Pule O’O
The Effective Prayer~

Wedding Preparations~ Chapter 3

 

The evening after I’d met Mama in the dimly lit hallway, Philip was asked to go to his parent’s room to “talk story.” It seemed he had been with them for hours. I was so anxious, but grew weary and succumbed to the long day and drifted off to sleep. I awoke when a lone beam of light from the hallway filed the room like an arrow seeking its mark. He opened the door very slowly to say “good night”. He would be sleeping in the parlor, as was proper.
I sat up immediately and pulled myself together, I tried to sit poised and natural, even though I was as nervous as if I’d been on my first date. The gnawing lack of confidence that lived deep within me was rearing its ugly head as I awaited his word. When he did not speak, I grew impatient and shoved him against the wall playfully and blurted, “Did they like me? Am I okay?” As a side comment, I added, “Your Mom is sort of spooky, but your Dad is really sweet…. hum, I don’t think your sisters like me.” When he still did not answer, I demanded, “Tell me now.” My mind reeled. After all what had they been talking about so long? I was so anxious; I must have sounded like a fast train derailed with my wheels spinning in the air.

He smiled in his boyish way laughing at me, as always. “To late to back out now they are going to start fattening the pigs!” It was truly the most local answer he could have volunteered. At that moment I understood immediately. I had won them over, and with that, he would be my prize for life.
I squealed and jumped to hug and kiss him, making him fall into the bed with me. As we rolled on the quilts, I asked again about his sisters. “They smiled at me, but I am not sure about them?” As a woman I could see that behind the smiles, there were wary passing glances that I was sensitive to. I knew I had a long way to go with these women who were devoted to their sibling.

“Never mind them,” was his immediate answer, “Mama is the only one who will make the decisions and she is the boss, and I am spoiled by her. Besides, I am the “Budidik” the youngest.” He knew his rank and place in the family and was almost cocky about his position with Mom. We kissed passionately and I wanted to hold him all night.

Molokai had a way of seducing me into another form of propriety. There really was no reason why he could not have stayed in the bed with me. No one would have come and scolded us, after all it was the sixties Height Ashbury in San Francisco seemed to set the paradigm. Out in the world of the sixties there was a "sexual free for all’ going on that had been set in motion in the free wheeling sixties. Yet, here we were in this quaint village that commanded respect for the family, and for the house where they lived. Our time would come eventually, but here at this moment in time we observed another code, to honor our beginning.
The question of how many pigs, cows and chickens would be required for cooking at the party was a critical point. Most of the talk at the table from there on revolved around this main topic. Many nights were spent in serious discussion about whose pigs and cows to buy. How much garlic and bay leaves would be needed? Not to mention the selection of dishes. I was amazed, and stood back to observe the intense planning and discussions that revolved around the party. A main point discussed was about who would hold the honor as the “main cook” this would be the “Luna,” boss. He would call the shots in the end. His pay was enough Seagram -seven for himself and his crew. All of this organization was a science for them. In the end we had three pigs (over nine hundred pounds of pork,) ninety-five chickens and two cows, for a guest list that would top off at over fifteen hundred people...

June fourteenth was chosen after a great deal of discussion over a calendar. Choosing the correct date for the wedding was quite an ordeal as well. Many superstitions played into this decision. Naturally it was understood, Mama would have the final word. A mix of the Chinese calendar as well as calculating ‘pay day’ was crucial. It was understood that all the townspeople would be in a more comfortable position to “Kokua,” if they where not between paycheck’s.
My family in California would order formal wedding invitations on a beautiful white linen paper from the finest printer in Los Angeles. These were sent to the mainland guests, friends of my parents and people I had known since I was a small girl. I received a box of the invitations with the double envelopes as well. They were all so white and beautiful. Proudly I laid them out for my husband to see. For a moment he looked perplexed and then asked innocently, “Why send? (Invitations) Everybody going come. “And so they did all fifteen hundred guests. Only my parents, my sister, and my Nanny (my paternal grand mother) came from my side. Perhaps a wedding in paradise in a far distant place called Molokai was “too exotic” for our side of the family in the late sixties. All the other guests were from Molokai and family and friends from the neighbor islands. It seemed the word went out immediately ‘a party’ was transmitted on what some may call “the coconut wireless.”
