Shopping for home

SHOPPING FOR HOME

by Maria Theresa Mendoza Cruz

Ten years after I immigrated to the United States to work as a physical therapist, I sometimes seek the familiarity of home in different places in Atlanta. The big Simon malls with their flashy storefronts and trendy merchandise takes me back to Manila’s mega shopping centers. It doesn’t feel like it has been I decade already since I was among the masses who sought refuge in the airconditioned premises of the Filipino department store Shoemart, an oasis and a momentary escape from my tropical country’s oppressive soul-draining heat.   In my new life in America, I would visit Lenox Mall, where I windowshopped beside the Buckhead Betties, hiphop princesses and Korean fashionistas. I was clearly the odd woman out. While Filipinos are numerous in other states like California and New York, our population in the Southeast is low enough that to run into a compatriot is a novelty in Georgia.

Just two miles from my house in the suburb of Duluth, shopping at the Korean grocery Super H Mart feels like I’ve travelled 8,000 miles to Cherry Foodarama, the supermarket where my family bought our weekly supplies. Perusing the displays of Asian produce, cases of glistening seafood and aisles of grains, sauces and condiments, I find a sense of belonging among people with whom I share the same response when asked to identify ethnicity on an official form. Asian/Pacific Islander. Only, I didn’t feel I truly belonged in their culture either, perhaps because Koreans share ancestral lineage with the  Chinese and Japanese while Filipinos like myself are from the south east side of the continent and belong to the Malay race.
To find my piece of home, I proceed to the Filipino section of the store. There, the fish and soy sauces, banana ketchup and various snacks from my childhood reminds me of the items that filled our family shopping cart back at Cherry Foodarama, where my parents would carefully add up the cost of each item in their heads, only to be perpetually shocked at how much more it would turn out at the register. So much for the Asian math genius stereotype.

But in all of my escapist reveries during shopping errands and attempts to bring some semblance of Filipino life to my American existence, there’s nothing quite like being among Hispanic families in their natural habitat that gives me a feeling of being home.

I’ve tried to make sense of why, despite the significant distance between the Philippines and the Hispanic countries of the Americas, nuances from their culture are so relatable to me. Sitting on the floor of a Mexican family’s living room as I work with their child with special needs, I would overhear the loud music and boisterous hosts of a game show on TV in the next room. Without having to see the screen, I knew that it showcased dancing and singing in between the competition segments before giving way to the afternoon telenovelas.   It is the exact same fare that filled the daytime programming of Filipino television networks. I’d often find in a corner table of many homes, a statue of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe in a small altar. I’d make the sign of the cross in reverence, just as I did whenever I passed the altar right beside my room back in my parents’ house.

Years of classroom education on Philippine and world history have taught me about the Filipino-Hispanic connection. Spain’s massive colonization campaign in the 1500s brought the conquistadores from the Old World to the shores of the Americas and to as far away as my beloved Philippines. The strategy of penetrating and controlling local culture through spreading Catholicism has been an effective one, with enduring effects. It has been written that guns, goons, gold and God were the weapons of the colonizers. The ties between the Philippines and Mexico stem from the Spanish crown’s efforts at efficient, streamlined world domination.   The Viceroyalty of New Spain, their outpost in Mexico following the subjugation of the Aztec empire, was tasked to oversee the goings-on in the conquered islands out in the Pacific. On top of that, the Manila-Acapulco Galleon trade connected the two countries as precious Asian goods such as porcelain, ivory, silk and spices made its way from China to Spain, with stopping points in Manila and Mexico.

Issues of subjugation aside, the centuries-long occupation left one unintended, seemingly inconsequential fruit that an Asian female with a Hispanic name from the islands of the Philippines with a terrible case of homesickness can hang out in a Mexican mall in Atlanta on a Sunday afternoon and feel right at home.

 

A familiar scent hits me as soon as I push through the heavy glass doors to the Santa Fe Mall in Gwinnett County. It is a sweet, heavy aroma that fills my nostrils with a one whiff.   I’ve often encountered this scent when visiting apartment homes of Hispanic families as a pediatric home health physical therapist. For a long time I wondered if this was some sort of mandatory national perfume.   It is a beguiling odor, as if someone spritzed floral baby cologne into the air then doused it with musky women’s perfume. I’m embarrassed to ask my Hispanic friends about this, for fear that my question would reveal the aversion I have towards it.   After a minute or so, I acclimate.   It serves as a sensory signal of my entry into the Hispanic subculture in Georgia.

I sit on a bench close to the indoor jungle gym, among the parents who chat amongst themselves as they wait for their children. The kids scream in glee as they crawl their way up, down and around the jumble of green nets, blue ladders and yellow tunnels. Spanish is spoken here, broken only intermittently when the family;s teenager spoke to the parents in their affected American accent.

