I would describe our 4’5”, 82 year old Lola as a mix between a Catholic fortune cookie and a female Yoda. She loves to dispense Christian maxims to me and Adam, such as: “If the Good Lord doesn’t wish you to be bitten by a snake, you will not be bitten by a snake,” or “If you are kind and you are good, the Good Lord will take care of you because He loves you.” She says this with an assured nod of the head, and then stands there waiting for the sage advice to soak in. She’s also a big fan of moma, betel nut chewing. After dinner she’ll sit in a chair in the corner with a small tin can lined with a plastic bag. The bag will be a quarter filled with red saliva and chunks of betel nut and Lola will smile as she spits into it.
“I like the moma,” she’ll say, “It makes me happy.” She always emphasizes the last syllable in a sentence, part of her accent I suppose. “I like the moma,” it sounds like. “It makes me hap-pi.”
Sometimes, I can’t get her voice out of my head.
The word lola means grandmother in the Philippines. Most elder women are simply called Lola—even if they’re not your actual grandmother. Adam and I have been adopted by Lola; she calls us her grandchildren. She’s Tanya’s great grandmother as well, but something about her defies typical grandmotherly stereotypes. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes or her blunt communication. Perhaps it’s her passion for moma, an addictive substance—she loves the small high. Maybe it’s her continual energy, or the way she can see right through me. I might have naïve expectations, but I bet that if an intruder somehow got in the house, she’d show us her secret Jedi moves.
The first night we met, Lola told me how her family had to hide in the mountains when the Japanese invaded Ifugao in WWII. They survived off the rice they’d carried on their backs, some greens they collected from the forests, and kamote (sweet potatoes) that they found planted on the hillsides. She’s constantly sharing her stories with us: how she married a mestizzo (half-Filipino, half Spanish), how the rice farming has changed over the years, how she had over five brothers and sisters, but by the time she reached adulthood, she was an only child.
She also told me about a time when she visited her daughter in the States. They told her to just sit around the house and relax during her time out there.
“But I could not relax,” she said. “I had to do something with my hands. I went in the backyard and helped with their fruit trees and I cleaned some clothes. They came home and they said, ‘Lola! Lola! You should not work!’ But I said, you have to keep your body busy or your mind will get old!” Lola said that she eventually came home because she was so homesick. “You have to drive everywhere and people always work there. So many times I was all alone.”
It’s important to her that we laugh a lot. She calls herself “the comic” if she makes a joke, and it’s very important that someone is “the comic” at the table if she’s not in the mood for it. Her spirit has caught on. If Lola’s quiet at the table, I’ll usually make some kind of joke just to make her laugh. “See,” she’ll say, “it is very good that you are the comic, because then we can all laugh and it keeps us young.”
Lola also loves to hamor. Basically this means “to soften” and by this I mean, she loves to soften her rice. The first dinner I had with her I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She had a small cup of Milo (hot chocolate) which she stirred with her spoon. Then suddenly she poured a splash of the hot chocolate on her rice. And then another. I gasped and then started laughing.
“What?” she said, smiling. “What is so funny?” (Lola rarely uses contractions.)
“I just didn’t expect you to do that,” I said.
“Oh? You mean the hamor? I like to hamor. It makes my rice soft so I can eat it!” She laughed again and splashed some more hot chocolate on her rice for kicks. We told her about M.C. Hammer, and his song “Hammer Time.” Somehow our joke about hamor-time got a little lost in the translation.
After dinner, Lola will gesture at us. “Okay, you must rise now so I can leave the table.” She’ll stand up, her plate still glistening with hot chocolate.
“Okay, I will go now, it is time to moma.” She’ll say, and she’ll walk over to the staircase, her small brown legs shuffling quickly. Before she heads up, she’ll turn back at the bottom step and flash us one last smile.
“I like the moma,” she’ll say, “It makes me happy.” She always emphasizes the last syllable in a sentence, part of her accent I suppose. “I like the moma,” it sounds like. “It makes me hap-pi.”
Sometimes, I can’t get her voice out of my head.
The word lola means grandmother in the Philippines. Most elder women are simply called Lola—even if they’re not your actual grandmother. Adam and I have been adopted by Lola; she calls us her grandchildren. She’s Tanya’s great grandmother as well, but something about her defies typical grandmotherly stereotypes. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes or her blunt communication. Perhaps it’s her passion for moma, an addictive substance—she loves the small high. Maybe it’s her continual energy, or the way she can see right through me. I might have naïve expectations, but I bet that if an intruder somehow got in the house, she’d show us her secret Jedi moves.
The first night we met, Lola told me how her family had to hide in the mountains when the Japanese invaded Ifugao in WWII. They survived off the rice they’d carried on their backs, some greens they collected from the forests, and kamote (sweet potatoes) that they found planted on the hillsides. She’s constantly sharing her stories with us: how she married a mestizzo (half-Filipino, half Spanish), how the rice farming has changed over the years, how she had over five brothers and sisters, but by the time she reached adulthood, she was an only child.
She also told me about a time when she visited her daughter in the States. They told her to just sit around the house and relax during her time out there.
“But I could not relax,” she said. “I had to do something with my hands. I went in the backyard and helped with their fruit trees and I cleaned some clothes. They came home and they said, ‘Lola! Lola! You should not work!’ But I said, you have to keep your body busy or your mind will get old!” Lola said that she eventually came home because she was so homesick. “You have to drive everywhere and people always work there. So many times I was all alone.”
It’s important to her that we laugh a lot. She calls herself “the comic” if she makes a joke, and it’s very important that someone is “the comic” at the table if she’s not in the mood for it. Her spirit has caught on. If Lola’s quiet at the table, I’ll usually make some kind of joke just to make her laugh. “See,” she’ll say, “it is very good that you are the comic, because then we can all laugh and it keeps us young.”
Lola also loves to hamor. Basically this means “to soften” and by this I mean, she loves to soften her rice. The first dinner I had with her I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She had a small cup of Milo (hot chocolate) which she stirred with her spoon. Then suddenly she poured a splash of the hot chocolate on her rice. And then another. I gasped and then started laughing.
“What?” she said, smiling. “What is so funny?” (Lola rarely uses contractions.)
“I just didn’t expect you to do that,” I said.
“Oh? You mean the hamor? I like to hamor. It makes my rice soft so I can eat it!” She laughed again and splashed some more hot chocolate on her rice for kicks. We told her about M.C. Hammer, and his song “Hammer Time.” Somehow our joke about hamor-time got a little lost in the translation.
After dinner, Lola will gesture at us. “Okay, you must rise now so I can leave the table.” She’ll stand up, her plate still glistening with hot chocolate.
“Okay, I will go now, it is time to moma.” She’ll say, and she’ll walk over to the staircase, her small brown legs shuffling quickly. Before she heads up, she’ll turn back at the bottom step and flash us one last smile.
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