Months before the wedding, Mama and Papa had moved from Molokai to Aiea on Oahu to be near us. When she arrived, Mama took me into her room and closed the door. She sat on her bed and began to speak in a very direct manner, “They” (Philip’s brothers and sisters) don’t like you.... but I like you, and I am the only one that matters.” I swallowed hard, anticipating her next words. “Your Papa and I, we move here, so no more ‘pilikia,’ trouble, for you!”
Clearly Mama had decided that I deserved a chance. Only Mama would take this challenge so seriously that she would move house, home, and Papa to another island to protect and teach me. By coming to live near us on Oahu, she positioned herself between the family and us to ensure the wedding would proceed without difficulty.
As the wedding day grew near, my mother and I were given a shopping list a mile long. On this ever-growing list were enough garlic, bay leaves and onions to sink a ship. An especially important item on the list was whiskey for the cooks; it had to be Seagram’s seven. The preferred drink was called ‘seven, seven’ a mix of Seagram’s and Seven-Up soft drink. (I am sure the mix was more whiskey, than soda.)
Parties are major events in the Filipino community there was always a party being planned or anticipated, a gatherings at the beach to fish or picnic was a weekly event. The parties and gatherings proved to be a “rites of passage” for me, where I could enjoy the moments, yet observe the lifestyle. Life revolved around their families and primarily their children. The question was always about the when and where of the next gathering. The contrast to my life in California could be only told in variegating shades of black and white. My childhood was predictable with school, and my parents both worked, and nanny took up the slack at home, with cooking and cleaning. There was no other family besides the four of us. My parents had each other and in my life I can remember a handful of friends that came for an occasional dinner, mostly my parents working mates.
In this village, the parties were still held along the cultural mores of their provinces in the Philippines. In a hall, or even a home, for a gathering all the chairs would be lined against the walls with the central area of a room remaining vacant. The women sat together on one side of the room, while the men sat together in a row on the opposite side. It was as if there was an invisible line drawn down the middle of the room, not to be crossed. The women had the children underfoot and the small ones were the allowed trespassers that ran freely back and forth to their fathers and mothers.
Philip had explained that this custom probably came from a time in the Philippines (no doubt the Spanish influence) when it was not acceptable for a man and a woman who were not husband and wife to sit next to each other because someone might get the wrong idea. It proved best if women sat on one side and men sat across the room.
After more than a couple of parties, I noticed there were some standards that were always observed. Always somewhere in the main room on a table or a shelf to one side of the room would be a lit votive candle. Beneath the candle was a plate of the party food that had been set aside out of respect. Sometimes a beer would be next to the plate, untouched. The message here was their spirits were remembered and included to partake in the festivities. I asked Philip once what happened to the food on the plate. He shrugged his shoulders, and said it was left out the proper amount of time, then shared with the family pet’s maybe but never thrown out.
In time I came to enjoy these parties but, at first, I spent a great deal of time feeling alone, staring and smiling at Philip who was across the way. He was always most comfortable with the men laughing and drinking beer. On that side of the room the old and the young men sat side by side, sharing a common spirit of “cabalayan”, as town mates.
Unless one of my sisters-in-law was with me, I sat apart, unable to speak to anyone. The other guests were not rude, and were often painfully shy. Only the boldest would sit next to a Haole. I listened closely to the clickety-clack, melodious tone of their Ilocano language. After a time, I began to hear familiar words, which I filed in my memory until I was with Mama.
If Mama and Papa were with us, Mama would sit next to me and was immediately the center of attention. She spoke her language very slowly as everyone seemed to hang on her every word. After a while, I was amazed at how much of what she said I could understand. My listening was paying off, I was learning. When others spoke to Mama I was lost. The ones who were born in the Philippines spoke their dialect so fast it sounded like a fast train on the rails.
