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"Jessica Amour Jamero!" I hear the omen of my full name being called as I return to the dining room table of my middle-of-nowhere home. The table, the center of my home both physically and socially, can be thought of in two ways. One being a modern day scaffold where my brother and I, ok, mainly my brother, would sit while being double teamed by my parents, who live in San Jose, and my grandpa, with whom my brother and I have lived for about five years now. It can also be looked at as an open book of memories that span across my family's history. The dining room table is where my family laughs, cries, celebrates, mourns, and deals with each other's pains sometimes through hours of discussion, which in reality could also involve the slamming of doors and yelling. As I reach the table I pull out a chair and seat myself giving my mom a slightly annoyed look. "What did I do now?" I ask indifferent to what the answer may be but trying to appear interested. "Papa tells me you have something planned for this Saturday. Is that true?" Why do parents always ask stupid questions like this? Obviously it is, if Papa says so. Duh! "Um, yeah me and the gang wanna go to a movie. Is there a problem with that?" Oops. I think maybe I should have left the last part out. Great, now I get to sit and try to avoid her obviously peeved stare. I know! I can comment on our new clock! "Yes there is a problem with that. You know we are rolling lumpias on Saturday." Darn! There goes my chance at changing the subject. "Yeah, I know. But since you have other people to do it I didn't think it would be a big deal if I weren't there. I mean, how many people can you expect to be sitting at our table and rolling lumpia at one time?" Ok, a desperate attempt, but I think a point well made. "We have the leaves that we can put in the table to make room for you dear." No! I am defeated. Well, get the wrappers, peas, and pork out, because I'm stuck rolling lumpia. After my failed attempt at getting out of lumpia wrapping, I called my friends to tell them the bad news. "Cool! Can I come help?" "Leslie, you do not want to come help. There are going to be old people here talking and jabbering on and on about "back in the good ol' days when they had to walk to school up hill both ways in the snow." I pride myself on mimicking old people. "Yeah, but Jess old people are cool. Plus we get lumpia!" Ok, so she has a point. We do get lumpia. So my plans for the weekend change as well as those of my friends who will meet at my house around noon on Saturday. The rest of the week passes by in a blur with tests, homework, and athletic events all week. Friday night comes and I am eternally grateful for the week to be over and a weekend of relaxation awaits me. Then I suddenly see a dark cloud on the horizon of my beautifully lazy weekend. The dark shadow of a huge, golden brown, deep-fried, stuffed to the gills lumpia pours over my luscious daydream. I suddenly feel like calling in sick. I see my plans for the weekend as being shot so I migrate to my computer where I plant myself until I feel tired and retire to my big blue bedroom. I lay in bed trying to compose an escape plan. Maybe I can hop out my window and hide in an orchard all day. Gee, I think, that sounds entertaining. With a lack of thoughts to entertain my swiftly tiring being I slowly close my eyes to face darkness. When I wake the next morning I slowly open my eyes and see light outside. Well, my first goal for the day is accomplished, the sun is out and set high in the sky, which means it's mid-morning and I'm not up early. As this thought crosses my mind a silent scream of joy emerges in my head and a smile crosses my face. Then I realize something is different. Mmmmm, a wonderful smell finds its way to my nose, and a broader smile of contentment appears but slowly fades as I realize what it is. "The lumpia stuffing." I grumble as I stumble out of bed to start my day. I glance at the clock only to realize that it's later than I thought. Wow, eleven thirty a.m. already. Well, maybe they feel bad for making me stay home, so the least they can do is let me sleep in. Yeah, that type of consideration will happen, Never! The memory of having to wake up at seven a.m. for church after a long night of celebrations comes to mind. I shrug this last thought off, as I open my door only to be overwhelmed by the strong smell of the lumpia stuffing. As I walk out I see that many of my fellow wrappers have arrived and are sitting out on the porch talking about nothing and everything at the same time. When my friends finally arrive we claim our positions at the table where the rest of my family will gather shortly to show the new comers how to wrap. "Well, pirst you take your wrap and put it inpront ob you so dat one point is pacing you. Den you take some ob de stupping and put it in your wrap and pold it ober. Den you pold de udder two corners into de middle and roll tightly. You must pretend dat you are rolling a joint, not a burrito!" "Ninang!" I gasp after my Godmother is done using her best Filipino accent to teach my friends how to roll a lumpia. "I somehow don't think my friends know how to roll a joint! Gees!" We all laugh at the examples she chose to use to explain how a lumpia should be properly rolled. "Okay, I think I kinda sorta know how this goes" Leslie said as she completed her first lumpia. "Um, well, let's see. Your corners are too loose, you didn't wet the tip so it would stick, and it looks more like a joint then a burrito." At that last comment a few eyes, including those of my mom, fixed on me. "Um, not that I've ever seen a joint or anything. It's just that it's too skinny and so it's not…um…well…ok…yeah…it's …it's not good." Whew! "Nice save Jess." My mom says. She knows I've never done any drugs, but she saw an opportunity to pick on me so she took it. All in jest of course. As the group continues to roll the finished products are being rolled better and better. The stories and jokes that my family is telling are all too familiar to me. Like the one about Papa trading his bread bag lunch consisting of rice with the Mexican kids who brought tortillas. As the stories continue I sit at the table completely absorbed in my rolling. Not looking around, not taking a break, but becoming one with the lumpia. I am so completely absorbed in my rolling, in fact, that I begin to see myself as a lumpia. I see the stuffing, consisting of bean sprouts, onions, green beans, carrots, and pork, as parallels to my ethnic background. I am Scottish, Irish, German, Chinese, and Filipino wrapped in a skin of golden brown, just as the skin of the lumpia is after being fried. I then begin to think that, like me, the lumpia is white too. The lumpia's white side is largely unappreciated just as mine is, lying frozen for periods of time only to thaw when in need. My mom often expresses her desire for me to know more about her side of the family and of their traditions. I often tell her that I simply connect better with my Filipino side. More often then not in this instance I receive a disappointed look from my mom and the subject is dropped. But what am I to do? Sure my mom's family has its traditions, but those consist of Christmas at her dad's and a contest to see who can stick the most bows on their heads. Not to say that this is a bad tradition, but can I help that her tradition falls on only a few days out of the year whereas with my Filipino side I dance and sing all year round? I don't think so. Suddenly I am pulled back to reality by an outburst of laughing. I look around and notice that my friends are laughing hysterically and giving me funny glances so as not to make it obvious that I was the subject of their laughter. I look around the table from face to face taking in the beautifully aged brown faces and thinning white hair. I sigh with contentment and give a smile to those who are willing to receive it. I suddenly realize that I've taken it all for granted. The opportunity to visit with my elders, the people who made my history, to ask them questions about their lives, to get a better understanding of who they are and where they have been. I realize that the people sitting around my old oak table are those who mean the most to me in the world, and those who I mean the most to in the world. With this realization made I turn to Papa and ask, " How did
you and Nana Jean meet?" Papa looks at me with an expression
of slight bewilderment. Then he smiles as his eyes sparkle with the
hint of a tear as he begins a story. ______________________ Jessica Jamero is a 17-year-old Senior High School student based
in Livingston, California. This essay was submitted on her behalf
by her Tita Bernadette, who is very proud of her niece. Open Forum! Share your opinions and suggestions pertaining to this topic at the Message Boards MagsalitaKa (Speak Out) Section. © Web site is a Copyright of NewFilipina, Inc. 2003. All rights reserved.
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