SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT by Myrna Montera-Lopez

Author's Profile

SHE FOUND HER MOXIE

Myrna Montera Lopez became a nurse because her mother told her so. She was a dreamer who loved reading and writing poetry like her father. He was better suited in academia. Instead, her father entered the Philippine Air Force as a regular airman out of necessity.  

Myrna met and married Dr. Emigdio Alfafara Lopez 42 years ago. They have three children and five grandchildren.

She started writing stories about her life in the Philippines when her first grandson was born. She wanted to preserve the legacy of half of his bloodline. Her hope was for him and the rest of his cousins to read the memoir someday and be proud of their Filipino heritage.

According to her, she was almost manic in her pursuit of her muse when she started her “writing” journey. She became a columnist for Manila Mail US through sheer chutzpah. (Her column, “Sa Atin Atin,” deals with anything and everything. The paper’s website is www.manilamail.us) But ambition and reality collided. She lost her moxie. Three manuscripts: a novel, a memoir, and a book of poetry, languished in re-write hell.  

However, her dream resurfaced and her creative drive with it. When she revisited her early works, her passion and joy in writing were renewed. Something fell on her lap and that moxie persuaded her to run with it. May it bring about the fulfilment of her goals. 

SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT
by Myrna Montera-Lopez

I was a prickly girl who scarcely smiled. That nursery rhyme about girls and sugar and spice? It missed me by a mile. My slugfest with a boy classmate in 5th grade made me a pariah before I knew what the word meant. Wag mo titingnan yan. Boboksingin ka nyan. Don’t look at her. She’ll punch you outright. I was transferred to another school. 

Time progressed, as it must. I learned to curb my truculence (damn, my ribs hurt for weeks.) War paints were put away. Instead, I dreamt of a prince who would someday charm me and make me his princess. But how will he find me? More importantly, will he like me? A teacher once told me I was ordinary. (“You’re not ugly, but girl, you’re not beautiful either.” Pangkaraniwan ka lamang.) I felt invisible. I will show you! I vowed. Just you wait.

I became a nurse because mamang told me so. I could have said no, I wanted to be a doctor. But Conching was a force of nature I was unprepared to challenge. And because I acquiesced, I met my prince, a doctor who swept me to America. I learned to smile at last. Friends say my laugh is irrepressible and infectious. Paths opened and instinct steered me to choose the way. 

Here is the rest of the story.

Mitch left Cebu for America in June 1974. He went to the Evangelical Deaconess Hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Work was intense, he said, but Milwaukee was peaceful and friendly, exactly how we imagined America would be. He wrote a cryptic message, urged me to follow him. It had an “or else” ring to it. So, I did. I was accepted at Beth Israel Hospital in Newark, NJ. The offered salary was $10,000 plus change per year. I was going to be rich, I thought. But I couldn’t afford the plane fare, so I took my first loan, a fly-now-pay-later plan that charged $1,400.00+ for a one-way ticket to Newark. In today’s money, that would be $6,369.90. 

It was bitterly cold when we landed in Newark. My mind was numbed from the long flight. I felt like stale spit from the plane’s maw. Had it only been a day since I said goodbye to my relatives at the Manila International Airport? It seemed a whole barrio came to see me off. I felt like a celebrity with my wide brimmed hat and sunglasses. 

My introduction to America was neither glamorous nor exciting. What greeted me looked like a war zone. Buildings were burned and boarded. I was unaware of the riots that raged through Newark in the summer of 1967. After eight years, progress was slow to arrive, and the scars remained. 

I was ushered to a dark room when we arrived at Beth Israel Hospital. I groped for the light switch and flipped it, but the room remained dark. There wasn't a light bulb. I opened the door and was met by a cold draft. The hall light revealed a sparsely furnished room - a cot with an unmade, uncovered mattress. On the uncased pillow lay a folded white sheet. There was a sink near the door. 

The assistant to the chief nurse, a woman from one of the Caribbean islands, made life unpleasant for us Filipino nurses. We were housed in a building adjacent to the hospital. Assistant jefe made a cruel example of a friend who had called in sick. She walked to the nurses’ dorm, woke my friend, and escorted her to work. An executioner and the condemned came to mind as they passed me in the hall.

Shots startled me one evening. I looked out my apartment window and saw a man sprawled on the ground. A woman screamed. Meanwhile, we were counseled to keep our long hair bound and hidden. Asian women with waist length hair were targeted by an assailant. They suspected a Vietnam veteran, but the no one was caught. 

My closest friend called and asked for my help one afternoon. She was at a bank two blocks away and had locked herself out of her car. Could I come and drive her home to get the spare keys? Before I arrived, she was mugged.

Welcome to America. 

I blamed Mitch for my misery. He must have regretted his suggestion for me to follow him. I had hoped to be matched to a hospital far from Newark. But no other offers came so I accepted the contract with deep reservations. You see, I had a boyfriend before Mitch. We had planned to marry. Even discussed where we would live after we moved to the US. Well, he left me for another woman. His “Dear Jane” letter devastated me. He was from Newark, NJ. The ghost of pangkaraniwan haunted me. 