I notice a snack kiosk covered with Sabritas potato chips and Taki corn chips, hanging side by side with their counterparts from Lays and Fritos. Business is brisk as customers flock to the counter where a burly man handle the mostly cash transactions. A petite woman, presumably the man’s wife, is in constant motion – shifting products, replenishing drinks in the small cooler and handing out change. She moves purposefully around their little store, wearing a white shirt with orange stripes, tucked into her skinny jeans and pair with white sneakers. I envy her lack of self-consciousness, so nonchalantly uncaring of the slight belly protruding over the top of her jeans. I subconsciously tug at my Spanx that furtively tried to hide what this lady dared to flaunt. I think of my mom and her obsession with shapewear, always conscious of keeping a slim appearance, wearing her compressive undergarments even under her workout Spandex.

I was mid-pull when I bump elbows with a little girl who was checking out the toys displayed on a stand beside me. She smiles shyly and asks her mom if she could buy the blonde baby doll hanging beside a 5-pack plastic water guns.

“No, mi hija,” her mother gently but firmly tells her.

She takes one more look at me, smiles again then turns around to catch up with her mother.

I remember being that little girl. It took one stern look from my Papa to dissuade me from refuting his decision to shoot down a request to buy anything. At the height of the Doc Martens craze, I casually dropped a hint that everyone in my school were wearing them, as we walked past a pair at a Shoemart window. My father kept walking right along without a second look at the shiny high top leather boots popular among the grunge crowd.

“Ilang milyong Pilipino ang walang sapatos na maayos, iyan pa kaya na mahal ng boots, di ka naman sundalo,” he said. Translation: “Millions of Filipinos don’t even have decent shoes, what more that kind of expensive military boots. You’re not even a soldier.” End of discussion.

I gather my things and stand up, a little teary eyed with the thought of my Papa, now 71 years old. Once in a while, during our weekly phone conversations, he would shyly request I send him a pair of Levis jeans or Cole Haan shoes, but always insisting “Only if it’s on sale, ha.” I never told him no, bought the items at full price and immediately mailed it home.

I walk towards the clothing stores and come across a horde of mannequins with ample derrieres dressed in jeans that accentuated the rear. 100% Colombian jeans, a poster on the wall said. I think about it for a second. My Asian Catholic schoolgirl conscience chastises me for even considering it. My newly formed American sensibility, however, pushes back and tells me I could wear whatever I wanted. I walk away. Maybe next time.

Further down, I get to the gown store where many a young girl’s quinceanera and wedding dreams are born. For such a tiny space, there is an impressive selection of shimmering ball gowns made from yards and yards of satin, tulle and lace of every color of the rainbow, with jewel encrusted hoop skirts that would make any Disney princess jealous.

Back in the Philippines, the 18th birthday of a young lady heralded her entry into adulthood. The more affluent families threw lavish parties to honor the debutante who, decked in a princess gown, danced with 18 male family members and friends before leading a choreographed cotillion where 18 couples, closest friends of the debutante, waltzed to Strauss’ Blue Danube.

I looked at the gowns at the store and thought about how I missed my chance to be a debutante. I remembered that conversation with my Papa, as he drove me home from a friend’s debut at a 5-star hotel. I asked him could have a party of my own. I should have known better.

“Ang debut, para sa mga mayayaman lang yan, para ipakilala ang mga anak nila sa society, para sabihin na pwede na silang ligawan at mag-asawa. Di ka pa pwedeng mag-boyfriend. Bakit ka magdedebut?” he said.

(“A debut is only for the rich, to introduce their daughters to society, to say that they are ready to accept courtship and marriage. You can’t have a boyfriend. Why would you want a debut?”)

A few days before my 18^th birthday, he gave me an option: a debut or a car. I chose a powder blue Kia hatchback so that I wouldn’t have to ride the jeepney to school.   I turn away from the gowns, wondering if it would be too weird to have a debut for a woman in her 30s.

 

I check my watch and realize it’s time to go home. I head to the exit through the busy food court and frying odors of the taco stands.

Then, there it is again.

The familiar sweet scent that welcomed me when I first arrived. It is coming from one of the shops that I just passed. I turn around to check out once and for all what brand of cologne produced this intoxicating smell. I walk into the nearest shop and was at once transported to the side streets of Quiapo Church in downtown Manila, known for its mix of religion and mysticism. The shelves are filled with a variety of religious icons, various saints and incarnations of the Virgin Mary. A section is dedicated to statues of skeletons garbed in robes, used in the Mexican celebration of the Day of the Dead. I make my way around the candle aisle and came upon a shelf of potions for various maladies and intentions. With my limited Spanish knowledge and a lot of help from pictures on the bottles, I conclude that they were good for recovering from a heartache, attracting good fortune in business, and securing a positive result in a legal case.

Then, below the smaller bottles, are gallon-sized containers emitting that haunting smell. I read the label and could make out that it’s some sort of household cleaning liquid. But unlike any Clorox or Pine-sol bottle that I’ve ever encountered, these containers have pictures of gold bullions, stacks of cash and mountains of coins. This cleansing solution promises fortune and riches with diligent use of the product on your home’s floors, sinks and bathrooms. I suppress a chuckle and an overwhelming desire to purchase a gallon, and walk out.

I make my way past the kids and parents at the jungle gym. I get into my car and in a few turns, find myself in the middle of mainstream America again. I arrive home, slip off my shoes and greet my husband. He asks me where I’ve been. I tell him I took a quick trip home at Santa Fe Mall.