"Anticipation. Anticipation is keepin' me waiting." - Carly Simon
Oscar, Kathy, and I meet for lunch at Lalita’s on the corner of McAllister and Leavenworth. It’s our fourth meeting in preparation for the month-long trip we will take to the Philippines in February. These next seven weeks prior to our walk down the airport ramp and onto the jet plane no longer stretch so far out ahead of us.
We are exuberant. After lunch, we walk together to Civic Center Plaza. Walk between Tenderloin brothers yelling random stuff back and forth. Duck under some scaffolding even though it’s ten feet over our heads. Cup hands over our ears as we pass the rumbling mini-cement mixer whose generator shivers and grinds against the chain-link fencing. We pause in the Plaza, between the Sinigang and Mama Empanada’s food trucks. The sun is warm but the breeze blows through here like a wind tunnel and I rub my hands together to warm them up.
“Oscar, what is at the heart of why you lead these journeys to the Philippines for Fil-Ams-[American-born-Filipinos]?” Oscar is the author, Oscar Peñaranda. He had led a previous group comprised of Fil-Am educators and artists back in 2009.
“In memory of American born poet, Al Robles. Al Robles never been to the Philippines, yet his poems and his images are all about our indigenous people. When he died in 2009, I made it a point to bring Fiipino-Americans there that same year that he died. In his memory, or at least thinking that his spirit is still there, I named it the Al Robles Express.”
Oscar’s mission touches me so deeply, and I am feeling both blessed and filled with self-doubt. How is it that I get to embark on this journey? Oscar sees my unspoken thought, and he says aloud,
“Lakbay- Loob. Lakbay - that means Journey. Loob – your Inside.”
I want to eat this word even if I don’t understand for sure what it means.
The three of us part ways waving and saying we’ll get together once more before leaving for the Philippines.
I am nervous. The top of Oscar’s head disappears as he rides the escalator going down to the BART train, Kathy crosses Market Street to her office, I head toward the parking structure where the parking attendant two hours earlier had said, “Yeah, Lalita’s is two blocks THAT way, pointing the direction of the Asian Art Museum. Be careful walkin’ down in that area, ya hear?”
“Okay, I will. Thanks.” I had smiled at his sweetness, his genuine concern even though he doesn’t even know me. I’m not far from home and am able to easily return in thirty minutes.
Back at the house, I resume year-end-cleaning. Trying to make space. File student grades; organize materials into course folders; squish the folders into an already bulging cabinet; note that it’s okay to dump the fall schedule of classes now that the fall semester’s over but put it in a holding pile anyway; fix a cup of tea; wrap a Christmas present; decide I should be writing cards instead, since Christmas is only a couple of days away; decide I’m not feelin’ it right now and my greetings will be more sincere if I’m not feeling goosed from behind to crank them out; sip tepid tea from my forgotten cup; watch as my dog approaches me, stepping on, piercing, wrinkling the Christmas wrap laid out in front of me. Relentless, she swipes her paw toward my face, her pads landing square on my right eye. If I could understand Dogolese, I would clearly hear her when off her dog lips, she clearly mouths the words, “It’s walk-walk time.” I agree.
Instead of jumping into the car, we make a walking adventure out of it and head toward the beach – one mile away - on foot. I throw her favorite orange ball ten yards out into the gentle protected harbor and off she goes for a swim. Meanwhile, I stand right here, just getting my feet wet.
Letters, individual alphabet letters, popping up onto the surface of the calm water, attach themselves to my calves and knees, my body parts practically ingesting them, the way a dry sponge sucks up water and expands. Knee-deep in the water, I pluck each of the letters off of my solid little sea sponge legs. The letters come away as if my calves were lightly magnetized and then float around into a line following the gentle pull of the tide until, for just two seconds they form my new mantra:
“L-a-k-b-a-y L-o-o-b”.
The sun, from its afternoon angle, spotlights the white foamy lettering, ensuring that I see it. There’s that Lakbay-Loob again. Wait, what does it mean again? I click my tongue in frustration, trying to bring its translation to the surface. “You have no code-switch in your brain for Tagalog, Lisa, cause you don’t know shit in this language.”
How DO you even SAY “shit” in Tagalog?
How do I say, “How do you say this…. Or …that.. in Tagalog? “
Well at least I don’t pronounce it /Tag-uh-log/ like other Californians. And I can say “sarap”, delicious. I can say, “salamat”, thank you. I can say-y-y-y, “walang ano man”, you’re welcome. I can say, “Maligayang Pasko!”, Merry Christmas. And I can say, “Manigong Bagong Taon sa Iyo! , Happy New Year to you too! Whatever, Lisa. You don’t know Shit.
Loob (pronounced /lō- ōb/ is one of those delicious words which carry layers of nuances and meanings. My inner- knowing self leads my outer information-seeking self to return to the book, Babaylan-Filipinos and the Call of the Indigenous, edited by Leny Mendoza Strobel, for further insight. In her Introduction, Leny writes a lot about loob, and translates the words of Father Albert Alejo. Each story in there is itself a window, a door, a stepstool to yet another level.
But all I want at this moment is to formulate my articulation of how this phrase, “Lakbay-loob”, is awakening my soul. My take away: loob is consciousness, empathy, action. My own previous training along parallel lines reveals that these elements may not necessarily manifest in that order.
I have waited for this moment. The Philippines has been waiting for me. Write this piece and do your Lakbay – Loob, Ms. mother, writer, professor. Simple as the Nike swoosh.
I am joyful. I now realize that this open space that has extended from just behind my left ribcage to my hip joint had no name until now. With this realization, I am complete.
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