Pinky

Copyright © 2020 Maria Balais.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced

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case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author

and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of

the information contained in this book and in some cases, names

of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Archway Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9678-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9677-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9679-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020918620

Archway Publishing rev. date: 11/28/2020

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Preface

Part 1 - The Women

Chapter 1     Cecelia

Chapter 2     Cila

Chapter 3     Theresa

Chapter 4     Virginia

Chapter 5     Agnes

Part 2 - The Men

Chapter 6     Loreto

Chapter 7     George

Chapter 8     Sam

Chapter 9     Christopher Jay

Part 3 - Everyone Else

Chapter 10   The Crazed Asian Woman

Chapter 11   The People At The Supermarket

Chapter 12   The Friends At The Bar

Chapter 13   The Idiots On Scooters

Chapter 14   The Shamans In Leadership

Epilogue

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to CJ.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Perrin Cothran Conrad, Stephe Koontz, Christopher Matos-Rogers, Keith Sagers, Reggie Peagler, Mitchell King, Mia McCaskill, Wayne Murphy, Mindy Pillow, Nedra White-Shaw, Stuart Jackson, Janice Robinson, Mark Zimmerman, Salvador Chavez-Holzman, Sean Griffith, Melissa George, Cristina Stewart, Nathaniel Smith, Sam Zamarripa, Shawn McIntosh.

PREFACE

On the Tuesday night after Thanksgiving 2019, my ex-husband, Tony, my brother in-laws, Christopher and Dee Jay, and my son were at my house for a family dinner. They were roasting a honey and orange glazed duck, making a green bean casserole, garlic mashed potatoes, a crisp salad, and Tony’s father’s stuffing, which the main ingredients were salt and butter. There was the glow of the Christmas tree, fresh cut flowers on the table, my mother’s china, and my Christmas napkins and napkin rings. We were sipping on Great King Street scotch, and pinot grigio. Our 11 year old son, CJ, had on his headphones and was playing video games and snacking on popcorn while dinner cooked.

We were finally celebrating Thanksgiving and my adoption birthday which is December 6th. Though Tony and I have been divorced for five years, we are very amicable and committed to co-parenting our son. Naturally the subject of my book came up. I said, I have been writing the book for two years, laying the foundation and experimenting with my voice and my words for on social media.

Tony shakes his head and said, Nope. You have been writing this book for twenty years. When we were dating and then married, you talked about writing a book many times. It has been on your mind for as long as I have known you.

I paused and then I said, You’re right. It was like elevator music. It was present, yet in the background. Always in the background.

Since that conversation, I have deeply contemplated why the book was finally coming to fruition. One of the things that did not crystalize for me until now was the purpose for writing the book. Did I want the book to be entertaining? Sure. Did I want to talk about my mother and my family? Yes. But why? Did I have a message I wanted to deliver? Probably.

A couple of months prior to that evening, I was having a conversation with a close friend about turning 50 years old. This is a major mile-marker for many people. My friend asked me, So, what are you planning to do for your 50th? It’s only two years away. Are you going on a big trip? Are you going to have a big party? You must celebrate 50!

I said, I don’t know. I have to think about it.

And I did think about it for a couple of weeks, searching my mind and my heart about how I wanted to celebrate half a century on Earth.

Then on Saturday evening, October 12, 2019, I sat at my dining room table on a cold and rainy night in Atlanta, with a two-finger pour of Balvenie twelve-year, single malt Scotch, and I started to write.

The words poured out of me. It was like the rusty spicket got some oil and loosened to finally turn and water flowed freely and furiously out. Not only did the words pour out, but tears.

I found myself having a good two-hour cry with each chapter. I also slept very well in the coming weeks.

I realized that I wanted to write down some things about the past 50 years so that I could make room for the next 50 years. And I also realized I wanted to do this for my son. I wanted him to know where he came from and how he came into existence, because his journey did not begin at Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta in 2008, but rather his existence began in November 1971, half-way around the world in Manila, Philippines. I also wanted him to know that his mother tried her best to leave no stone unturned. The purpose of the book finally revealed itself.

The structure of the book came easily. I knew I wanted three sections: The Women, The Men and Everyone Else.

But another thing that happened was that I did not feel compelled to tell everything. Somehow, my mind was able to view my entire life as a continuum and I just focused on selecting a moment in time on that continuum and talk about just that moment. It was razor focus and emotional. I recalled images and feelings. I recalled details of scenery, the weather, the sounds of voices and sensations, textures, and color—so much color.

This book is very revealing and personal. But not in the way that you might think. It reveals the two worlds I grew up in, the South Pacific and the Southeastern United States.

It reveals the deep sadness in my life, but also the greatest and most joyous moments. It reveals my sense of humor as well as the things I disdain.

I look forward to my next 50 years, or however long I will be around. And there may be another book in my future. I am not trying to be an author. I’m simply trying to tell a story. And furthermore, I am actually an artist. I have a degree in Theater from Agnes Scott College, but I was also a trained dancer. Communicating and telling stories through art—whether it was theater, dance or writing, are like breathing air for me. Creating is compelling for me.

