Philippine American Writers & Artists

About the author

Janet Mendoza Stickmon is a teacher, writer, and spoken word artist whose work has influenced hundreds of adolescents and adults over the last ten years. She holds a Master’s of the Arts Degree in Religion and Society from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley and is now working on a Master’s of the Arts Degree in Ethnic Studies at San Francisco State University. She currently lives in Oakland, CA with her husband, writer and performer, Shawn Taylor and teaches at a high school in Richmond, CA.

Excerpts from the book
p.21-22
p.55-58
p.61-63

Crushing Soft Rubies, p. 21-22

The livingroom smelled like smoke and damp wood. The adobe lining the walls covered everything in the house preventing me from distinguishing the bed from the coffee table. The bottom tape deck of my radio was open. A piece of mud sat on the eject button. My clothes were spread across the floor, wet and brown. A layer of black soot covered the mirror of the nicknack rack and the trophies that stood inside. The pillow and blankets, draped with mud. Nothing was burnt in the livingroom, but when I walked past the kitchen and into the hallway, the smell of smoke grew stronger and I looked up and saw the open sky. The bedrooms and the bathroom were charred, especially Daddy’s room. The firemen later told us that faulty wiring, as if gnawed by rats, caused an explosion near Da’y’s room, and the fire ate its way through the rest of the house.

I didn’t recognize our home. It seemed like a dream that we ever lived there. Just the evening before, Momma and I sat on the bed teasing Da’y about the Grecian Formula in his hair that was beginning to ooze down the sides of his cheeks, making thick, runny sideburns. We laughed so hard our stomachs hurt; Da’y ignored our taunts and continued reading his paper. It was difficult to fathom the place where we laughed had become smothered by ashes and mud.

We walked the house in disbelief, rummaging through clothes, newspapers, pans, toys, scared to discover what was destroyed and what was left behind. We salvaged almost everything in the livingroom and the kitchen, but nearly all of Da’y’s belongings were destroyed. Of the clothes we saved, it took months to wash out the stench of smoke. No matter how much we tried to forget the fire, the tangled scent of Tide and cinder on our backs reminded us what happened that summer.

For the next month we stayed with our neighbor, Ms. Lynn, until her warm, hospitable smiles turned into tolerant, pursed lips. Momma asked Da’y, “So how long will we stay here?”
“Forever,” Da’y replied without hesitation.
“We can’t live here forever,” Momma said, “We need to find another place to stay.”

Crushing Soft Rubies p. 55-58

When I came home from school, I took a break to watch cartoons before I did my homework. Uncle Godo (who I later called Tatay) and I watched Chip & Dale and Tale Spin together. Tatay and I laughed so hard watching Chip and Dale run around trying to stay out of trouble. Holding my stomach with tears rolling down my face, I tried to catch my breath after laughing at Tatay’s jokes and watching him crack up at parts of the cartoon that I didn’t think were funny at first, until I heard him laugh. There was something endearing about a 60 year old man, unwinding from work by watching cartoons and having the absolute time of his life, laughing so hard until his phlegm-filled cough stopped him.

Tatay was special. After thinking he was always angry when I first moved in, Anabelle convinced me that that was just the way he spoke. I discovered he was the joker of the family; he was the playful one.

Tatay threw on his favorite record by Yoyoy, a popular Cebuano singer and comedian, and sang along, “I love my country, Philippines. I love my country. I love my country Philippines, my Philippines. I will not stay away from here, I will not leave here. Because I love my country Philippines.” As he sang with Yoyoy, Tatay stood in the middle of the livingroom dancing—his hands were balled up into fists and he’d bob them close to his body. When the time was right, one fist shot out while kicking out one of his legs to the side. I always waited for that kick to the side to send me into a fit of laughter. It tickled me every time.

Tatay also used to tease me, pointing at the roaches in the house, “Hoy, Your priends. Your priends are here. Tell your priends to go home, ha,” and he’d laugh so hard with his mouth wide open, showing all his rotten teeth, so pleased with his joke.

