Without a Brother Life is Half Lived
By Remé A. Grefalda

"Where should we go?" His eyes darted from one sign to the other. I ignored his hesitation and moved ahead.

Everything "white" seemed better than "colored". The seats in the waiting room were plushier, not just colored wooden benches. Under "colored", there were less variety of goodies to buy. But why "white" and "colored"? Why not just say "TERRIFIC" and "LOUSY"? We wouldn’t be hesitating, we’d know where to go.

"I don't know about you—but I'm going there." I said, heading for the direction where the premises had a sign announcing "WHITE".

The first time we saw the signs, they were above a water fountain area. There was a garden hose strung up along an iron pipe with water hesitantly flowing from it. The sign said "COLORED". We both turned away from that and chose the familiar stainless steel fountain where you turned a knob at the side and icy water sprung up to meet your thirst. The sign above it said "WHITE". I couldn’t figure out why we were asked to choose the color of water.

We were confronted with this problem each time we got off the bus. And it had to do with more than the choice of water. Everything "white" seemed better than "colored". The seats in the waiting room were plushier, not just colored wooden benches. Under "colored", there were less variety of goodies to buy. But why "white" and "colored"? Why not just say "TERRIFIC" and "LOUSY"? We wouldn’t be hesitating, we’d know where to go.

At the first stop, the bus station yawned open before us—but each entry way carried a sign minding us where we were to go, which line to queue, which restroom to enter, and which part of the cafe was either "COLORED" or "WHITE". After several rest stops of being constantly faced with these two choices, I too began to hesitate and wonder as we approached the waiting room and the ticket lines—as he was wondering now.

In this particular rest stop, I understood his hesitation. There were two buildings, not just areas in one building, but two separate locations: one that said "WHITE" and one marked "COLORED". Ignoring his predicament, I went in one and he followed suit.

There was no end to my irritation at finding myself totally unprepared for this cumbersome choosing and vacillating. I prepared for this trip. I paid attention to all the movies I saw about life in America. (How many times did I watch "A Summer Place" and "Gidget"?) How come I didn’t notice this? When I saw high school scenes in "Because We’re Young" I swore I would finagle a way not to go to school. The thought of being hounded by guys and pushed against the wall and forced to submit to kissing was the scariest thing in the world. In the movie, that’s all Americans kids did in school. Where were the movies that told you to choose "Colored" and "White"? I couldn’t remember one.

My brother and I had been traveling for more than 32 hours by Greyhound Bus from New Orleans, Louisiana heading for a place called Newark, New Jersey. The first time the bus stopped and the driver made his announcement (which was pure garble to our ears), all passengers stood up and began a trek in the aisle down to the restaurant of the bus station. I was about to follow but my brother pulled me back down to my seat.

Through gritted teeth he whispered, "What if they leave us behind?"

I thought about it for a few seconds. He could be right, but if I didn't get off the bus, an "accident" was about to happen in my seat.

I had my brother. He was all I needed because he was all I had. Since he's my elder, he made the decisions. In this particular odyssey, he was stuck with all decisions to be made.

"I'll be real fast—" I promised. "Kailangan ko!I gotta go!"

Reluctantly, he got up and followed me.

* * *

Two days ago in New Orleans, the two of us had gotten off the M.V. Maaslloyd, a Dutch steamer from Manila bound for the United States. We were at sea for more than a month with six other passengers and the crew. On the days when we weren't seasick, we had a great time. I celebrated my birthday twice when we crossed the International Date Line. I also honed my skills in competing in Scrabble because the captain of the M.V. Maaslloyd loved forming words which would egg his opponents to challenge their validity. He owned stacks of dictionaries going back to the turn of the century. He had discovered words that made us, his opponents, wish we didn’t challenge him. The rule was: Challengers were penalized 10 points if the word could be found in any of the dictionary at hand. Whoever made up that rule had to have been in cahoots with the captain of the Maaslloyd.

When our ship docked in New Orleans, a member of the staff of the Philippine Consulate met us and we stayed in New Orleans for the night. The next day, we were told that arrangements had been made for us to take the Greyhound Bus all the way to the North East. The trip would take two days.