At these parties, Philip would smile from across the room from time to time. I waved a hello back at him, smiling as though this was a ‘fun thing.’ I kept reminding myself, this is not hard, and I can learn. Just knowing him makes this worth every moment.
The most important part of the party was the food and the eating. When I sat down to eat everyone would find a reason to pass me and look at my plate to see how brave I was in trying his or her foods. As I ate, they smiled and laughed, cupping their hands over their mouths or revealing their many gold teeth. Their comment was always “Ai ya, Ading (young one), you eat dat one? Ai ya!” Technically the ice was broken as they laughed and talked, saying, “No more da Haole eat dis kine, you one Filipina now.” It was so simple; I was accepted because I ate their food. This was always the first step.
A party I will always remember would make a deep impression and always make me smile. I’d gone with my sister in law to the home of a newly married couple. As tradition dictated, at this party all the men were outside sitting comfortably under a tree and the women collected in the house. It was a “welcome party” for the girl who had just arrived from the Philippines. This was an “arranged” marriage and it was painfully obvious that she had only just met her husband. Surely the “village elders” had exchanged photos but this was the real thing and this gathering was held to strut and show off his bride. I wondered if he had sent a recent photo, or had this been a shock?
Hopefully the old as well as the young woman present would help her adjust to her new home. She was so shy and looked down to avert the eyes and thoughts of all those present. She was very young and a beautiful balasang, (young girl). Her coal-black hair was pulled tightly into a chignon and her slim body was wrapped in the traditional country clothing, a dark checkered cotton fabric in amber and burgundy tones. Her husband was a very old jovial man who looked very happy, with a constant smile fixed on his face. He had finally earned his retirement after thirty-some years in the fields he could bring the long awaited bride of his dreams home to meet his friends in the camp.
This had been an arranged marriage, which had been negotiated by relatives from two villages in the same province in their homeland. These arranged marriages were common in the camp and the girls were known as “Picture Brides.” This still occurred because of the desperate financial straits of the village people in the provinces. A young girl was married to a “wealthy” older man who came from that paradise across the waters, Hawaii. By marrying the old men, the young girls could ease the hardship of the entire family, if not the village. The marriage was a wise move on her part. It was expected that soon she would be able to bring most of her family over to live in this Hawaiian paradise. What did it matter if her husband was not handsome or young? She was already privileged to be out of the village and in a position to help those she’d left behind.
Almost always the old men were kind, gentle men who had literally waited a lifetime to have a family. In those days their retirement money made them like wealthy oil barons in the Philippines. In Hawaii, their retirement afforded them a comfortable living, not a king’s ransom. Once married, the old men did all the cooking and whatever was required, shopping growing the vegetables and tending the garden. When the young girl had a baby her husband would continue with the household chores. The rest of his time was spent amusing the adored child. The girl had to do very little except have babies for him to beguile and love.
Another custom that is strictly observed was the protocol of names. The sign of respect is always to address an elder by saying “Manong (male) or Manang (female.) Loosely translated this can mean ‘Mr. or Mrs., but this is so closely followed I noticed Philip never addressed his sisters by their first name. It would always be “Manong Pete, or Manang Rosita, even the casual use of “sis” was never used especially in front of Mama.
The camp would prove to be very much like their home in the provinces had been. Soon she would have friends; often they were girls like her self that had come as “picture brides.” They would help the new wife adjust to the loneliness she would experience without her family. Now that she had opened the way, her family would cherish her for her bravery and sacrifice. It was never easy.
When I was first married to Philip, in the first months when we lived in the camp, I saw many of these marriages. As I watched the old men with their young brides pass in front of Rosita’s house, I remember thinking, “She is so young she could be his daughter!” As they passed on the red dirt road he would be carrying the baby, and she would often balance bundles of laundry or groceries on her head as she had in her village.
To me, it didn’t seem that awful. She was a queen, pampered and adored. Many of the girls with whom I had gone to school had young handsome husbands; some were already heading for divorce. Here in this tropical paradise the old men would spoil the young ‘ balasang.’ I remember thinking that some of my friends would never have it as well as these girls did.