I sincerely hope this book will illicit some thoughts and feelings for you, the way art is supposed to do. Thank you for giving it some of your precious time.

PART 1

The Women

CHAPTER 1

Cecelia

I t was early summer of 1994. It was a perfect Saturday morning, as I recall. I was cleaning, doing laundry, and packing for my long trip back to Manila to see my father. He was very ill with lung cancer. My trip home was my college graduation gift from my mother. I had just graduated from Agnes Scott College in May and secured a new job with a public affairs firm. One of my college friends and I moved into our first apartment—a townhouse off Defoors Ferry Road, which is now quite bourgeois and renamed West Midtown.

The call came around 9:30 a.m. It was an actual phone, mounted to the wall of the kitchen, with a long, stretched out cord and a high pitched ring.

Hello?

The voice responds, Pinky, it’s your Nanay.

Hi, Mom.

Me and Peachy are coming to Atlanta today.

Are you coming to the farmer’s market? What time?

No. I need to talk to you. And I need to talk to you in person.

Mom had a very thick Filipino accent. She learned English in 1979, at the age of 41, when she immigrated with me and my sister from Manila. Mom only had a tenth-grade education, as her parents didn’t believe the girls needed more than that, but ensured all the boys were educated. Ancestors are funny like that. But know this: my mom had a head for business, and she had an iron will. She played mah-jongg about twice a month. The other Filipino women would come to our small two-bedroom house on Hixson Pike Road in Chattanooga, TN. There would be Filipino food all day and chisme (gossip) in Tagalog. When Amy Tan published Joy Luck Club, I felt an instant connection to her as an author. The other author I loved was Isabel Allende, the Latina author who wrote The House of Spirits. Somewhere in between the pages written by these amazing women, I started to find my identity in my early twenties. Little did I know my sense of identity would be tested by God. But I don’t want to jump ahead too much.

Amy and Isabel gave me a mixture of Asia and Spain, which is exactly what the Philippines is. The Philippines was conquered by the Spanish for about three centuries. There’s a significant Catholic population and many words in Tagalog are Spanish words. Many names sound Hispanic. My grandmother on my mother’s side was named Maria and my grandfather was named Pedro.

When we arrived in the United States in 1979, we started out in New York City. Then Mom said, Too big. Too dangerous. Too hard. I have two girls. So, we ended up in Chattanooga, TN, where we already had some family. But growing up bi-cultural was not easy, and on this particular Saturday, it led me to ask a familiar question.

Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong? I asked my mother, as I had done all of my life. She was an immigrant, deeply Catholic, Filipino woman, and I had grown up completely Americanized. To make matters worse, I was educated at Girls Preparatory School, then Agnes Scott College, where the women are taught to think critically and question everything. Let’s just say I got in trouble with my mother a lot.

You’re not in trouble. I’ll see you in two hours, she said curtly and hung up.

The two hour wait for her arrival was utter torture.

She finally pulled into the driveway, but I was already at the end of the walkway, where I had been for twenty minutes, pacing.

As soon as we were inside, she said, I brought lumpia. We eat first. You’re always too skinny. Lumpia is the Filipino egg roll. It’s basically heaven rolled in a thin, crispy dough and deep fried. You can add ground pork or ground beef, or make it vegetarian and just have beansprouts and cabbage. But the dough wrapping is the key.

Mom fed everyone. If you came to her house and did not eat, you were disgraceful and disrespectful. So, you starved yourself for two days before you went to her house to ensure a good appetite.

After we ate and cleaned up, she turned to my sister, Peachy, go watch TV in the living room. Then to me, Let’s go upstairs to talk.

We climbed the stairs and sat on the edge of my bed. My comforter was hunter green and burgundy, in distinctive 1990s decorating style. I had made the matching throw pillows myself. Mom gave me her sewing machine my junior year in high school and I used to sew things, usually with straight lines only like pillows, because I didn’t really know how to sew, but I wanted to sew. I had bought the fabric for my throw pillows at Forsyth Fabrics on Huff Road…oh, excuse me, West Midtown. In 1994, my mattress and box spring were on the floor. I couldn’t afford a real bedroom set yet. But I had a skinny waist and perky butt, a college degree and two jobs. So what if I didn’t have real furniture?

She spits it out, I’m not your mother.

"What?! Did Dad have an affair? I mean, another affair…before Gloria?"

No. He’s not your father either. You’re adopted.

All the oxygen left the room. I was hot and cold at the same time, so I shivered. And then, I blinked. The identity crisis crashed all at once, and yet, everything suddenly made sense. The sensation of never feeling like I quite fit in with the rest of my family was finally explained.

I wanted to tell you before you see your father. I was afraid he might tell you, and I wanted to be the one to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you for so many years, but there was never a good time. Besides, the moment your father put you in my arms, you were mine. You have always been mine. Please don’t be angry with me. I’m so sorry.

I’ve wanted to write about this for over twenty years, but it’s hard to