“Becoming a Woman of Color” by Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor offers a satisfying and moving read. A lyric essay in structure, it is built in sections that each begin with a command: Imagine, Remember, Picture. The symmetry between beginning and ending the essay with the word imagine and the repeated commands of remember and picture sandwiched between the opening and closing of the essay carry both writer and reader through a rewarding emotional journey.

This essay made it to the top of the essay submissions in our recent contest because of the way specific images and remembered dialog enter the essay throughout, helping to place the speaker in her situation. By the end of the essay, readers realize that everything the essay’s speaker has had us remember and picture is important to the ending moment when she (and we) must imagine what comes next.

Rebecca starts with a very recent vignette of her daughter’s conversation about Christopher Robin and the difference between boys and girls. The essay ends with another recent anecdote that calls up another kind of difference–this time the preschooler is asking her mother if the new baby will be “just like me.” Rebecca has introduced us to her mixed race family and to the way her daughter is not recognized as belonging to her because of a difference in their skin color. She has told us as a mother, she is not recognized as belonging to her child. Imagine what a brown woman of Filipino descent, raised in a Seattle neighborhood where no Filipinos other than her family lived, feels when difference is pointed out. Imagine what “just like me” means to a woman who hasn’t had anyone just like her to grow up with and identified completely with US culture.

I remember learning that in at least one Native American language, the word for child means “one who made me a mother.” Our children force us to consider our identities in many ways. Reading Rebecca’s meditation on her background and identity, we are privileged to witness the inner life of a woman becoming a parent. We understand that where we come from and how our parents and culture comment on us both irritate and shape us.

I think you will enjoy the way Rebecca has woven the words of her immigrant parents, her husband, and her young daughter into the essay. We leave the essay informed, aware and changed. By considering Rebecca’s feelings and questions, we are more alive to our own. Whether or not our children are a different color than we are, what we believe, what we say, how comfortable we are in our own skin affects them and us daily. Reading Rebecca’s essay is like becoming a close friend with someone who is honest and allows us to share in her personal struggle.

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Becoming a Woman of Color
by Rebecca Mabanglo-Mayor

Imagine.

A rustle of bedclothes, a shift in the mattress. Your three-year-old daughter is trying not to fall asleep.

“Do you like Christopher Robin?”

Eyes closed, you smile and decide not to scold her.

“Yes, I like Christopher Robin very much. He’s a nice boy.”

“Christopher Robin’s not a boy. Christopher Robin is a girl. She has a round head.”

“And girls have round heads?”

“Yes, that’s right. And boys have…?”

“Boys have long heads. Right!”

You open your eyes to darkness and try to remember when things were so simple and wonder when her world will change.

****

Remember.

The sticky feel of fresh green beans as you try to snap them. You sit with your mother at the kitchen table and your legs dangle above the yellowed linoleum.

 Your mother does not need to watch her fingernails bite the ends off the beans and break the green flesh into perfect bite sized pieces. Instead, she watches your grandmother pace the kitchen floor to first stir a pot, then to wash a dish.

“She helped a new boy in school with his school work,” says your mother as another bean falls in half. “His mother thanked me for bringing up such a thoughtful child. But I told this girl to be careful of those boys. We never know what they really want.”

You try to watch your mother’s fingers to understand how she is able to keep the broken ends in her curved palm and still snap beans cleanly. You look at the mess you’ve made of the bean in your hand, ends smashed, its center mangled and oozing.

“Hiya,” she says, taking the bean and snapping its remains into edible pieces. “Don’t waste food.”

You hear your grandmother say something in a Filipino dialect and you think she has said something about America not being the same as back home. You think you see your mother glance at you when she doesn’t answer your grandmother right away, but when you look up at her, she is taking the tin colander of beans to the sink and begins to run the water.

“That’s enough for now,” she says as water drains through tiny holes. “Go see if your cousins are here yet.”

As you walk through the kitchen door you hear your grandmother clicking her tongue.

“Ah, sayang” she says. “So sad. Too much yet to learn.”

****

Remember your mother’s rules.

Girls must be polite, generous, demure, deferential, especially to men and old people but be intelligent. Nobody likes a dumb girl.

