Auntie Lourdes with Tanya

Just over a week ago, for several reasons, I burst into tears over dinner. Earlier that evening, Adam had told me that Francie, the daughter-in-law next door, had said I ask too many questions at the dinner table. Our dinners are usually pretty quiet, and since I love dinner conversations I thought I would ask people about their day. Because many of them are self conscious about their English skills and just want to relax while they eat, I think they wanted me to either speak in Ifugao—which was pretty hard for me at the time—or not expect so much conversation over dinner.

At first I understood. But as I sat silent at the dinner table I suddenly felt as if all the work I’d been doing to try to relate and connect to the family had been worthless—even counter productive. It was an acute reminder that I was different from them, that I’d never completely fit in. It made me miss Matt, my friends, and my family more than I had in awhile. I tried to keep my tears in over dinner, but soon I had to get up from the table and leave. I ended up sobbing in the bathroom and finally went home. Though it was much more complicated, Adam simply told the family that I was homesick, that I missed Matt and my home.

As much as I can’t stand being so far apart from Matt, somehow it seems appropriate given the country I’m living in. I went to find a Valentine’s Day card some time ago. I stood in the aisle looking at my options—most of which were very cheesy cards, there’s not a whole lot of ironic humor here—and I realized that more than half of the cards were “Across the Miles” cards, as in, cards for loved ones far away. It reminded me how many people in this country are split up, mostly for economic reasons. I’ve spoken to countless women and men who have left or will leave their family for a few years to go work abroad and make some extra cash, countless husbands and wives who live in different parts of the Philippines and only see each other every few months at most. “There are not many jobs here,” people tell me as they shake their heads. “We have to find work where we can.”

The night after my crying spell, I sat with Auntie Lourdes at the dinner table. Everyone else had left and the two of us remained there, drinking hot cocoa.

“I’m sorry I started crying at the dinner table,” I said, “I just get homesick sometimes. It’s really hard to be away from Matt, you know?”

She smiled at me, and I suddenly felt like a fool. Auntie Lourdes was in a long distance relationship too. Her husband, Raul, had just left that morning for his teaching post about 12 hours away. He was forced to take the job there to support their four kids through college.

“It is natural to miss him, and it’s good to let your feelings out.” she said. “I miss my husband too.”

“You do?” I asked. I felt like a fool once I said it, but I’d never seen anyone in the family express any sadness.

“Yes!” she said, still smiling, but a little surprised. “Of course! When my Raul leaves I am very sad. But I am more used to it I think. We have lived apart many times.”

She told me about when he’d served in the military, and when he worked on a ship and was only home for three months out of the year. He’d come back for a couple of years, but then moved away four years ago to be the Dean at a military school south of Manila. Now they only see each other once a month at the most. I felt like a fool, listening to her story. I knew that I would see Matt in a few weeks and that after seven months; I’d be with him for good. But for many people here, financial hardship forces them to stay apart for years sometimes. Many of these spouses live in the U.S. but their partners cannot qualify for visas and so they are forced to only see each other every couple of years when the couple can afford it.

“When will he move home again?” I asked.

“When the kids are done with college,” she said with a smile and a shrug. I could see sadness in her eyes.

“Oh, but that will be a in a few years, right?”

“No, there is still Marty,” she said. Marty has three more years of high school and at least four years of college.

My heart fell. “I’m sorry, Auntie,” I said. “That must be so hard.”

“Yes, it is hard,” she said, as she cleaned off the table. “But it is life. It is what we must do to help our children get an education.”

The next couple days, a few of the women friends I made came up and asked me how I was doing. They made mention of me being homesick and I realized that Auntie Lourdes had told them about me.

“Did Auntie Lourdes tell you I was homesick?” I asked Manang Susan.

“Oh yes,” Manang Susan said, holding her hands on her large pregnant belly. “She came by and told me and asked me if I knew what might be wrong. But I told her you were just homesickness—that it was normal and she shouldn’t worry.”

Manang Mayne, the woman who owns my house, said, “Don’t worry, it’s not gossip. We just really value our guests here and she wanted to see if there was anything she could do for you.”

I was touched by this gesture. In the midst of her own sadness, with Raul leaving for at least a month, Auntie Lourdes had gone around and asked about me. It was a good reminder of the strength and kindness of the people here, how even in the midst of their own suffering, they will reach out to care for another.