Here we were—literally, fresh off the boat, as the saying goes—two ignorant foreigners about to travel the length and breadth of the United States of America to join our stepfather, whom we had never met. I don’t know what my brother’s thoughts were about this arrangement, but it was okay by me.

Thinking back, I had no reason to feel any anxiety or fear, much less anticipate any problem. I had my brother. He was all I needed because he was all I had. Since he's my elder, he made the decisions. In this particular odyssey, he was stuck with all decisions to be made. If he were the nonchalant type, I probably would break out in hives or develop a nasty tic in my face from the anxiety of the whole trip. But because he was the worrier, the cautious one and the one who seemed too eager to forecast impending doom, I felt it was up to me to venture out to "where angels fear to tread" and risk getting bitten. All I had to look out for was myself, after all. He, on the other hand, had to look out for me as well as mind our official documents, our luggage, our destination and our secret hoard of cash. He was no slacker either. He took his responsibilities with more than a pinch of seriousness.

Because we shared a single passport, he became its official keeper. When we landed at the port of entry, we were each given a "green card" and we argued back and forth in front of the Immigration officer because I wanted to hold on to mine and he insisted my green card had to stay with our communal passport which was his domain. The Immigration Officer, in his keen appraisal of the situation, persuaded me to relinquish the green card. "If you lose it, it's back to the ship for you!" He said with a twinkle in his eye. I didn't trust the twinkle. But I trusted my pockets even less.

My brother kept our money and our papers in a leather portfolio that he hugged close to his chest even when he fell asleep on the bus. He would peel out the bills to pay for our meals. I, in turn, would wait for the change he kept forgetting was due him. By the time we reached this place called Newark, New Jersey, I accumulated quite a sum for myself.

I didn’t want a stranger messing up my carefree life. Even at that age I knew when I had a good thing going. To stop my caterwauling, she stated that the only reason she decided to get married was because my brother needed a father.

There was a silent understanding between us: I was the one who would do the obeying, he was the one who gave orders. I did my usual hedging and hawing, but in the end it was enough that I didn't reflect his anxiety. I think he counted on my bravado as a compass. If I defied his instructions, he could say "I told you so!" If, on the other hand, I pushed forward and nothing went wrong, he would simply lead us on to confront the next crossroad.

For the first five hours on the bus, he kept awake watching the road signs. I fell asleep as soon as the bus pulled away from the station and I had finished my goodbyes to the people who saw us off. I woke up to his persistent nudgings.

"Wake up, wake up! Huy!" And I did. "We got on the wrong bus."

I sat up in attention. He looked at me for some confirmation. I looked out of the window and saw the highway ahead and the receding line of the road behind us. I wondered how far we had traveled.

"How do you know?" I asked. I shared his concern, but even in my catatonic state, I relied on the fact that the people who saw us off must have known we were on the right bus, and besides I remembered seeing the sign on the front of the bus. It said "New York City". "We’re on the right bus, I tell ya!"

"How can you say that?" He whispered fiercely, "You’ve been asleep all this time while I was watching the road. There ain't a sign yet that says "N-e-w-a-r-k". All I’ve seen are "New York".

"Well, maybe, New York is pronounced "Nu-Ark". You know how they talk." I countered. For lack of a more logical explanation, he accepted my reasoning. I was about to curl back to my sleep position as I saw him lean back on his seat when suddenly he sat up again and suggested that maybe it might be a good idea if I went up to the front of the bus and asked the driver.

"Okay, I will. I promise—" I gave him my solemn-oath look. "When we come to the next rest stop!" He was too sleepy himself to argue back. I heard him mumbling something about how were we going back to New Orleans.

* * *

When I found out that my mom had remarried, I sent out a loud and tearful protest. I didn’t want a stranger messing up my carefree life. Even at that age I knew when I had a good thing going. To stop my caterwauling, she stated that the only reason she decided to get married was because my brother needed a father. That sounded reasonable to me. So I agreed—on the condition that the only reason this Other was entering our lives was because my brother, needed a father which meant I didn’t need one. Thank goodness, that was understood!

I was enchanted by the way he spoke English mixed with Ilocano and the colorful stories he loved to tell. His English was his own invention. By his motions and his inflection, you got the meaning somehow. I became his official translator.

