Blackbird Fly

On the day we moved to America, it snowed in Chapel Spring, Louisiana, for the first time in twenty years. My mother said it was a sign that the seasons of our lives were changing. Even though I was only four years old, I can still remember how she hugged me close and said we had something wonderful to look forward to: a life as real Americans.
When you start a new life, you’re supposed to get rid of everything from your old one according to my mom, at least so on the day it snowed, my mom had nothing from the Philippines except for her Catholic Bible and a picture of her grandmother. I had an old postcard and a Beatles cassette tape. Abbey Road, to be exact. My father had written his name on it in black marker a long, long time ago. H. Yengko, it said. Some of the letters had rubbed off, but his name was as clear as ever to me. I grabbed the tape quickly before we left our barangay, because I was the only thing that would fit in my pocket.
For a long time I couldn’t listen to the tape because I didn’t have a tape player, but last year I found one for ten cents at a garage sale and then I heard the tape for the first time. I could tell that my dad listened to it a lot, because the tape was cracked and the names of the songs were faded, but I understood right away why he wore it down. Once you listen to the Beatles, you can’t go back. They’re the best rock band that’s ever lived, in my opinion. George Harrison is my favorite Beatle. He mostly played lead guitar, but he also sang and wrote songs.
If I could ask my dad any question, I would ask him who his favorite Beatle was. I wish I could ask my mom if she knows, but she doesn’t like when I mention my father, and she especially doesn’t like when I talk about music. I think my mom is the only person in the world who doesn’t have a favorite song. My all-time favorite song is “Blackbird” by the Beatles, of course but my second-favorite song for now is “Sunshine Life for Me,” written by George and performed by my third-favorite Beatle, Ringo Starr.
My mom may not have a favorite song, but she has favorite stories. One of them is about the day we arrived in America. The day it snowed. That’s the story she told the morning of Alyssa Tate’s party, as she stirred a pot of sizzling garlic fried rice and adjusted her apron. It was the white one with Mabuhay Philippines! written on it in fat, red letters. I always thought it was funny how she couldn’t wait to become American, but once we lived in America, she surrounded herself with things from back home. We have a Santo Niño in our curio cabinet, pancit and chicken adobo in our refrigerator, that apron. Stupid apron.
She tells the story of how we came here after my father died, but she never says “after your father died.” Instead she says “after everything that happened.”
It hadn’t even snowed a full inch when we got to Chapel Spring that day, but the ice crunched under our feet as my mother’s best friend, Lita, led us to our yellow two bedroom house on Oak Park Drive. Since it was cold and there was snow on the ground, I asked if that meant Santa was coming. “Remember that, Apple? Remember?” My mother smiled into her pot of rice. The smell of garlic filled the whole house.
I moved lettuce around in my bowl but didn’t say anything. I looked at the seven baby carrots in the salad. My mother knows I don’t eat them anymore, but she keeps my salad. feeding them to me anyway. I remember the day she’s talking about. I remember how my new coat felt heavy and the new house smelled weird. I remember asking about Santa, missing the water of the ocean, and hearing Lita tell me how lucky I was.
I stabbed the carrots one by one with my fork and set them aside on a napkin next to my plate. The oil from the salad dressing soaked through and onto the table, because my mother buys the cheapest brand of napkins. The cheapest brand of everything. She eyed the napkin. “I thought carrots were your favorite.” She pointed at me with her spoon. “Carrots make good eyes, you know.”
I’ve been having the same carrot conversation with her for five years, but my mother and I are like a merry-go-round when it comes to conversations. We’ve run out of new things to talk about, so instead we talk about the same things over and over, like our first day in America and how carrots used to be my favorite thing to eat. Back when I still believed in carrots, Lita told me she’d read a story in a magazine about a model whose face turned orange because she ate carrots all day. That’s when my mother told me to be careful and to not eat too many. “You used to eat lots of carrots,” she said. “I waited on you to turn orange.”
Here’s a secret though: Carrots were never really my favorite. I hated how their gristly skin snapped between my teeth and how they tasted not-really-sweet and not really-bitter, but I would eat them until I was full, because when I was seven years old my mother told me they “made good eyes.” I’d eat them by the bag, expecting my eyes to turn blue, but they stayed slanted and dark with short, stubby eyelashes. Just like they are now.
I found out later that carrots were supposedly good for vision, not for color or shape, but who cares about that when you can get eyeglasses or contacts? Nothing fixes slanted eyes.
I watched the wet ring from the carrots expand on the napkin and listened to my mother hum Filipino love songs. It’s strange to hear her hum, because there’s nothing musical about her. I don’t think she realizes she does it. If she did, she would stop. “When we were at the mall yesterday, I saw a guitar for only twenty dollars,” I said.
She stopped humming, her mouth a straight, tight line. I speared a piece of sliced onion and let it dangle, then fall. “You said I could get one if I found one that was cheap enough.”
My mother sighed. “School just started. You need to focus on schoolwork.”
“I make honor roll every year.”
“You’re too old for toys.”
“How am I going to be the next George Harrison or John Lennon if I don’t have a guitar?”
“That’s enough, anak.”