know-what between their legs. 

NOVEMBER 23, 2001 - Balikbayans

My belly sank into itself as we descended on the Philippines’ capital city. The flight from JFK, including the layover in Korea, was approximately twenty-seven hours long. Upon exiting the airport, the wet kiss of Manila’s heat bathed me in unsolicited sweat that drenched my undergarments in ways I don’t care to detail. It must be noted that as the plane descended into the green and concrete scenery that divide the rich and poor in the nation’s capital, Manila was greeted by a chorus of applause from all the balikbayans, a term for Filipinos returning to the motherland. The scene on the plane was a joyous one. As immigration processes approached, Naomi handed me off to my Uncle Oscar, whose personal connections allowed him entry into the immigration queue. 

Immigration was a swarming chaos, saturated with the quiet negotiations of arrivals and the officers tasked with the responsibility and power to stamp the papers that allowed people like me to stay in the country longer. As American citizens, we are only allowed to stay for thirty days. I saw Uncle Oscar insert a one-thousand pesos bill into my passport before handing it to the immigration officer. For a moment, I thought he had forgotten to retrieve it. But when my passport was returned, a balikbayan stamp presented itself on one of the visa pages. This meant that I was good to stay in the country for one year, as opposed to one month. The transaction, which completely escaped me, did not fall short of painting a glow of achievement on my uncle's face. 

When I asked why he looked so pleased, he furtively guided me to the baggage claim carousel in response. The silence was uncanny. 

“Only great things, Elaine. Great things.” My Uncle Oscar winked. 

***

When we emerged into the furnace of Manila’s scathing sun, Uncle Oscar, completely unfazed by the scorching weather, beamed at his wife with pure excitement. 

“We got the balikbayan stamp!” Uncle Oscar told my Tia Alma in failed hushed tones as she busied herself greeting me with kisses and helping me with the luggage. 

“That’s good, Popsie!” she responded, reflecting his excitement. She placed her hands on my shoulder and smiled widely, “Welcome back Laine. You lost some weight. So sexy mo na ah!” She grabbed the smallness of my waist. “Just a few months ago, we saw pictures of you on Friendster. You were big then. What happened? It's so fast!” 

“I only ate chicken ramen for the past month,” I replied shyly. 

“Anyway, we fly to Mindanao in a few hours. Are you hungry?” Tia Alma took off my backpack and handed it to my cousin, Christian, who looked surprised to be tasked with carrying my bag. 

“Thank you, Chris,” I smiled. “When we get to the hotel I will give you your pasalubong!” 

Homecoming gifts from the United States were always a novelty that transcended any sort of potential conflict. Pasalubong cured the insanity of conflict in a way that was unmatched. Anything that came from the United States was tantamount to gold. On many occasions, I took the liberty of using American-bought homecoming gifts as items to be pawned in the name of conflict resolution. I’d also lost thirty pounds. 

As our car exited Ninoy Aquino Airport, the sweaty mouth of the beast where Ninoy Aquino was assassinated, I was captivated by the small set of hazel eyes glued to my window. With them were delicate hands stained with poverty’s demands. She peered at me with a helplessness I’d never encountered before. My inclination to roll down the window and offer her some change was quickly interrupted by my Tia Alma. She hovered her hand over my 

arm knowingly, with empathy in her eyes. 

“Laine, don’t. If you roll down your window, more will come and we will never be able to maneuver our way out of here. You don’t want us to accidentally run over them, right?” 

My heart hardened and guilt stung my face. The girl hung on the door for a few moments more. Eventually, she started to laugh, and I smiled too. 

“Hehe! Negra! Negra!” She pointed and jeered. Her friends came to join her. They joked about me being someone’s ugly girlfriend. It became apparent they were no longer interested in money. They must’ve thought I looked really funny and this must have made their day somehow. 

NOVEMBER 25, 2001 - One Big Bed

The house swarmed with life as I unpacked, and I was happy. So happy! Ah, it felt so good to be home! Since my arrival, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant relatives had paid me a visit with tasty treats in tow. All my favorite foods were brought before me. One of them was Mango Float, which is made of graham crackers, condensed milk, and ripened yellow mangoes frozen in cream. Another was unripe mangoes sliced in shrimp paste.

My uncle passed by to drop off the keys to my mother’s new van so that I had a ride readily available if I found myself in the mood to go to the town. There wasn’t such a thing as privacy when I came home. We all pulled our sleeping mats together to create one big bed and sleep together. As I was still jet-lagged, I listened to everyone and giggled to the gurgling sounds of sleep all through the night. 

NOVEMBER 27, 2001 - Lechon Baboy

Have you ever witnessed the slaughter of a pig? My pet piggy, the thing I fed with a baby bottle just this summer, was up for slaughter. I protested this at first, mostly due to guilt. But then I realized that I did not come up with the food chain. The gods did. 

Manong Beroy, Uncle Macky, Mayok, and Uncle Boten stood by a giant cauldron of boiling water fanning themselves, drinking ice-cold water. They took off their shirts, and the perspiration of the humid day painted a mosaic of sweat on their bare bodies. One of Piggy’s legs was tied to a coconut tree and the preparations for slaughter were in full swing. There was fear in Piggy’s eyes, as if she knew what was coming. She had poop all over herself in morbid anticipation. I also wondered—rather I hoped—that she was planning her escape. 

Before she was greeted by her impending death, they spoke to her like they did when she was a baby. They bathed her carefully, examined her to make sure she was pure of wounds. The more gentle the men were, the more fear flooded her eyes.The stray dogs congregated around her, as if saying their goodbyes. Piggy started to cry. 