What I didn’t know then was that she told the reverse to my brother in breaking the news that we were joining our stepfather in America "because your sister needs a father..." to which he solemnly agreed that for disciplinary purposes, it was a good idea.

I can’t deny I had a soft spot for my stepfather the minute I laid eyes on him. He was standing there against the wall of the bus station, when our bus pulled up. I thought it might be him because he was the only Asian face in the crowd. Also, he had a "PAT" embroidered on his breast pocket.

Much later on, we learned that he was there five hours before our bus was scheduled to arrive. He was afraid he would miss its arrival. He recounted how he was constantly running back and forth to the parking meter because it would only allow him an hour at a time and so he kept feeding it dimes to extend his stay.

I took to my stepfather like ice to tea, like coffee to donuts. We were extraordinary together. We loved the same things: Especially crawly, yipping and four-legged things. Dogs, cats, and homing pigeons were ours, as they never were to my brother and Mima. I was enchanted by the way he spoke English mixed with Ilocano and the colorful stories he loved to tell. His English was his own invention. By his motions and his inflection, you got the meaning somehow. I became his official translator.

He got a kick out of the fact that when he introduced me to his poker buddies, they would say "She looks exactly like you!" And both of us would beam back a smile to each other.

My brother was respectful, but suspicious of him. But Dad won him over with presents in July; and allowing us marathon all-night television even though he preferred us asleep and quiet. He would take our sides in arguments with Mima. In short, he knew his role as a Dad in no time.

Our one difficulty with him though was during baseball season. He lived and breathed baseball over the car radio, the kitchen radio and worst, he hogged the TV and cancelled out the shows we would normally watch from seven to nine in the evenings. But on one occasion, my brother outwitted him and after that, we would simply apply "our system" to his "viewings" and we would get to watch our shows too.

It was the night when we were to watch a brand new sitcom. It was the premiere segment. We decided to sit in front of the tube while Dad watched his game sitting on the couch. He was good at taking hints and we were hoping that he would take the hint at one minute before seven and allow us our new show. Well, at one minute to seven, he was snoring as the batter sauntered to the plate to bat. My brother switched the channel and turned the volume down. We were midway through our show, but our laughing woke him up. He sat up straight, stared at the ceiling, and blinked his eyes.

I belonged to a foursome, a secretive password-sign-only female society. He, on the other hand, hung out with a co-ed crowd. I could tell whenever a "change-your-partner" scene had taken place among them.

"Salamagan!" He swore, "What is da isko!"

Quick as lightning, my brother the genius switched back the channel.

"Yankees still losin’, Dad." He hollered. To which Dad turned back on his left side, grumbled and continued snoring.

* * *

Growing up, I picked up all my secret vices from my brother. Sort of like hand-me-downs.

Before leaving to catch the bus for school, I would sneak into his room, scan his desk to where a pack of cigarettes was carelessly tossed, then tip-toe and count out three sticks for the whole day. A few mornings, there would be just three in the pack. Those mornings were pure dilemma. I would generously leave one for his wake-up call or otherwise risk his yelling at me when I got home.

I also knew where he kept his "special" paper backs. We had both graduated from Mickey Spillane and Ellery Queen, so it was great to find that he seemed to have a few really choice grown-up stuff under his store of clean underwear. I would help myself with these dog-earred literary gems and made sure I returned them exactly where I found them.

Is it surprising then that most of our tastes were similar? And specially with pop songs? I remember the time Dad threatened to throw out the phonograph player because he couldn’t understand why we played this 45 over and over again. It was a matter of leaving the hooked arm of the record holder stuck out to the right, which would urge the phonograph arm to automatically swing towards the record— neatly landing the needle to repeat the music. He didn’t mind "Walk, Don’t Run" by the Ventures which we never outgrew. But he went crazy with the French songs from "Umbrellas of Cherbourg". And he positively went bonkers when after shouting after us to "Salamagan, turn da ting op !", he found out we both had left the house with the player going on and on in operatic lamentation.

* * *

We never hung out together in a crowd, my brother and I. I belonged to a foursome, a secretive password-sign-only female society. He, on the other hand, hung out with a co-ed crowd. I could tell whenever a "change-your-partner" scene had taken place among them. He would come in to my room all spiffed up and ready for the night out, then insist on going through my latest poems.