Girls must take piano and ballet lessons but should not be ballerinas or pianists. Artists starve, you know.

Girls are not expected to excel in math or science but excel anyway. You may have to support yourself one day.

Girls do not drive cars, only their fathers or husbands drive them especially on freeways. Anyway, where do you have to go during the week that can’t wait until the weekend?

Above all, remember.

Stay out of the sun. You are the daughter of professionals, not field workers.

****

Picture grade school.

You wore the red, white, and blue uniform of your parochial school, and the nuns there did not wear penguin black habits. Instead, they wore polyester housecoats, hand sewn on the weekends, or brown and gold pantsuits found at the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Shop. Not a heavy wood rosary or ruler to be found among them, but you knew that a trip to Sister Patricia’s office meant being spanked by a hand as thick as a ream of paper.

It was Sister Patricia who called the school to a general assembly, all six grades squeezed into the three narrow hallways forming a T at one end of the school. The younger ones from the Primary Grades lined in front of the taller Intermediates. You are short for an Intermediate and it is hard to see, so you trace the trails of mortar in the brick wall with your finger and listen to Sister’s voice. Somewhere in the crowd you figure your best friends are already planning what to do at lunchtime.

First you all recite the pledge of allegiance to the flag and then the pledge of allegiance to the cross. Then come the announcements and you hear something about a war overseas and boat people and you think about the people living on houseboats in Seattle. Sister Patricia tells the students to make the newcomer feel welcome. There is murmuring and a shift in the crowd and you think you see someone moving forward to be presented. You brace yourself against the wall and stand tiptoe, but all you can see is the top of a boy’s head, black and shiny. You move your head to the right and you see a bit of his red sweater, lumpy on one side and the edge of his white shirt dislodged from his black pants. Sister’s thick hand rests on his head and you hear the others murmur something about him being in your class.

He doesn’t matter much to you, and you settle back on your heels. He’s from Asia somewhere and you figure he can’t speak English very well, so he won’t be bugging you for math help. Hopefully, none of the Sisters will ask you to buddy up with him; you’ve got better things to do with your time.

Finding a flaw on a brick, you finish tracing the mortar and wonder if there will be a game of spoons at lunchtime.

****

Remember another bed, another time.

The crunch of paper beneath your body, the slick coolness of the ultrasound wand as it slides along your belly. You peer at the monitor and try to decipher the image made of black and white streaks across the screen. You see the heart beating strong, see the head unimaginably large, see a thumb finding its way to a mouth.

“Are you sure you want to know?” the tech asks.

You look at your husband and smile. You’re trying not to hope it’s a boy. You’re trying to be open to any sex. This is your baby after all.

“Everything look okay?” he asks.

You listen as the tech runs through the standard markers for a healthy second trimester fetus. You find yourself trying not to check whether there is a penis on the monitor.

“So, it’s a…” You hesitate in case your nonchalant voice cracks.

“A very healthy girl. Congratulations.”

You try to smile as you check the monitor again in case she was wrong.

Remember.

A park bench with peeling brown paint. Your hands clenched in your lap.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do this. A girl.”

“Honey, you’ll be fine. You’ll make a terrific mother.”

Tears mix with mist from the lake. You wish you had a few crumbs to feed the swans. You wonder where the muskrat is and try to find his trail on the surface of the water.

“I don’t know anything about being a girl, about being a woman. A boy –” you hiccup. “You could bring up such a wonderful boy.”

This man who is your husband curves his arm around your shoulders. You think of all the things he has been. Eagle Scout. Drum Major. Scientist.

You, this woman who is now a mother, swings your feet like a child. You think of all the things you’ve never been. Never a cheerleader. Never a Prom Queen. Never boy crazy.

Wonder what this poor girl-to-be did to deserve a woman like you.

****

Picture your parents.

“You may have been born in America, but you are a Filipina. Never forget that.”

You stare at your father as he stands over you, jabbing the air between the two of you with his finger. Your mother hovers somewhere behind him looking for something in the cabinets, a snack maybe, or something to drink. You can tell she somehow doesn’t agree with what he is saying, thinks that it is futile to argue the point. At least that’s what you hope. You need an ally right now, someone to explain why you do the things you do that make your father crazy.