To be honest, I didn’t like me either. I had not heard of jet lag. It took several months before my equilibrium returned.

Mitch wasn’t about to give up. He won me on a bet which started our courtship in Cebu. He was resolute in his purpose then, he wasn’t going to fail. Period. He was offered a residency position at the Bronx Misericordia Hospital in New York, and he took it. Not only would we be in the same continent, we would be neighbors.

Mitch arrived unannounced at my apartment one Saturday. His visa papers were misplaced by the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS). The hospital director was forced to turn him out. He didn't flinch when I insisted on marriage in exchange for his board and lodging. His papers showed up within two days and he was back at work that same week. I thought to cancel the wedding but was too embarrassed to tell my friends. I convinced the priest to dispense of the banns. (Banns are announcements posted on church bulletins for intentions to marry.) He agreed to officiate on such short notice. He knew me as the girl who sang at the weekly masses at the hospital auditorium. That must have counted for something. 

Mitch had $200. I didn't have two cents to rub together. (Every month, after paying for food, rent, and part of the loan, I sent the rest of my salary to my parents.) My “gown” was a long cheap cotton dress that itched, and my veil was given gratis by the boutique owner. She fished it from her discards at the back of the store. The maid of honor was better dressed and better shod than me.

Mitch bought three long stemmed roses from a flower vendor at Port Authority. My prince was on his way to me and guessed correctly. I had not prepared even a small posy for myself. Five close friends attended our wedding two weeks later. Fr. Finnerty made room for us around the altar at the St. Charles Borromeo Catholic Church in Newark. There was a group of children from the surrounding neighborhood who crashed the ceremony and watched from the front door. Without their giggles and whispers, it would have been a blur to me. When it ended, our giggly “guests” lined up the church steps and handed me wild flowers they collected from their yards. “Where are the rest of your guests?” One girl asked. “Will they be at the reception?” I didn’t know what to say. There was no reception. No other guests. 

“Well, where to wife?” my new husband asked with a big smile. The question confused me. “You made no dinner reservations?” Mitch whispered. I was in tears and babbled apologies as we drove around until we found a diner willing to accommodate our party. The Chinese restaurant was our third try and was only half full. The place was dark, and the floor was sticky from half-hearted attempts at cleaning. The busboys la-la-laed to the tune of “Here Comes the Bride” and clapped their hands in rhythm as we were ushered to our table. The few and grainy photographs of that day were taken by two of our guests. Neither Mitch nor I brought a camera. 

Girls dream of fairytale weddings, full of frills, and thrills, and pomp. Our unconventional wedding was comedic and dirt cheap. We avoided discussing several issues. Our lack of a honeymoon was one. There was also that nagging obligation of informing our families about our marriage. That put my teeth on edge. But like a good Filipina, I shrugged it off for another day. Bahala na. Whatever happens, happens. 

In the beginning, our marriage was rich in love but poor in everything else. I had three difficult pregnancies and one miscarriage. The first four months were brutal because I developed hyperemesis gravidarum. The nausea and the vomiting were relentless. My weight dropped precipitously until I became skeletal at 80 pounds. I was afraid for my babies, but the doctor told me they would be ok. They would take what they needed from me. Our two daughters and our son were born vigorous and healthy.

My first pregnancy prevented me from working. The hospital finally evicted us when I was 8 months pregnant. A resident’s stipend did not afford us luxuries. It didn’t even afford us furniture. In our next apartment we slept on the floor as did the baby. Our prized possessions were a phonograph and several vinyl records from Mitch’s bachelor days. A neighbor took pity and gave us a bed he intended to donate to the Salvation Army. Anna remained on the floor.  

In 1981, Mitch decided it was time to open his practice. It had been 9 years since he graduated from UP Medical School. He had spent those years in training (Milwaukee, Bronx, and Washington, DC) and had since passed the American Board of Internal Medicine (ABIM). He was not burdened by student loans. Instead he had a wife and two daughters, and the bills associated with that. Mitch was determined and focused. I was nervous. But this was a partnership, so “we” would sink or swim together. 

We took a signature loan with usurious rates of more than 25%. We didn’t have a choice. It was the only program that required no collateral. We accepted an offer to share a large office with two doctors. We didn’t even advertise. Our office opened with a whimper. I became my husband’s Girl Friday, juggled wife-ly, mother-ly and secretary duties.

It took several weeks before the phone rang. The woman took one look at Mitch and left. She thought him young and unqualified. That happened several times more. I cried angry tears, but Mitch was unflappable. He took on two moonlighting jobs to keep us clothed and fed. He was tireless and didn’t consider failure. He was convinced our hard work will pay off. And it did. By late 1982, the loan was paid ahead of schedule. Nevertheless, Mitch kept his other jobs and started Saturday office hours as well. My husband’s energy was boundless. How could I not cheer for a guy like that?

However, Mitch abhorred the business side of running a medical office. I became the Lopez Medical Office and Lopez Family CFO. Mitch didn’t even know how much he earned until we went for our annual appointment with the accountant. My priority was the office’ malpractice insurance. No malpractice insurance. No medical office. So that pot was filled first. 