Auntie Pacita was the gentle one. She had a heart that forgave the transgressions of any human being regardless of whether or not they apologized or corrected their failing. Auntie would always tell me at the dinner table, “You are like our daughter, ha. We lub you. Okay, so that’s enough, you hab to eat,” as she put rice on my plate. With a thick Waray accent, she would give me advice at the dinner table, “Bepore you sanduk de rice, you hab to make de sign ob de cross on it, ha. Por good luck. And don’t stack your plates until eberyone at de table is pinished. Por good luck. Oh, do you hab a boypriend, Jinit?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, good. You’re too young. You pirst, you pirst, you hab to complete your estudies and den when you pinish your course, den you can hab a boypriend. You can get married. And have a big house, ha.”

When we were alone she told me stories the way my mother did, “You know, during the Japanese war I almost got captured. I was just a little girl. I was walking up de mountain with a bag of rice on my back. And when I got to de top ob de hill, dere was a Japanese soldier, dere. I said, hello in Japanese. Then he asked me to count in Japanese and I did. And he let me go!”

Tatay and Mama (what I eventually called Auntie Pacita) made me feel like their daughter. The two of them gave me so much, far more than just food and a home. They loved me and gave what time and energy they could, in spite of the ten-hour days they worked and the full house of adult children they already had.

Interestingly enough, they always found a reason to celebrate even though they didn’t have much extra money. It could have been someone’s birthday or baptism or no reason at all, and there would be a party. You could tell people the party started at one time and guests arrived at least 2 or 3 hours early. For instance, for one of Auntie Pacita’s birthday parties, a few people began to arrive at 1:00 p.m. The party was supposed to begin at 3:00 p.m., but nearly everyone was there early—some came to help, while others just came to get the party started.

Uncle Roy, Tatay’s close friend, immediately drew our attention, pretending to be Elvis as he played his guitar. Nang Taling, a friend and employee at Auntie’s sewing shop, was sitting at the table chopping carrots into thin slices for the lumpia. Anabelle and I called Nang Taling “Heh?” because we thought she was bungol since all she ever said to us was, “Heh?” Nang Heh? always laughed the loudest at all of Tatay’s jokes as she flirtatiously removed her glasses and fanned her knees in and out with each laugh.

Then, Nang Bebing came to the door; now the party could begin. With garish flair, Nang Bebing came in wearing her bright yellow stretch pants and her blouse with the giant sequined butterfly on the front. She was the one who effortlessly and shamelessly told dirty jokes—the jokes that everyone loved—about all of her ex-husbands. She often spoke to me in Tagalog or sometimes Cebuano, forgetting that I couldn’t understand either. I never stopped her though; I just listened, hoping I could understand at least some of the words.

The food was ready. I almost cried at the sight of it all on the table: pancit with slices of green onion on top, lumpia stacked on three different plates, chicken and pork adobo and a huge pot of rice with the sanduk spoon planted in the center.

We stacked food on our plates and ate. By the silence in the room, everyone knew how good the food was.
After eating, all of us danced to everything from Yoyoy’s music to “Funkytown”. Auntie Pacita took my hands and taught me the Cha-Cha. And once everyone was tired, we said goodbye to some of the guests, while others spent the night.

Little money, but many celebrations. The family escaped their troubles during these parties. And so did I. For a brief moment, I was part of the family.

^TOP^

Crushing Soft Rubies p. 61-63

I could hear Boys II Men singing “Let It Snow” and slowly the family, one by one, began to wake up. We opened our gifts, hugging and kissing each other. Friends and relatives stopped by throughout the day delivering gifts, eating, and catching up on the latest news. The cauldron of gumbo, Brenda’s specialty, made with crab, chicken wings, corn, hot links, shrimp, and rice was bubbling on the stove—thick, hot, and ready. The homemade macaroni and cheese was being pulled out of the oven as the potato salad was pulled out of the refrigerator. Deviled eggs, green beans, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and a giant turkey added to the many dishes that had already blessed the kitchen. In the livingroom, the Seven-Up cake and the Red Velvet cake sat on a portable card table, tempting and teasing all who passed by. Laughter, love, and Jesus’ presence mingled with the aromas, unmistakably marking this day as Christmas in the Stickmon house.