“Are you listening? You must respect your parents, do you hear me?”

You will not nod. You will not concede. You know you are right. You want to say What is wrong with being an American anyway? You came here, you had me here. Not in the Philippines.

“We came here, we sacrificed for you. And this is what you do?”

Your jaw is clenched and now you are trying not to cry. It does not matter what you have done this time, you’ve heard this lecture before. You look to your mother again. She ducks her head and picks up a glass from the dish-drainer.

“She doesn’t know,” your mother says to him, placing the glass carefully in the cupboard. “She wasn’t brought up like back home.”

By the set of his shoulders, you can see he isn’t listening. Or at least, he’s trying not to listen, because after a moment his glare softens. He turns and leaves, tugging his reddened ear, mumbling something in Tagalog.

“Give up,” she says, giving you a glass of water. “You cannot win, anak. He is your father.”

You sit back in your chair and stare at the almond Formica of the countertop. You want to scream out loud, I am not a Filipino. I am not fresh off the boat. I am not from Cambodia, or Japan, or China, or Korea. I was born in Seattle.

I am an American.

****

Remember filling out affirmative action forms your freshman year in college.

You look for a place on the pale blue form to put your name or birthplace. You can’t find a space for the name of your high school or how high you ranked among your classmates. Not even a place for you to write in your major or career plans. Instead a column of boxes and designations flows down the page and, at first glance, you don’t seem to belong anywhere on the form.

You know you are not blind, hard of hearing, physically disabled in any way. You figure glasses are no big deal and leave the first section alone. You know you’d never been in a war, Vietnam or otherwise, so you skip the next two sections about mental disabilities or disabilities associated with being a veteran. You figure the form is just for tracking statistics or maybe identifying people who need special help. You doubt that the form will help you get good grades in your advanced Physics or Math classes.

You skip over the question about being over 40 and nearly return the form with only Woman checked off. You feel strange to even mention being a woman, because you feel healthy enough and how could being a woman be a disadvantage?

At first, your think the last section with the race categories doesn’t relate to you. After all, you’re an American Citizen, not a foreign exchange student. But you hesitate, feeling that your one check box isn’t enough.

You let your pencil hover over the boxes: Hispanic – if Hispanic, Chicano, Latino or Mexican. Black. Native American – designate tribal affiliation. Asian/Pacific Islander. You see there’s no box for Filipino, and you’re not sure you’d check that box anyway. Your parents are Filipino but you were born in Seattle. Your hands begin to sweat and you feel as if you’re failing the last test to make your college entrance final.

You go through the list again, and try to find a box to check. You know you are not Black nor have a tribal affiliation, and you skip those boxes. Your mother was a Hidalgo before she married, but does that make you Hispanic? You suspect your father has Chinese in his background, but does that make you Asian? And Pacific Islanders are only from Hawaii, right?

You want to walk away, toss the blue sheet of paper in the trash, but it looks too official, and you stop. You tap your pencil to your forehead then check a box.

Your advisor stares at you when you tell her about the form and how confusing it was. You can see that she would have known what boxes were right for you.

****

Imagine.

Your daughter is in love with the color pink. You never intended her to be a pink girl, in fact you carefully avoided too much of the pale color when she was a baby. You wanted her to love all the colors: bright, primary colors. Frills were impractical, especially in the Honolulu heat. But today she must wear pink. And lots of it. Pink socks, pink shirts, pink pants, pink sweater, pink boots, pink hat, pink coats. She wants layers of pink and if there is none to be worn, prepare for her pink-cheeked hysteria. To be safe, buy multiples of everything in pink, especially socks. She will concede to white undershirts and diapers, but everything else must be pink.

“I’m pink!”

You smile, ever indulgent. “Yes you are, honey.”

“I’m pink and Papa is pink,” she says pointing to herself and her father somewhere behind her. She frowns. “But you’re brown.”

“Yes, sweetheart.” You hold your hands behind your back to keep them from trembling.

“And your hair is black. My hair is not black.”

“No, your hair brown, like Papa’s.” You feel muddy and outside the alignments your daughter is making.

“Pink! I love pink. Do you like pink, Mama?”

“Yes, yes I do.” Because pink is her favorite color.

****

Remember.