When the young bride at the Molokai party smiled, she revealed her many gold teeth. They flashed in the light when she lifted her head and smiled demurely. My sister-in-law, sitting next to me, leaned in and whispered that the old man had paid for the gold in her mouth, whether her teeth needed repair or not. According to their cultural, this was an obvious sign of her husband’s wealth, and only the beginning of his indulgences. Soon there would be gold jewelry for her and money to buy pigs for her village as well. He would give her extra money to pay for the education of her family. His life up to now had been simple he had lived on vegetables and fish and pork for years to save for this time in his life.
One of the other women at the party, who had an older husband as well, hoisted her beer and laughed. Already very tipsy, she said, shaking her head, “Ai yah, Ading, no worry... no matter, when da light stay out, old or young da man feel like da same ting.” Everyone roared in laughter, bending from the waist, holding their stomachs and cupping their hands over their mouths. The moment seized the feisty older one again, and she continued with a thought to top the last one. “Or maybe mo bettah! You keep da eye close if stay morning time!”
Everyone begged her to stop, “Manang, please, bumbye we going get sore stomach, and no can eat!” The combination of the beer, the laughter and the golden light in the room made this moment even more memorable. The young girl, the latest bride in our village, covered her mouth and blushed, giggling into her cupped hand demurely. I realized she must have understood some English. I thought the moment was priceless. From my short life lived in California, in the house of my childhood, no one ever dared speak so blatantly. Proper decorum was always observed; after all my parents were originally from New England.
Many years later, I came to understand these marital arrangements on a more intimate level. Mama would pass away within the first few years of our marriage and after some time Papa returned to the Philippines, to his village in Ilocos Norte, to marry a young widowed Filipina. At this time he was 80 years old and she was barely in her 30’s. In the beginning the family watched her warily; some of the new brides were known to be opportunist. At the end, Manang Vicki proved to be a devoted wife for Papa. She cared for him and after his death she thrived in Hawaii, she bought her own home and sent for her children, her mother, sister, and their families to live and flourish in Hawaii as well.
There would be one secret I would keep till my wedding day. I was already two months pregnant with our first child; it was imperative that two people be kept ignorant of this fact. One was my Irish-Catholic father, although this was the sixties and some would think these to be modern times, my father’s Irish Bostonian ethics still reigned in our home. The other to be kept uninformed was the Belgian priest who would marry us.
Philip’s family was elated about my pregnancy; babies were the complete epic-center of their life. Besides “why buy a cow that could not produce milk?” was an old world adage that could apply. I was sternly warned not to tell the priest. With wide cautious eye’s they admonished, “Be careful not to appear sick or pale, he will find out.” This advice me stop and laugh because, as I saw it, to them with my fair Irish skin and freckles, I already appeared pale?
There was an infamous story about a woman from the camp who had told the priest of her being with child before the ceremony, and had been forced to be married on the church steps. In the eye’s of the church she was considered ‘tainted’ as well as contaminated, and could not enter the ‘holy ground.’ I was horrified! To think if my parents and my Nanny had come all this way, only to see me married on the church steps! I was committed to “keeping this secret.”
During the wedding reception, Philip’s family spoke in Filipino as they patted my still flat stomach. Happily, they were making plans for the next party, a “Bunyag,” to celebrate the anticipated baptism. I saw my mother looking from them to me with a confused look, I rolled my eyes and threw my hands up non-pulsed with a passive expression and passed it off as just another of their customs.
I placated my fears and formulated a plan that I would tell my parents in my own time. I wondered if their friends would believe that a soon to be ten-pound baby was premature? “Mother will tell them something,” I mused, and she will reason with Daddy, she always has.
As my luck would have it, as the wedding day drew closer I was seized with a severe case of morning sickness. On some days the nausea could span the entire day. I resolved to use more color on my cheeks and to always stand up straight.
Often I felt as though I had entered some medieval time zone and I worried that someone would divulge ‘the secret of my womb’ and tell the priest why I was ‘glowing.’ Fortunately, on my wedding day, I had discovered soda crackers, and I made it through the day and we were properly married at the altar.