•••••

My brother, Lou, worked for American Airlines. After Mom died, every Christmas (and sometimes Thanksgiving), Lou sent me a ticket to the Bay Area to visit his family, as well as, Mama Lila, his mother, and my two sisters, Dana and Jill. I was so excited to be with everyone, mostly because it gave me a chance to be with other Black people.

The moment I stepped in their car and in their home, I felt at home and yet also in a different world. A local R & B station was playing on the radio. I smelled the faint scent of hair grease, coconut lotion, and cigarette smoke. In the bathroom, a stack of Jet magazines sat on a rack; hair grease, a curling iron, a couple of kinky hairs were around the sink telling me I was in a familiar place. And as usual, Lou’s joy filled the house as he joked around and teased everyone.

Lou inherited our father’s friendliness, but had a much better sense of humor. On trips to the grocery store, cashiers knew him by name and Lou sparked up conversations with them, as well as, any random person in line. This made it difficult to distinguish a friend from a stranger. Whenever he teased someone or explained something, Lou’s every word “tickled” me (as he’d say). Whether he was driving through East Oakland telling us, “Y’all better duck! The rough-ians live ‘round here,” or at home telling one of his sons, “Ya drink, smoke and ya gotta earring! That’s three things wrong whicha!” he’d have me giggling all day.

I clung to his every word as if he’d just given me a toy to play with and toss around. I became immersed in his mannerisms, his slang, the swing in his walk, the joy in his voice. As I picked up words and idioms reminding me of what I was too embarrassed to admit I was missing, I hoped to never be exposed as a phony, an imitator of Black culture, even though I was Black. I realized I was so used to being the only Black person in a crowd. As a result I learned to assimilate, being blind to the importance of my own Blackness. However, at Lou’s house, I caught myself staring back and forth between the darkness of his hands and the fairness of mine, learning to love the Black skin and culture that was ours.

He didn’t know it, but I admired him. Lou, who was protector, provider, jokester, and nurturer, represented all that was strong and gentle in my world. His life taught me that you didn’t have to have a college education to be intelligent. It was his experiences—his knowledge through living—that I valued most. He was the one to tell me about McClymond’s High School and the free breakfast program the Black Panther Party started there. He taught me what to be careful of and who to watch out for. As I listened to his stories, he also listened to mine. Whether on the phone or in-person, he was always concerned about what I ate that day, which was then followed by “So how’s school?” Even when I went into far more detail than the average person might care to hear about, he still showed his interest by asking me more questions and relating it to something he already knew.

Mama Lila was another source of inspiration whose words, “You be a sweet girl, now hear?” helped me sleep at night. A woman in her 70’s, Mama Lila carried herself like a woman half her age, vibrant, wearing one of her sharp dress suits with the matching church hat, walking with an elegance and a self-respect that made everyone think twice about stepping in her way. She was never overbearing, but was always aware that she possessed a wealth of experience that deserved recognition. Once she told me, “Oh yeah, I’ll sit with the President and have a conversation. I don’t care. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She was a wise woman who knew more than any book could tell me about history or about life in general. She shared with me many stories from what she’d seen during the Civil Rights Movement to some of the reasons why she divorced my father. And I can’t forget that she always showed an interest in my personal life.

Even though I was the child of her ex-husband’s second wife, she always treated me as her own, showing me nothing but love and respect. She understood my inquisitive nature, and though I was well aware that she was much wiser and experienced than I, never once did I hear her say, “You’re too young to understand.” Because of this, as well as, her wisdom, I was less feisty around her and never hesitated to take her advice.

Janet Stickmon's Crushing Soft Rubies is available at:
East Bay: Black Oaks, Eastwind, Marcus Books
SF: Arkipelago, City Lights, DogEared Books, Modern Times,
Marcus Books, Valencia St. Books

Customers may also purchase the book online at
www.brokenshackle.org.
The author can be reached by email at
jstickmon@msn.com.

^TOP^

Copyright © 2004 Philippine American Writers and Artists, Inc.

