May 12, 1984
To the Parent-Teacher Association Moms of Alamo Elementary School:
Yes, you may pick your jaws off the squeaky, dusty basketball court hardwood now. Oh, don’t think I didn’t see it all: the eyes flying over to me like a seagull when I opened my mouth to cheer for my lovely daughter singing onstage, the tide of confusion crashing upon your made-up faces, the gulp you had to stifle to paint an expression saltier than San Francisco Bay. Nevertheless, yes, you heard correctly indeed: contrary to what you had pre-conceived of a petite, moon-faced woman born in Southeast Asia, I do speak English, and yes, well enough to pen this letter to you. Ha!
Don’t try to deny what happened backstage at the school’s Spring Student Showcase either. Yes, that incident. You know very well that my Lucy --- with eyes scintillating even more than the sequined performance dress she had on --- handed your tykes ube*-flavored crinkles, a type of cookie from my homeland of the Philippines, whilst everyone was preparing for the show. (Yep, that’s just how she is. She’d feed an amoeba in our peninsula's waters if she could.) How impossible it was to miss how your kids leapt over to her, arms extended like a bridge over two shores, to grab a treat…only for you to swipe it off their tiny hands, your eyes narrowing into slits, thin as a cable, while you stared at my sobbing little girl and me, fuming.
Then, just as I was about to let the wildfire in my heart blaze on out of my mouth, I observed it: twenty crying kids looking at each other, nodding, and stretching their limbs to grab the pastries from your raised hands. I could only guffaw as you helplessly watched the very same youngsters you had programmed put the cookies in their cavernous mouths and let their faces melt into a smile as they lost themselves in the fog of satisfaction. Oh well, I guess. At least, I had a good laugh.
I know. None of that matters to all of you. In your eyes, the child I love, that I coded into existence with my lithe body the color of the fertile, rice-growing earth, will always be an “experiment in genetics” (Yes, I heard you gossiping). In your mind, my blackish almond eyes and my slightly bent sienna-jacketed passport with an unfamiliar crest will always be but stains in the pristine, picture-perfect sheets that help you sleep at night. No matter which way the wind from the bay blows, to you, Lucy and I are invaders of your white picket fence world that somehow managed to sneak past the city walls. You other us simply because of our complexion, simply because my birth certificate belongs to a different nation a continent away, because the façade is too dissimilar to yours for you to explore what is inside.
However, it goes without saying that I’m more than just a flesh of bronze skin and a peculiar accent that sometimes stumbles like a baby on which syllable to emphasize in certain words. Yes, it’s true that somewhere in the archives of time, my story was set in Manila, in another metropolis by an inlet, so much like the city we live in. I come from a burgh where residents swoon in restaurants on dates with their partners, where families laugh as children run around a park, where regular Joes live and breathe… just like this slice of California we call home. See, we aren’t poles apart now, are we? Ah, the wonders you discover when you not only make a stopover in someone’s self islands and choose to walk in the streets, so to say.
So now, I extend to you an invitation. Look, I’m not expecting you to be immediate friends with me; I just want you to understand. I’ve heard it said that some towns are great places to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there. Well, I hope you do not apply that little adage to people, to me.
Perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know that I actually had a blossoming career in advertising before having to nip it in the bud to come to your shores. You’d find out that once upon a time, I donned crisp pantsuits and stilettos for my prestigious desk job, not a uniform for the Holiday Inn. You’d hear that I conceptualized campaigns that would be blasted onto screens in an entire country. Instead of working in a hotel, I stayed in them whenever I went on vacation in some new locale, either in the Philippines or elsewhere in Asia. Yet, I gave it all up for a one-way ticket to California. I said goodbye to that cushy life, to my family and friends, because of a dream that required letting go. I was more than willing to make the sacrifice this land you were born to imposed on me for a new life, for love. If you paid more than a visit, you may find determination in the foundations of who I am.
Perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know that, unlike what I’d deciphered in your not-so-hushed whispers, all I want to do whenever I see Charlie is to hold him, not his bank card. You’d realize that ours is a typical romance; --- guy meets best friend’s cousin on vacation, they develop feelings for each other --- it’s just that our places of origin just happen to be on opposite coasts. You’d observe how even as our longing for each other’s touch stretched as wide as the yawning Pacific that once separated us, we endured, exchanged letters and trinkets to have a piece of each other, relished every tear of joy at every airport reunion, made sure our love lasted more than a summer. Then, you’d feel the frustration of constantly having to prove the validity of our affection, --- to immigration officers, to check-out lady at the supermarket, and --- yes --- to you. If you paid more than a visit, you may find that real love is in the air for my husband and me.
Perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know how delightful our little Lucy is. When she came out of me, Charlie and I stared at this magical being with his hazel eyes and my dark waves and marveled at how she came to be --- the best of East and West, the best thing to happen to us. You’d beam as she charms you when she sings made-up melodies to her doll collection, as she curtsies like the princess she is every time she meets someone new, as she gives the most heartwarming hugs. And maybe, just maybe, you’d finally consider the lovely medium brown of her skin as beautiful, as worthy. If you paid more than a visit, you will find that my daughter is not the aberration you think she is but a bright star, much like your own children.
Most of all, perhaps, if you paid more than a visit, you’d know that I’m just like you, that all these borders you think exist between us are only, well, skin deep. You’d notice that I bump into you at Giants games and in line to buy theatre tickets. You’d wave when you spot Charlie and me trying out the latest restaurant in Chinatown. You’d comprehend that just as you do, I laugh, I cry, I worry for my family, I exist. If you paid more than a visit, you may find common ground with me --- even if my own.
Yes, it’s true; my tale is that of two cities on opposite ends of an ocean. However, it is also a story of love, of passion, of laughter, of tears ---just as valid as yours. I’m as valid as you. All I’m asking is for you to read a bit of it to understand.
Hey, if you’d like, I’d throw in free ube-flavoured crinkles to sweeten the deal. The purple isn't too lurid, I promise.
Always proud of the story she weaves,
Sandra Dickens
*Note: Ube is a Filipino dessert made out of mashed purple yam, milk, and butter. It is a popular flavour for cakes, pasties, and candies.
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78 comments
Beautiful story Alexis. It made me feel, angry, frustrated and moved in equal measures. I loved the way you described the children.
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Thank you so much, Helen ! Like I mentioned in other comments, writing a story about immigration and living in a diaspora immediately came to mind when I first saw "A Tale of Two Cities". Yes, indeed, it is very infuriating when people judge others, especially if it's based on something as superficial as skin colour. Glad you liked the descriptions and the story ! I always appreciate your support. Thanks for reading this !
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Wonderful story. As a Manhattanite living in a very integrated area, you reminded me of the shock my children had when summering in Staten Island when we hosted a sleepover Birthday party for my son. His friends from school, a rather mixed group, arrived and the looks on our neighbors' faces was unbelievable. Not one of them allowed their children to attend the party. In fact, one of the fathers came knocking on my door and said, "We can't believe you invited those children to your party. Now my kids can never swim in your pool." This was 19...
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Oh my ! That's terrible, Beverly ! I'm so sorry that happened to your son's friends. Like I mentioned to Kaitlyn, a lot of my Mum's side of the family is spread out abroad. I, myself, am very mixed (Although, it's a very different and long-winded story from other Eurasians in the Philippines.) Thank goodness, none of us have experienced this level of discrimination. However, I have heard from my relatives that they have friends in other towns and cities who have. Very infuriating how some people judge others based on their skin colour. Th...
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Love your story and learning your real name! Some people will always always always judge looking for differences rather than similarities. Thankfully not everyone :)
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Hahahaha ! Hi, Hannah ! Yep, I decided to use my real name, finally. Hahahaha ! Precisely that. I'm just happy that kind people who accept everyone exist. Thanks for reading, as usual. Glad you liked it !
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SNAP! Bravo once more. I like this lady. Did you mean crinkles at the end, the Ube flavored ones? Lame CC. HA!!!
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Hahaha ! Thank you so much for always commenting and reading my stories. Yep, I loved writing Sandra into existence. She has a bit of me in her when my patience breaks (and it takes a lot to break it). Glad you liked it ! I always appreciate your support !
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We still live in a world full of prejudice and your story has played out so many times before. Between rich and poor, brown and white, learned and those uneducated. Wonderful message. Just today realized you have a new penname, Stella. Rolade Berthier, an author in Reedsy, (She hasn't written here for ages) was born in the Phillipines, from a Spanish mother and native Filipino man, educated in Australia, met her French husband in Oz, and has lived in France for years. She has told me a lot about the Philipines and its history. Incredible pe...
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Firstly, that is not a pen name. I finally decided to just use my real name on Reedsy since I've been using my real name in other competitions anyway. Surprise ? Hahahaha ! A lot of my family have immigrated abroad --- either to Oz, London, or the US. Thankfully, none of them faced issues like the one I described. However, there are some places where discrimination like this is still prevalent, even in 2024. I think as a citizen of a country with a very large diaspora, this is an important story to tell. A diaspora story was indeed the firs...