The preparations for the wedding seemed endless. I was not ready for the amount of ritual and superstition that preceded the sacred event. Mama had set forth the first directive. In the next seven days before the wedding Philip and I had to be separated, unable to see each other until we met at the church steps. All of these superstitions and precautions were to ensure we would have prosperity, health, many children and long happy years together. Since I am writing this some thirty-four years later, I am not sure that Mama was misguided.
To guarantee our paths would not cross, Philip was taken to stay at a hidden location at the opposite end of the island, while I remained in Maunaloa. He was not allowed to drive a car (considered to be bad luck.) I am not sure he really minded this custom because most of his time was spent with the other men drinking, joking and gathering flowers and the special foliage that would be needed to decorate the wedding hall.
I was secured at the camp, with numerous dress fittings (Somehow we did manage to find each other once, but perhaps that was custom as well.) In our wedding photos, my face is beaming with happiness because I had been missing him.
During the separation, the family would meet relatives and drove Philip to and from everywhere. Each time, he was taken to the airport a carload of family arrived from another island. This proved amazing to me, since no invitations had been sent out to his family. They all just “showed up.” The “coconut wireless” was their means of communication and was now on high speed. Often a relative would come to at the airport, just off the plane and would say to Phil “I am your cousin from Lanai; we have never met. I am on your father’s side; I am here for your party.” In the end there were well over fifteen hundred people at the reception and the four from my side of the family.
Somehow they were very careful about timing and managed to keep us on opposite ends of the island. This was amazing since there were only 5,000 people living on this island at that time, but we never did collide. Still I was captivated by this adventure in a pineapple field. The people of the camp were kind and especially loving with each other. The term of endearment was always “Comrade” or my friend. Seeing the moment, I saw him once again, so dark and handsome, here my husband shone brighter them any other. All the sacrifices that I had made and was yet to make were all worthy of our commitment to each other.
During this period as well, there was the final selection of the pigs and cows for the party food. My father, whose favorite hobby was photography, was in heaven and took pictures of every moment of this wedding down to the killing of the pigs. After seeing the photographs of this event, I am sure that had I been there, my pregnancy would no longer be a secret, for I would have been ill. As custom dictated, a pole was set in the pig’s mouth to hold the pig down as all four feet were bound as well. A sharp knife was then thrust into the heart. Immediately a cooking pot was placed under the punctured heart as it spewed blood. Pot after pot collected the liquid those moments before was the life force of the now squealing and kicking animal on the makeshift table. The blood was taken to the side to be mixed with vinegar and cooked into a dish known as “dinardaraan.” The vinegar helped to cook the blood. Some of the older men took cupfuls of the still warm liquid and drank the vinegary brew on the spot.
At this auspicious time, another practice was to drink from the bitters bag, the gall bladder of the animal. Obviously this was a very cultural tradition. I never learned why all of this was done. What I saw in my father’s photographs was a great deal of bravado and camaraderie.
Most of the time, it all felt like a whirlwind of activity surrounded us and we were in the center where it was amazingly calm, the word “kokua” (to give) was used often. It meant to help or to give, as in, ‘Tata’ (Uncle) will ‘kokua’ a pig.”
So much was going on behind the scenes that I never knew, Auntie so and so will string the leis; another friend will organize the hall-decorating, that one will gather together the food servers, and so on.
My parents were wonderful as well, with wide eyes they where taking everything in stride. My Nanny was the champion; they loved her and showed profound respect for the elderly. Since the family did not eat bread, they had no toaster. A fresh pot of rice was on the counter before sunrise. My Nanny was very used to her toast and coffee in the morning. She was so good humored as Papa stood over the stove with a slice of bread skewered on a fork, turning the bread over the gas flame till it was a golden brown. She kept telling them “I can eat rice, with a little butter.” They practically tripped over themselves to make her happy “Ah no, dis no trouble, Madam.

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Chapter 2
The sun shone brightly on the neat row of houses as the dusty pickup came to the