TOP

		Volume II Winter 2004 Index
		Crushing Soft Rubies, a memoir by Janet Stickmon •About the author •Excerpts from the book •How to purchase the book

	About the author Janet Mendoza Stickmon is a teacher, writer, and spoken word artist whose work has influenced hundreds of adolescents and adults over the last ten years. She holds a Master’s of the Arts Degree in Religion and Society from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley and is now working on a Master’s of the Arts Degree in Ethnic Studies at San Francisco State University. She currently lives in Oakland, CA with her husband, writer and performer, Shawn Taylor and teaches at a high school in Richmond, CA. Excerpts from the book p.21-22 p.55-58 p.61-63 Crushing Soft Rubies, p. 21-22 The livingroom smelled like smoke and damp wood. The adobe lining the walls covered everything in the house preventing me from distinguishing the bed from the coffee table. The bottom tape deck of my radio was open. A piece of mud sat on the eject button. My clothes were spread across the floor, wet and brown. A layer of black soot covered the mirror of the nicknack rack and the trophies that stood inside. The pillow and blankets, draped with mud. Nothing was burnt in the livingroom, but when I walked past the kitchen and into the hallway, the smell of smoke grew stronger and I looked up and saw the open sky. The bedrooms and the bathroom were charred, especially Daddy’s room. The firemen later told us that faulty wiring, as if gnawed by rats, caused an explosion near Da’y’s room, and the fire ate its way through the rest of the house. I didn’t recognize our home. It seemed like a dream that we ever lived there. Just the evening before, Momma and I sat on the bed teasing Da’y about the Grecian Formula in his hair that was beginning to ooze down the sides of his cheeks, making thick, runny sideburns. We laughed so hard our stomachs hurt; Da’y ignored our taunts and continued reading his paper. It was difficult to fathom the place where we laughed had become smothered by ashes and mud. We walked the house in disbelief, rummaging through clothes, newspapers, pans, toys, scared to discover what was destroyed and what was left behind. We salvaged almost everything in the livingroom and the kitchen, but nearly all of Da’y’s belongings were destroyed. Of the clothes we saved, it took months to wash out the stench of smoke. No matter how much we tried to forget the fire, the tangled scent of Tide and cinder on our backs reminded us what happened that summer. For the next month we stayed with our neighbor, Ms. Lynn, until her warm, hospitable smiles turned into tolerant, pursed lips. Momma asked Da’y, “So how long will we stay here?” “Forever,” Da’y replied without hesitation. “We can’t live here forever,” Momma said, “We need to find another place to stay.” Crushing Soft Rubies p. 55-58 When I came home from school, I took a break to watch cartoons before I did my homework. Uncle Godo (who I later called Tatay) and I watched Chip & Dale and Tale Spin together. Tatay and I laughed so hard watching Chip and Dale run around trying to stay out of trouble. Holding my stomach with tears rolling down my face, I tried to catch my breath after laughing at Tatay’s jokes and watching him crack up at parts of the cartoon that I didn’t think were funny at first, until I heard him laugh. There was something endearing about a 60 year old man, unwinding from work by watching cartoons and having the absolute time of his life, laughing so hard until his phlegm-filled cough stopped him. Tatay was special. After thinking he was always angry when I first moved in, Anabelle convinced me that that was just the way he spoke. I discovered he was the joker of the family; he was the playful one. Tatay threw on his favorite record by Yoyoy, a popular Cebuano singer and comedian, and sang along, “I love my country, Philippines. I love my country. I love my country Philippines, my Philippines. I will not stay away from here, I will not leave here. Because I love my country Philippines.” As he sang with Yoyoy, Tatay stood in the middle of the livingroom dancing—his hands were balled up into fists and he’d bob them close to his body. When the time was right, one fist shot out while kicking out one of his legs to the side. I always waited for that kick to the side to send me into a fit of laughter. It tickled me every time. Tatay also used to tease me, pointing at the roaches in the house, “Hoy, Your priends. Your priends are here. Tell your priends to go home, ha,” and he’d laugh so hard with his mouth wide open, showing all his rotten teeth, so pleased with his joke. Auntie Pacita was the gentle one. She had a heart that forgave the transgressions of any human being regardless