Mayok found a piece of wood and whacked her over the head with it. She squealed and ran around in the circle that her leash allowed. Tugging, pulling, yearning for freedom. Somehow, the leash loosened, and she broke free after the second whack. They chased her around. She must’ve been dizzy. As they chased her, they whacked her a couple more times. 

She was about 80 pounds, my dear Piggy, and boy did she almost outrun them. 

“Kaluoy! Kaluoy!” I cried, running away. The poor thing! My poor thing! But I needed to see how it ended. 

They eventually caught her and tied her back to the tree, almost unconscious. The men were glistening from the chase under the blazing sun. Mayok took the knife and jammed it into her throat. She convulsed, cried, and writhed in pain. She tried to escape once more, pulling her tied up leg and bleating before she withered and died. The mangy dogs dispersed by the end of the slaughter, and I wondered if they found this entertaining. 

Piggy was laid on the ground with a gaping hole in her throat. They poured boiling water into the wound to disinfect the incision site. They then took a thin blade and scraped the hairs off the pig. They started with the face and worked their way across until her tail. Beroy joked about washing her pussy. He examined and fondled it for a while before pouring hot water into it. 

After her body hair was scraped, they took a torch and torched off her nails. The nails fell off like gun casings. 

“Bang Bang. Piggy’s getting a manicure Elaine, haha!”

Piggy’s blood dripped until she was almost white. She kind of looked like a small human to me. 

That day I learned—to die is the natural course of things in this grand drama we call life. To be human is to be most powerful. We kill life for food in order to live. 

It was Grandma's birthday. To celebrate another year in Grandma’s life, Piggy had to die, and she tasted good. We all shared in the bounty of her legacy. 

We call this dish “Lechon Baboy.” 

NOVEMBER 28, 2001 - White, Like Mom

“Do you ever wish to be white?” 

“I wish to look like my mother.” 

“Have you ever heard about homemade bleaching creams?” 

Sheila Marie and I spent yesterday afternoon frozen stiff in a homemade bleaching cream we made ourselves. Apparently, after church on Sunday she went into the city to buy the ingredients for the concoction. Marquee White Henna, hydrogen peroxide, grated soap chips (Dove in this case), lemon juice, and Kojic Acid soap. She had inherited the ingredients list from her mother, my Tia Nelfa. 

Tia Nelfa had developed a really bad case of eczema, allegedly from the overuse of the whitening concoction. However, when I was in first grade, I vividly remembered my Tia Alma sprawled out naked, waiting for the mixed concoction to dry on her skin. Well, she’s pretty and I thought that maybe someday I’d be pretty too. God willing. 

An hour later, we continued to stand naked in my bedroom. The clock was ticking audibly and for many moments it felt like we were doing something wrong. Something against the laws of nature. They repeatedly say in church that God makes no mistakes. While I don’t think I’m a mistake, maybe my mother’s story about my birth can be edited as I grow older. “The Black baby grew up to be more like me, and I’m proud!” 

Do I make my mother proud? Maybe this is the magic concoction that would make me more like her. Sheila had convinced me that we would both be a few shades lighter. In my case, I was excited for the possibility of blending in and looking more Filipino. Maybe one day, I could live in a world where people don’t tease me for being different. Maybe I’d be more normal. Right? 

***

When we were in second grade, my Tia Janet did my hair for a Christmas party. She combed my hair gently until it rose like bread. After a deluge of hairspray and gel, my hair elevated itself to the sky and rested above my head like a crown. I felt very pretty and adorable. 

When my classmates saw me, Ritchel took one of the blue ball ornaments from the class Christmas tree and placed it in my hair. As it hung there, he said, “Wow, your hair is like a Christmas tree!” 

Some of the kids found it really funny, but I thought it was cool that my hair could be decorated with seasonal objects. I tried returning the gesture, but the ornament fell and crashed to the ground because his hair was too short and straight. Other students started trying to put ornaments in their hair and duly failed. 

As crusts of soap chips disbanded themselves from our coat of sin, Sheila Marie began to contemplate other ways to become more beautiful. 

“Have you heard of Japanese hair rebonding? Maybe it would work on your hair and you can have straight hair too.” 

As Sheila Marie offered this option, I contemplated the times she spent the evenings twisting palm leaves into her sister’s hair so she could enjoy a curl pattern similar to mine. Nevertheless, I was intrigued. 

“Would it work?” I paused. “On my hair, I mean. Will it go straight?” 

“It might. I’m saving up money to get it done myself.” 

“But your hair is already straight.” I stared at the large bundle that sat on top of her head. 

“No, it's wavy,” she said. “I want it completely straight, like the Sunsilk commercials.” 

All Filipino Sunsilk commercials featured the same silky straight hair, dark as midnight. The commercials were always of pale-faced women, typically whitened, with a pointy nose, swaying to a corny jingle. Then, towards the end, a random hand would appear on the screen and 

place a wide-tooth comb on the top of the model’s head. The comb would subsequently slide off the hair; smooth, straight, and shiny, like the mane of a well-groomed horse. 

My hair was never destined for such a thing. My hair rose towards the sun and sprawled itself—announced itself—and swayed against the direction of a light breeze, opening like an embrace to the world. 

Like a sunflower.

---

Elaine Joy Edaya Degale is an Afro-Pinay storyteller who drifts between New York City and the sun-drenched shores of her native Philippines. She eats her way across continents, each dish unlocking a new short story as she quietly penned her debut novel Sunflower. In another life—or perhaps this one—she imagines herself as an undercover journalist of art, culture, and quiet revolutions. Mysteriously enough, you can often find her weaving spells of memory and mischief in her weekly column for the Philippine Daily Mirror, where she writes as The Dreamweaver. Right now, Elaine is back in NYC, pitching her novel to publishers like and including Kinsman Avenue Publishing, Inc.