The priest during your final wedding preparation interview. He is nervous as he rubs his hands over his knees and you know he is trying to form the next question. His pale skin turns a soft reddish purple and his voice is barely above a whisper.

“I have to ask you this question.” He swallows and looks at your fiancé. “Have you discussed…how…well, that you’re…I mean…that you’re a mixed couple.”

You look at your fiancé for clarification and see confusion in his grey-green eyes. You know he wants you to speak; after all, you have more experience in all this Catholic stuff.

“But Father.” You speak slowly to be sure you have the words right. “Father, he was Methodist before, but now he’s converting, so we’re okay, right?”

The priest’s blush deepens as he looks away from you and coughs.

You swallow, hoping there isn’t a loophole in Catholic Canon that you’ve missed.

Remember.

Your mother the weekend just before your wedding, her arms crossed as if to keep her body together. She has just finished saying how wonderful your fiancé is and you can tell she is trying to say something indirectly. Again.

“Something wrong, Mom?”

She hugs herself more tightly.

“I just want to know…I mean, maybe I should have pushed you more. But you were so young.”

“Pushed me?”

“To you know…date your own kind.”

You try not to look deflated. This old story again. You want to ask why, what was forgotten before that was so important now? Why had she and your father moved to Federal Way where there were no other Filipinos in your neighborhood? You want to tell her how Filipino men all look like your cousins and, although you once wanted to marry your favorite childhood cousin, you’ve gotten over him now and the others.

You want to tell her that you have nothing in common with Filipinos, you can’t speak the language, you can’t cook the food, you can’t tell the jokes. You went to school with Americans, went to Mass with Americans, sang in choir with Americans, why wouldn’t you marry one?

Instead you shrug.

“Too late, I guess.” she says smoothing the front of her sweater. “He’s a nice boy. I like him. Besides, children of Asians and whites are so beautiful.”

****

Picture your daughter.

Your parents will call her kulasi-si puting-puti — little white bird. You will know by the repetition of syllables that the name is not just “white” but “white-white,” very white.

“Strong genes,” your relatives will comment on her baptismal day, and they will look at your husband with suspicious admiration.

You tell yourself it’s because she was two months premature, that she will darken with time, that her fine hair will thicken and turn black like your own hair. You try not to remember that these are the same reassurances you whispered to yourself as you nursed her in the NICU when she was only three days old. You will block from your thoughts the image of your dark daughter being switched with a lighter baby, by accident of course, because it was a full moon the day she was born and the emergency room was busy. You will not look suspiciously at your husband, and try to banish the thought that she is only his child, not yours, somehow, even though you were very much present when she entered the world.

She will be able to pass in ways you had only imagined you could. You’ve passed for Native American, East Indian, Hawaiian, even Korean, but she will pass as white. You can only imagine yourself as white, can try to believe it doesn’t matter that you are not white.

You do not even know you are passing until you live in Honolulu where faces like yours are everywhere, on TV, at the mall, on Da Bus. You suddenly become a stranger to your own skin. People can see you were Filipina and speak Tagalog to you as if you can understand. They ask if you were your daughter’s nanny and murmur Hapa when you say you are her mother.

Hapa. Half and half.

Not you. Not yours.

****

Imagine.

A shift on the living room couch, the feel of tiny hands climbing your legs on their way to your lap. You open your eyes and try to keep your daughter from sitting on your enlarged stomach.

“How’s the baby?” she asks, patting your arm.

“Growing every day, just like you.”

“Just like me?” she looks to the ceiling and weighs your words. “Will the baby like pink?”

“Maybe.”

“I like pink.” She looks down at her hand. “I’m pink and Papa’s pink.”

“Yes.” You hesitate, feeling the next beat of her litany.

“You’re brown. And your hair is black. Will I be brown when I grow up?”

“I don’t know, hiya. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Is the baby pink like me or brown like you?”

“It’s too soon to tell.”

“Is it a boy like Papa or a girl like me?”

You shake your head and shrug.

Your daughter pushes at the hem of your sweater. “Let me see.” You push the waistband of your maternity pants down a bit to satisfy her. As she settles next to you, you wonder if she can see something you cannot. Humming softly, she smiles and lays her pale hand on your dark skin.