Yes, Pinoys do return from the States

Ironic how we discover more of ourselves when we’re so far from home. But it’s arguably much easier to take stock of our lives when we’re removed from the familiar and thrust into places where people have concerns other than the head count of Abu Sayyaf hostages or the accommodations of a jailed former president.

And why not? We are finally able to catch our breath and eat an unhurried breakfast, unmindful of the minutes that tick by. We stop worrying about upcoming meetings, appointments to keep, deals to close, articles to write and errands to run. The pre-paid cell phone we have is of no use here, so we are not bothered by the distinctive four beeps to check your inbox every minute and reply to countless text messages.

Nothing else matters but the next showing of Win Ben Stein’s Money, The Man Show, Saturday Night Live and (of course) South Park. Along the way, we meet other Filipinos who speak English better than they understand Filipino, to say nothing of their "wersh-wersh" accent.

The days melt into each other in a haze of NBA playoff games (viva 76ers!) and the latest quesadilla creation from the little cousin. Spare time (meaning hours not spent in front of the telly) is distributed between eating out and shopping at the Navy Exchange, Best Buy and Sam’s Club.

Welcome to surburbian paradise – Oxnard, California-style.

* * *

I am fetched at the LAX airport, and after a few hours’ drive, it begins to get chilly. We pass a town called Camarillo, and my cousin Cathy says that Will Smith’s mom lives there.

The familiar, sweet smell of strawberries tells us that we’re near. "The Strawberry Festival is just a week away," says my Tita Yti. "People from all over will converge in Oxnard to buy boxes and boxes of the harvest."

Sure enough, scores of workers are hunched over sprawling strawberry fields on either side of the highway, hastily plucking big, healthy fruit. Take care of the earth and she take cares of you.

God, it’s peaceful enough to hear myself think. Imagine that.

Doorbell. I open the door. A little white kid peers up.

"Can Eugene play outside?"

"Kuya, can I play outside?"

"Ask your dad."

"Will you watch me?"

"Okay."

Eugene fishes his Louisville Slugger, along with a tennis ball, from the ceramic jar by the front door and goes out. I peer through the blinds. A bit of yard baseball with the other kids.

No kids sniffing glue from plastic bags here. No kids cursing their lungs out like seasoned thugs. No kids rapping at your car window to ask for change. Everything is peaceful here.

Later, when the sun begins to sink, my cousin goes back indoors, letting a blast of cold May air in with him. "Wanna play Smack Down on the PlayStation later, Kuya Kap?"

"After the games."

Sixers-Raptors; Sixers win. Blah-blah. Lakers-Spurs; Lakers continue romp. Blah-blah.

"Okay, let’s play. I don’t know how, though."

"It’s easy. I’ll teach you the basic moves."

"After this, want me to make some more quesadilla?"

"Mmm. Okay."

It’s so peaceful I can hear myself getting fat.

* * *

"Hi, how do you do?" says the store clerk.

"Okay."

So the greeting may be a little dry-sounding, but the effort is appreciated. Besides, it’s easy to be laidback in the United States, especially in the laidback West Coast. Out here, I guess blandness is stuff of the primordial soup of cool.

"Yeah, like, cool."

There are more "help wanted" signs than those who care to fill the vacancies. People generally don’t piss on walls and deface public property. There is a level of comfort that placates the restless spirit and somehow sedates the mischief in everyone. The senses are both sharpened and deadened by this comfort.

And so you notice everything – from how a clerk sloppily folds a shirt you just bought at the mall (but you’re "cool," so you couldn’t care less), to how much better the boys are back home as they work on a Dance Dance Revolution machine. Yeah, Pinoys are so darn good on those Dance Dance thingies. We could be so good if we really, really wanted to – and not just with arcade games, too. You can bet your Commander Robot reward money on that.

And again you ascertain just how much of you wants to stay where you are and imagine how easy the choice must have been for many who chose to pursue their destiny pursuing the American Dream instead of hopping on Pinoy Crisis train. How many more will go TNT? How many more will renounce their nationality with as much gusto as denying they ever did anything illegal in their youthful days?

* * *

But despite the headline-hogging embarrassments we suffer constantly – be it from erupting volcanoes or dumbass hostage takers – it is never embarrassing to be Filipino and continue to live in the Philippines. There is so much to work on, yes. We need to erase so many traits that reflect our bitter past and uncertain future. We piss on the walls because the street gangs spray-paint our gates. We neglect to wear our seatbelts because we believe we can bribe the traffic aide. We do not bother to look for a trashcan to toss our refuse in because the next-door motorcycle shop doesn’t care about our health and continues to pump smoke into a residential area with little kids and little old ladies. What we then have are a lot of angry people not giving a crap about anyone else.

So tell me, please. What am I doing back home? Well maybe I’ve recharged my batteries and am feeling a little California.

"Yeah, like, cool."

It’s certainly a lot better than blowing a gasket.