"What for?" I would demand although I knew all his moves. Was I secretive about my gushy poems? Far from it. If he was a willing buyer of rhymes, who was I to kill a potential industry-in-the-making?

"I need something that talks about eyes. You should see her eyes!" And he would mutter some phrases to convince me that somewhere in my collection he had read about my being heartbroken over glances and looks.

If you timed his moods, you could either hit him with a don’t-know-how-to-count mood or you-better-give-me-back-the-change mood. It was touch and go, but the unpredictability and the outcome made the venture not unlike a casino game minus the neon lights.

I specialized then in broken heart poems. Somehow he was winning these girls with my broken heart poems. He would let me read love letters from those who would swoon over the poem he sent and yes, she was so in love with him, she would meet him at nine o’clock at the back porch of her house so they could sneak out for a pepsi or something.

Did I mind? Did I mind playing Cyrano to his efforts at winning his latest love? Not at all. My poems matched his love letters. The letters were written beautifully. On handwriting alone, the girl didn’t stand a chance. Mr. Irresistible had made his mark! I received the go-ahead to edit these letters, so I would suggest which poem would match his "current" feelings.

"How ’bout that one?" He’d suggest as we leafed through a sheath of verses.

"’You kiddin’?" I rolled my eyes, exasperated at his memory failure. "We sent that to Anna and they’re best friends!"

"Gees, you’re right!" He sweated a little on that almost-faux pas. But we found the perfect Eyes-poem, so I sent him off pleased with himself. And myself, a dollar and a quarter richer.

Now, when a girl broke his heart, I was ready to climb the walls. I couldn’t hide from him even if I tried. I tried to blend with the wallpaper. And still he would find me. Our sessions were unending: the constant second-guessing, the what-ifs, the "are you sure I shouldn’t call?" naggings. Who was I anyway to be advisor to the lovelorn (or is it the "love lost")? I couldn’t get away from him. He would bribe me with all edible possibilities just to hear him out. He would pry out from me good and bad scenarios for the future. Since I was a born scenario-maker, I came up with scenario after scenario to deal with his predicament.

My life with him became extremely profitable. There would be no pronounced bartering or business arrangement between us. Yet somehow, I seemed to walk away with more cash than I had intended, which hardly left me guilty. The reason was simple. If you timed his moods, you could either hit him with a don’t-know-how-to-count mood or you-better-give-me-back-the-change mood. It was touch and go, but the unpredictability and the outcome made the venture not unlike a casino game minus the neon lights.

On mornings after Pay Day, his wallet would be bulging. He never kept it under his pillow, but simply had it hanging out of his trousers’ back pocket on a chair. While he was still asleep, I would peel out a Jackson instead of a Jefferson and leave him a note stating that I had helped myself to my weekly allowance, thank you.

My brother trained me right. Believe me, I’ve thought at times, panic stricken-times, when I might wake up and have to face a question like, what if I didn’t have a brother? This brother?

The wonderful thing about him is that if I was ever in some kind of a fix, all I had to do was whine a lot and sound a catch in my voice and he would offer to pay for whatever. But before he handed out the cash, I would have to listen to this low-voiced serious lecture (and I mean lecture!) on the reasons why money did not grow on proverbial trees. All this from a guy only 18 months older than me! Paupers are a patient lot, and I was a sincere and penitent pauper to his every word.

* * * *

So how come I give off the impression of being an only child? That's because I'm arrogant and seemingly self-sufficient. My brother trained me right. Believe me, I’ve thought at times, panic stricken-times, when I might wake up and have to face a question like, what if I didn’t have a brother? This brother? What would life be like? Granted that while growing up we were practically twins—kicking each other before going to sleep because he was grabbing more of the blanket than was his share, fighting over a teddy bear until we tore its limb off and got punished for it, pushing away each other during photo sessions at the studios—and now. . . .

Now, we go our separate ways. We barely find the time to be together.

That’s terrible, you say. But you have to remember that in the universal scheme of things—he and I—we belong. When the whole world picks a fight with either one of us, we miraculously reappear in each other’s corner. It is then during those times that I am permitted to understand the cosmic reason why I am gifted with my brother.

© Remé A. Grefalda

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