My Story, Part 2: Big City Girl in a Small Town World
What is This 25 Miles Per Hour Biznass?
After bawlin’ on and off during the first few hours of my drive heading north, I pulled on my big girl pants and attempted to take captive my thoughts and cling onto the vision that catapulted us into this move in the first place. By the time we rolled into the Apple Capital of the World, I was armed with firm resolve to embrace my life as a proud, new resident of this charming town (pounding fist to my heart).
So, I got a map. Of Wenatchee. I don’t even know why such thing exists. My bro-in-law even gave me a time about buying a map. Of Wenatchee.
With my 6-month old in tow, I explored every nook and cranny I could so I could familiarize myself with our new home. I mean, that’s what good Wenatcheeans … Wenatcheeites … whatever … do right?
It took all of 5 minutes. Okay, okay. I’m exaggerating. It took me a whole … week (if that)? Long enough to know that I didn’t need a friggin’ map to get around! What a doodah. No wonder the gas station clerk looked at me funny when I was buying that dang thing.
And, what in the world was this place?! 25 mph CITY speed limits?! Wait – that’s … that’s … the MALL?!
By the end of that first week, I had been up and down and all around with my little man several times over. I ultimately found myself on my bro-in-law’s couch, trying to shake the wiggles out of my system. Literally. My legs could NOT stop shaking, and I was not OD’d on caffeine. I kid you not, I believe my body was experiencing shock from … Lack of City.
Let’s Try to Make Some Friends
That’s when I realized that there surely must be other stay-at-home moms like me in this small town. In my desperation to find yet another thing to do before my mind and body totally lost it, and with a genuine desire to make new friends, I Googled for a mommy group. Lo and behold, I found one and they were having what was called a “play date” the very next week. I was renewed with hope for something beyond convulsing in my bro-in-law’s living room while my big city blood resigned itself to a 25 mph lifestyle!
I was excited the morning of the play date because I had never been to one before. I looked forward to getting to know other women who were most likely young moms like me, who would have kids for my son to play with, and who were probably housewives themselves. So much in common!
Giddy with anticipation, and sporting my fave black, strappy, platform, wedge sandals, boot-cut jeans, burnt orange tunic and a pair of dangly earrings, I made my way toward the house ready to meet my new friends.
As soon as I arrived, I realized I was a fish out of water. On a foreign planet.
I was met with friendly smiles but wary eyes. Like, “Who is that person?” wary eyes. In an instant, I realized that small town, Pacific Northwest moms (at least back in 2007) don’t wear platform wedges and dressy tunic tops with dangly earrings to play dates, especially when you are a complete stranger. I don’t think it helped that I looked different from my mommy counterparts either (like dark hair, dark skin, almond eyes different). I felt like the new girl at school who was being assessed by the cool group to determine whether I could join their club or not. Needless to say, that play date was not as I hoped it would be. I didn’t dare attempt another one of those for a long while.
The novelty of small-town living quickly wore off. I couldn’t drive fast, there was nowhere to go after I did my one week of exploring, and I didn’t own a single down vest or these things the locals put on their feet called Tevas.
No matter. I don’t need friends anyway. I’ve got my baby and my hubs and some of his fam who live here. S’all good, right? Right?!
Diversity-Deprived Ignorance
Wanna read about a (not-so) funny story about my first big grocery trip in my new town? Well, even if you don’t, here it is:
A few weeks after officially setting foot on Apple Capital soil, we were finally able to move into our home (the sellers rented back a few weeks from us until their new build was ready, which is why we camped out at my bro-in-law’s place for a bit).
I made a huge run to the store so we could set up house. Giddy feels filled my spirit as I pulled up to the checkout stand with a couple carts loaded to the hilt with goodies, from food to supplies. When it came time to pay, the checkout lady looks at me, and with legit sincerity and sweetness, asks, “Now will you be using your vouchers to pay for this?”.
AW. HAIL. NO.
She was serious too. The term “kill joy” never had as acute a meaning as it did at that very moment. Did home girl even realize that her question was loaded with all kinds of ignorant assumptions!? After quickly regaining my composure (remembering that I am a Christian now), I replied as sweetly as I could with, “Oh no, I’ll be using my debit card today.” And by the way, let me drop kick yo a** .
Look, I knew the demographic of this place would not be as wide and varied as a big city’s, and was fully aware I would pretty much be the only one of “my kind”, but COME ONNN.
That excitement I rolled in with was quickly replaced by shock, discomfort, loneliness, and even a tinge of regret. If feeling out of place at a little play date didn’t do the job, this surely made me want to high-tail it outta this po dunk town and back to L.A., where I didn’t feel like a flippin’ alien. Hey, just speaking truth. (Obviously, I don’t feel like that now, but standing there at the checkout stand, in that grocery store, as a brand-spanking new import to the area, having heard what I had just heard, there was nothing else pounding through my head than that thought!).
It was all just very … I don’t know … unreal, uncomfortable, shocking, weird, sad, lonely.
Again, I can totally understand why such things even occurred. The demographic of this new town was not as wide and varied as a big city like L.A.’s. But being the recipient of such ignorance made being here that much more difficult. I felt like a misfit, like I was the only one of my kind. Not just culturally but ethnically.
There are Filipinos Here?!
Months later, I was checking out of the office supply store, when another cashier looked at me and exclaimed, “You’re Filipina!”. (Only those who are intimately familiar with my culture know to call us females “Filipin-a” not just “Filipin-o”.)
What, whuuut?! Hold up, there were actually other dark haired, dark skinned, almond-eyed women out there?
Turned out, yes there were! Like, 50 or so of them in this small town! His wife was one of them. And actually, they had monthly gatherings, complete with food! We were invited to a couple (hey, can’t turn down food!), but soon enough I almost felt more out of place there than I did among non-Filipinos in town. See, the problem is that most of them are first-generation Filipino-Americans. Like, they were born in the Philippines, then came over here and became citizens. They speak fluent Tagalog. They have similar stories to share. They know how to cook tasty Filipino dishes.
I’m a second-generation Filipino-American, born and bred in the land of the free. While I can understand the mother language, I can’t speak it fluently (and many from the Mother Land will not hide their disdain for you if that is the case). My semi-pampered, private-school, mall rat stories probably wouldn’t jive with their humble and remarkable rise-from-poverty-through-the-true-pursuit-of-the-American-dream accounts. And I only know how to eat said tasty Filipino dishes.
So after a couple attempts at trying to fit in with my Filipino sistahs, I finally had to accept the fact that, yes, I was the only one of my kind.
Neither Caucasian nor Hispanic (the two main ethnic groups in this town), and neither authentically Filipino nor white-bread American, here I was, this citified Valley Girl from one of the major melting pots of cultures and nationalities in our nation, trying to find a place where I belonged; trying to learn how to trade places with a more modest, conservative version of myself so I could fit into this more modest, conservative town.
Below are the links to each part of the “My Story” series:
You Are Reading My Story: Part Two