All the same Filipina prostitutes from my youth showed up to Ma’s funeral. They arrived in business-casual black, arm in arm with men – haircuts high and tight – who looked very familiar. Some ladies cradled bouquets like babies. Some wiped their eyes with floral handkerchiefs, while others wiped their brown cheeks with their tiny palms. They all now had crow’s feet and grey hair and a few extra pounds that gave sign of them achieving their American dreams.

Tiya Wowwie was the only one to speak to me: “We gonna miss Ina Lucy. She mean so much.” I still thought of Wowwie as auntie because she was the one who often played trucks with me, read books to me, and fell asleep – also tucked into my Transformers sheets – beside me many nights instead of mingling with the drunk Air Force men my white father had invited to the parties. I remember her singing lullabies – while running her bony fingers through my black bowl cut – I couldn’t understand: Bahay kubo, kahit munti, but I loved them because she sang off-key and the tune never stayed the same, so each time she sang one it sounded new.

“Thank you for coming,” I said. I was sitting close to Ma’s casket, facing the funeral room’s entrance. Wowwie stood right up on me. I didn’t realize she was rubbing circles into my back.

“We so happy you agree to send Ina Lucy back to Philippines,” Tiya Wowwie said.

I ignored her as I scanned the room. I felt confused, out of place, because I couldn’t understand what these women were saying to each other:

“Hindi kita nakita ng edad.”

“Saan ka nakatira.”

“Ilan ang anak mo?”

 I wanted to ask my sister, who had taken the time to learn Tagalog when we were kids, what everyone was saying, but me and Cindy had only just started talking again.

I had said, “Ma’s a motherfucking pimp,” when we were teenagers. We were at a Filipino party, and I had snuck a few too many sips from unmanned glasses of cheap whiskey. Me and her had stood and watched as about thirty young and just imported pinays were showing Ma respect by grabbing her right hand then touching their foreheads with the back of it.

“Shut up,” Cindy said.

“Look at them,” I pointed with my lips – one of the few Filipino traits I possessed. “She’s gotta be their madame.”

“You’re dumb,” Cindy said. She sounded angry.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

Cindy turned away from me. She crossed her arms. Me and her were about the same weight and height.

“Damn,” I said. “Having so many whores is lucrative as shit. Ain’t nothing wrong with being a pimp.”

“You don’t know what you’re fucking saying,” Cindy whisper yelled. “Don’t call them whores. Don’t call Ma a pimp.”

I squared to Cindy. Looked her in brown eyes then said, “They’re whores and Ma’s their pimp.”

Cindy looked around. She snatched up a half-empty can of Budwiser that had been left on one of tall speakers that was behind her. She pulled her arm back before windmilling the aluminum can into the top of my head. Yellow liquid exploded everywhere. I crumpled to the floor. Blood trickled into my eyes. I curled into a ball. I feared that Cindy was going to kick me.

“They just want better,” Cindy yelled. Everything – voices, music, old hands on young asses – stopped. Everyone stared at me. “They’re not whores and Ma’s not a pimp.”

No one had raced to my side. No one had asked if I was okay. No one had said anything when Cindy threw the can at me before stomping out of the living room.

I stopped looking for Cindy when two children raced into Tiya Wowwie’s thighs. I recognized their pale skin and almond eyes that showed that they too had a white father. I looked about the room. I noticed all the other mixed kids eating white rice and chicken adobo and pancit with their hands or being hand-fed by the women who I had called whores so long ago.

More and more Filipinas with their white husbands and American children continued to shuffle into the funeral hall. Each woman showed respect to Ma by walking to her casket, whispering something, before signing the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

At first I had refused requests to send Ma back to the PI. The requests came in the form of handwritten letters, which reminded me of all the early mornings when Ma had sat at her kitchen table writing – in cursived Tagalog – to family in the Philippines. Requests started to come in the form of phone calls, which pissed me off because I didn’t know how so many of the women had gotten my address then my phone number. Each of the calls started with them referring to me as kuya or tito. But them calling me big brother or uncle meant nothing to me.

It was Cindy’s email that had convinced me. There were no warm regards or small talk of our children or an apology for her embarrassing me so many years ago. It was one line, in particular, that had changed my mind: Ma belongs to those who will continue to tell her story. I finally understood why Cindy had kicked my ass at that party and why Ma married girls off to American military men. So, I replied with “Okay” because I knew Ma would have wanted better for herself too. A few weeks later, I signed the docs allowing Ma to be handled and flown to the PI, where she could be buried in her native soil and tales of her pimpdom and those she had saved could circulate throughout her village. 

– James Morena