of whether or not they apologized or corrected their failing. Auntie would always tell me at the dinner table, “You are like our daughter, ha. We lub you. Okay, so that’s enough, you hab to eat,” as she put rice on my plate. With a thick Waray accent, she would give me advice at the dinner table, “Bepore you sanduk de rice, you hab to make de sign ob de cross on it, ha. Por good luck. And don’t stack your plates until eberyone at de table is pinished. Por good luck. Oh, do you hab a boypriend, Jinit?” “No,” I said. “Oh, good. You’re too young. You pirst, you pirst, you hab to complete your estudies and den when you pinish your course, den you can hab a boypriend. You can get married. And have a big house, ha.” When we were alone she told me stories the way my mother did, “You know, during the Japanese war I almost got captured. I was just a little girl. I was walking up de mountain with a bag of rice on my back. And when I got to de top ob de hill, dere was a Japanese soldier, dere. I said, hello in Japanese. Then he asked me to count in Japanese and I did. And he let me go!” Tatay and Mama (what I eventually called Auntie Pacita) made me feel like their daughter. The two of them gave me so much, far more than just food and a home. They loved me and gave what time and energy they could, in spite of the ten-hour days they worked and the full house of adult children they already had. Interestingly enough, they always found a reason to celebrate even though they didn’t have much extra money. It could have been someone’s birthday or baptism or no reason at all, and there would be a party. You could tell people the party started at one time and guests arrived at least 2 or 3 hours early. For instance, for one of Auntie Pacita’s birthday parties, a few people began to arrive at 1:00 p.m. The party was supposed to begin at 3:00 p.m., but nearly everyone was there early—some came to help, while others just came to get the party started. Uncle Roy, Tatay’s close friend, immediately drew our attention, pretending to be Elvis as he played his guitar. Nang Taling, a friend and employee at Auntie’s sewing shop, was sitting at the table chopping carrots into thin slices for the lumpia. Anabelle and I called Nang Taling “Heh?” because we thought she was bungol since all she ever said to us was, “Heh?” Nang Heh? always laughed the loudest at all of Tatay’s jokes as she flirtatiously removed her glasses and fanned her knees in and out with each laugh. Then, Nang Bebing came to the door; now the party could begin. With garish flair, Nang Bebing came in wearing her bright yellow stretch pants and her blouse with the giant sequined butterfly on the front. She was the one who effortlessly and shamelessly told dirty jokes—the jokes that everyone loved—about all of her ex-husbands. She often spoke to me in Tagalog or sometimes Cebuano, forgetting that I couldn’t understand either. I never stopped her though; I just listened, hoping I could understand at least some of the words. The food was ready. I almost cried at the sight of it all on the table: pancit with slices of green onion on top, lumpia stacked on three different plates, chicken and pork adobo and a huge pot of rice with the sanduk spoon planted in the center. We stacked food on our plates and ate. By the silence in the room, everyone knew how good the food was. After eating, all of us danced to everything from Yoyoy’s music to “Funkytown”. Auntie Pacita took my hands and taught me the Cha-Cha. And once everyone was tired, we said goodbye to some of the guests, while others spent the night. Little money, but many celebrations. The family escaped their troubles during these parties. And so did I. For a brief moment, I was part of the family. ^TOP^ *Crushing Soft Rubies p. 61-63* I could hear Boys II Men singing “Let It Snow” and slowly the family, one by one, began to wake up. We opened our gifts, hugging and kissing each other. Friends and relatives stopped by throughout the day delivering gifts, eating, and catching up on the latest news. The cauldron of gumbo, Brenda’s specialty, made with crab, chicken wings, corn, hot links, shrimp, and rice was bubbling on the stove—thick, hot, and ready. The homemade macaroni and cheese was being pulled out of the oven as the potato salad was pulled out of the refrigerator. Deviled eggs, green beans, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and a giant turkey added to the many dishes that had already blessed the kitchen. In the livingroom, the Seven-Up cake and the Red Velvet cake sat on a portable card table, tempting and teasing all who passed by. Laughter, love, and Jesus’ presence mingled with the aromas, unmistakably marking this day as Christmas in the Stickmon house. ••••• My brother, Lou, worked