I returned all gifts and jewelry Mitch gave me. I bought clothes from Goodwill. Cut coupons. Learned ways of extending meals. There were no vacations except for drives within a hundred-mile radius once a month. There were times I sent malpractice checks knowing we had insufficient funds. I got down on my knees and prayed. 

Labor was expensive, so I painted the walls, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the bushes, sometimes with disastrous results. There were close calls with collapsed ladders and floors; and near catastrophic incidents with a run-away riding mower, angry bees, and a chainsaw. Mitch joked that my frugality stemmed from my Ilocano blood. Well, at least half my bloodline. Mamang (may her soul rest in peace) was from Dupax, Nueva Vizcaya; Papang from Cebu. I grew up in Batangas. 

My husband was sure if there ever was a divorce, our neighbors would take my side. They saw me do most of the chores, but Mitch held office hours six days a week while keeping the two moonlighting jobs. Lawit na dila ng asawa ko. The poor man was exhausted.

The 1990s were a time of restlessness for me. The office didn’t need my constant supervision anymore. My children were in school during the day. The frenzied pace of the early morning and late afternoon activities bordered midday boredom. I longed for adult activity and adult conversation. 

Dominion Valley Garden Club (DVGC) recruited me. It was a dynamic group that expected much from their members. My tasks were varied which included making centerpieces for club functions, modeling for the fundraiser fashion shows, and submitting designs for flower shows. I won several Blue Ribbons, two of which won Best in Show. That earned me bragging rights and took home the Frances Holmes Trophy.

In a very short time, I became the secretary. The officers were sworn in at the Heart ‘n Hand, a quaint restaurant in Clifton, VA. I was summoned by the guest of honor. She was to install the slate of officers. Her inquiry was spoken slowly, deliberately. “Do…you…speak…English?” I was stunned. “Of course!” I replied. “Well enough?” She persisted. I refused to answer any more of her questions. I went back to my seat. How dare her! I will show you! Just you wait.

Before I became secretary, I was tasked to publish the DVGC Yearbook, our reference guide. It was filled with my original poems and illustrations. It won a national award which placed our garden club at par with the other stars of our state. I also joined the poetry contest created by the national organization. Wildflowers, long regarded as weeds, became the national pet project. Each club submitted poems to their state from interested members. My poem won and was included in the anthology, “The Wildflower.” 

At the celebratory luncheon, the smug woman, the guest-of-honor from the Heart ‘n Hand, followed me to the wash room. “Myrna Lopez!” She called out. When I saw her, my hackles hackled. “Congratulations! We chose your poem to represent us! I was one of the judges.” She beamed and without missing a beat, she continued. “Do you know why? Because it was passionate!” She exclaimed and raised a fist for emphasis. “And did you really make the yearbook? Congratulations on that too.”

She turned to retrace her steps back to the dining hall without waiting for my response. I was left to stare at her retreating back. I wanted to throw something at her. I made a witchy face and yelled my frustration to the ceiling instead. Then I started to laugh. What a self-centered bitch. But the dare she lobbed at me, albeit unintentional, unleashed my passion for writing.

In January 2010, I resigned as my husband’s Girl Friday and started working on several manuscripts and submitted several poems. I also started a blog, deliciousgoosebumps. But ambition and reality collided. Only two poems made it to two separate obscure anthologies. The blog fizzled from my disinterest and neglect. Three manuscripts - a memoir, a novel, and a book of poetry – remained in different stages of “ripeness.” They had been marinating for seven years. Matira sa kanila ang matibay, ika nga. Which of them endures? Time will tell.

In early 2012, I called Bing Branigin, the national editor for Manila Mail US, a fortnightly Filipino newspaper in the Washington, DC area and asked her if the paper would carry my blog on a regular basis. I had not taken any course in writing. What I lacked in journalism education I made up in audacity. I never even entertained the idea of getting rejected. How’s that for chutzpah? I started as a guest writer in February 2012. Two months later Alberto Alfaro, then the Editor-in-Chief, gave me my own column – Sa Atin Atin. (Just Between Us.)

Mitch retired in 2015. We left our comfortable roomy home and moved to a two-bedroom condo. It felt like playing house just like it did when we first kept house four decades ago. It took adjustment. There was no room to hide in a 1200 square foot unit. It was a testament to our commitment. We remained lovers and friends. 

It was a proper wedding after all. It had endured. We celebrated our 42nd anniversary in August 2017. I hope life had been good to our giggly guests.

We have three adult children, two of whom are married. Three grandsons from our oldest daughter, and grand-twins (a boy and a girl) from our younger daughter, complete the Lopez family. For now. 

We finally have time to travel. Mitch lets me lead him to places that take my fancy. And I fancy the world. “I believe you’d even consider a trip to hell if it was offered.” Mitch joked. Well, is that a dare?

I love to dance. I got rhythm. I’m game. I got gumption. And I got enough moxie for two lifetimes. Dare me and I just might re-apply the war paints. I’ll show you what I got.

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