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Beautifully told story. 🌟Nice new 🖊️ pen name.
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Thank you so much, Laurie ! Glad you enjoyed this. Oh, and that's not a pen name; that's my actual name that appears on all my identity cards (well, almost. Alexis is what you would call a middle name. My first name is terrible. 😄)
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Well, it's nice to meet you! Your work is wonderful you should publish it under your own name. ❤️
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Thank you ! I feel confident enough to use it now ! ❤️
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I lived in four countries so far but never had bad experience like this. But I can understand feelings that she expressed in letter. Nice work.
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Thank you ! I suppose it all depends on how welcoming the people in an adoptive country is. There are those who welcome immigrants with open arms; there are those who shun them. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment, Darvico !
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Such an important message. Expertly told! Loved the format and the MC's voice. 💪
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Thank you so much, Melissa ! Like I told Daniel, I knew I had to do immigration and diaspora when I saw the prompt. I'm happy the way I told this story was effective. Glad you liked it.
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Great story, great writing, great message! I loved it!
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Thank you so much, McKade. Glad you liked it !
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I love that letter so much I'm hoping there's a tad of reality behind it. I can imagine the "class mom's" {yes, I have had my run-ins with them in my day} standing together reading her letter, eyes wide, mouths hanging open, pearls clutched! I enjoyed this because it is so relatable.
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Hahahaha ! I could just imagine. Thanks for reading, Myranda. When I saw the prompt, I knew diasporas was something I wanted to talk about. Glad it worked !
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Excellent example how we judge without knowledge. The letter format worked, made it more personal. Great story, Possibly painful to write.
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Precisely that. The fact that so many people get unfairly mistreated simply because the colour of their skin and their passport don't match that of their adoptive nations is saddening. Thank you for reading and for commenting, Trudy !
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This was fantastic! I think it shines a light on the bias of where people come from and how no one should be judged based on that or how they look. We all come from different places and have cultures that shape who we are. I loved that this was written in letter form. My favorite line was: "I could only guffaw as you helplessly watched the very same youngsters you had programmed put the cookies in their cavernous mouths and let their faces melt into a smile as they lost themselves in the fog of satisfaction." - Brilliant
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Hey, Daniel ! Glad you liked this ! As I mentioned, this was one of two ideas that came to me with the prompt, both of them centred on the immigrant experience. Funnily enough, before this week's set of prompts, I wanted to challenge myself in writing my own diaspora story (Side note: I love diaspora literature. Some of my favourite novels focus on the clash that comes with living in two cultures simultaneously.). Glad I got to do it. I love using the epistolary format. I think when used in very emotional pieces, it makes a tale more punchy...
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I'm glad you got to write this beautiful story. It was amazing!
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Wow an angry letter between two cities, carried so much more weight and emotion than a simple tale. Great work.
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Hi, James ! When I saw the title, I knew I had to do some diaspora literature (one of my favourite genre of novels, by the way). Of course, it's got to have a bit of bite. To be treated as subhuman simply because of the colour of your skin or your passport will most certainly leave you wanting to fight to be..well, you. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment !
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You know it’s a good story when you’re getting angry on the character’s behalf. This is so beautifully written. Everything Sandra says comes from a place of deep love— a mother’s love, a wife’s love, and one’s own love— and I will always adore the characters who will set fire to the world in the name of love. This is a powerful piece. I don’t think I can properly express how much I love this and the exact emotions I’m feeling. This is a work of art and somewhat therapeutic to read, for lack of a better term. Fantastic job, Alexis! I wish I c...
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Oh, unrelated, but I just realized you changed your name from Stella to Alexis! For some reason (well, okay, maybe it’s because I’m bad with names), that didn’t register for me until I was looking at the stories by you that I’ve already read. Sorry!
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Oh my goodness, Fern ! Thank you so much for the praise ! You have no idea what it means coming from a writer whose stories I just adore. Like I said in previous comments, my mind immediately went to diaspora literature when I saw the prompt. I'm happy you felt the love Sandra felt for her family and her culture, the same one the other mums were belittling. I have to admit I put a bit of myself in her; sometimes, as a mixed race person with parents that brought over some of their time in Europe in the way they raised me, I do feel like the...
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Ah, I figured as such with the name, saying as I no longer see the comment in your bio about someday revealing your real name. I guess it was revealed sooner than I thought, haha! It love that you were able to put a piece of yourself into your writing. It makes for a deeper connection to the characters when you’re able to do that. Sandra’s love-filled anger just jumped from the page!
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