for American Airlines. After Mom died, every Christmas (and sometimes Thanksgiving), Lou sent me a ticket to the Bay Area to visit his family, as well as, Mama Lila, his mother, and my two sisters, Dana and Jill. I was so excited to be with everyone, mostly because it gave me a chance to be with other Black people. The moment I stepped in their car and in their home, I felt at home and yet also in a different world. A local R & B station was playing on the radio. I smelled the faint scent of hair grease, coconut lotion, and cigarette smoke. In the bathroom, a stack of Jet magazines sat on a rack; hair grease, a curling iron, a couple of kinky hairs were around the sink telling me I was in a familiar place. And as usual, Lou’s joy filled the house as he joked around and teased everyone. Lou inherited our father’s friendliness, but had a much better sense of humor. On trips to the grocery store, cashiers knew him by name and Lou sparked up conversations with them, as well as, any random person in line. This made it difficult to distinguish a friend from a stranger. Whenever he teased someone or explained something, Lou’s every word “tickled” me (as he’d say). Whether he was driving through East Oakland telling us, “Y’all better duck! The rough-ians live ‘round here,” or at home telling one of his sons, “Ya drink, smoke and ya gotta earring! That’s three things wrong whicha!” he’d have me giggling all day. I clung to his every word as if he’d just given me a toy to play with and toss around. I became immersed in his mannerisms, his slang, the swing in his walk, the joy in his voice. As I picked up words and idioms reminding me of what I was too embarrassed to admit I was missing, I hoped to never be exposed as a phony, an imitator of Black culture, even though I was Black. I realized I was so used to being the only Black person in a crowd. As a result I learned to assimilate, being blind to the importance of my own Blackness. However, at Lou’s house, I caught myself staring back and forth between the darkness of his hands and the fairness of mine, learning to love the Black skin and culture that was ours. He didn’t know it, but I admired him. Lou, who was protector, provider, jokester, and nurturer, represented all that was strong and gentle in my world. His life taught me that you didn’t have to have a college education to be intelligent. It was his experiences—his knowledge through living—that I valued most. He was the one to tell me about McClymond’s High School and the free breakfast program the Black Panther Party started there. He taught me what to be careful of and who to watch out for. As I listened to his stories, he also listened to mine. Whether on the phone or in-person, he was always concerned about what I ate that day, which was then followed by “So how’s school?” Even when I went into far more detail than the average person might care to hear about, he still showed his interest by asking me more questions and relating it to something he already knew. Mama Lila was another source of inspiration whose words, “You be a sweet girl, now hear?” helped me sleep at night. A woman in her 70’s, Mama Lila carried herself like a woman half her age, vibrant, wearing one of her sharp dress suits with the matching church hat, walking with an elegance and a self-respect that made everyone think twice about stepping in her way. She was never overbearing, but was always aware that she possessed a wealth of experience that deserved recognition. Once she told me, “Oh yeah, I’ll sit with the President and have a conversation. I don’t care. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She was a wise woman who knew more than any book could tell me about history or about life in general. She shared with me many stories from what she’d seen during the Civil Rights Movement to some of the reasons why she divorced my father. And I can’t forget that she always showed an interest in my personal life. Even though I was the child of her ex-husband’s second wife, she always treated me as her own, showing me nothing but love and respect. She understood my inquisitive nature, and though I was well aware that she was much wiser and experienced than I, never once did I hear her say, “You’re too young to understand.” Because of this, as well as, her wisdom, I was less feisty around her and never hesitated to take her advice. Janet Stickmon's Crushing Soft Rubies is available at: East Bay: Black Oaks, Eastwind, Marcus Books SF: Arkipelago, City Lights, DogEared Books, Modern Times, Marcus Books, Valencia St. Books Customers may also purchase the book online at www.brokenshackle.org. The author can be reached by email at jstickmon@msn.com. ^TOP^ Copyright © 2004 Philippine American Writers and Artists, Inc.