Walang Naiwan: A Manong Reincarnated in the Mountains of Western North Carolina

the manong’s voice
changes from day to day
winter snowfall
sun & moon & stars
a wild spirit gone crazy
from mountain to mountain
 

--From The Wandering Manong by Al Robles

Mang Gio and the author

A manong (forerunner) will always find you. That has been the case for me as it was for my uncle, the late poet Al Robles who wrote of the wandering manong he searched for who were hidden in the landscape—living in shacks, small rooms—isolated in the hilly terrain of San Francisco and throughout California. His poetry sought to remember those forgotten manong whose stories and songs lived in the mountains, streams, and fields.

I moved from the rolling hills of San Francisco to the mountains of Western North Carolina six years ago, boarding an Amtrak train in Emeryville, California. I recall the seismic jolts and quivers as the train passed across the landscape—Utah, Nebraska, Chicago—small and midsize towns. What stands out in my memory is the stop at Denver Union Station. I had struck a rapport with an Asian Indian family. We were 15 or so minutes away from Denver when they suggested we order some take out Chinese food from a local restaurant. I agreed. What would be the most innocuous thing I could order, I thought; something that wouldn’t give me stomach problems on a cross-country trip? I ordered steamed mixed vegetables and steamed rice. How bad could that be? I crunched on the bean sprouts, celery, bamboo shoots, and tender greens, wolfing it down with spoonfuls of rice. The Indian family bid me farewell shortly thereafter, leaving me to nurse a bout of food poisoning that plagued me through the remainder of the trip—Chicago, Washington, DC and not letting up until I hit the unattended Amtrak station at four a.m, in Greenville, South Carolina.

I was now in the mountains; elevation in excess of 3,000 feet. Are there any Filipinos here? I asked. The mountains were silent yet they were there, looming as far as the eye could see. I saw the contours, shapes, and curvatures of those massive parts of the landscape. I could almost feel its breath as my eyes took it all in. Perhaps this new place which has existed throughout the millennia could provide me with a new perspective, a new way of seeing. Not too many Filipinos here, the mountains whispered. The mountains were right; there weren’t many—I hadn’t seen one, hadn’t smelled the smell of sinigang (sour soup) or adobo or seen anyone point towards the Blue Ridge Mountains with their lips.  

Over time I came to find there were things to taste in my new home—fried okra, fried chicken, green beans, and coleslaw—lots of coleslaw. I never liked coleslaw due to my aversion to all things mayonnaise. I ended up working in the deli of a well-known supermarket chain and was introduced to delicacies that included liver mush and white American cheese. I was working the counter one day when a woman walked up and said, “I’ll have a pound and a half of white American.” I’d never heard of it, and, not being a white American myself, thought that this was some kind of racially fueled request. Did those white American slices come in the sizes of mini Confederate flags, I wondered. Turns out that white American cheese is American cheese minus the yellow or orange dye. Then there was Lebanon Bologna, which comes to us from Lebanon, Pennsylvania, not the Middle East. I was taking copious notes on scraps of butcher paper—names of foods to try and those to perhaps avoid. 


I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut, as the old adage goes, and began to realize that “3 C’s” seemed to be at the altar of worship in my new surroundings: Church, Cops, and Cole Slaw.


There were other things I noticed—thrift stores—many of them along stretches of highway alongside churches of all denominations and bumper stickers with American flags with thin blue lines, a symbol of love for all things cop. Of course there were the requisite symbols of patriotism—the flag (American or Confederate), bumper stickers declaring one a veteran or a Republican (or veteran Republican vegan with an honor student child). There were also bumper stickers declaring one as part of the LGBT community or a supporter of Black Lives Matter. At the time, Ahmaud Arbery had been gunned down by white racists in Georgia. I had no misconception about the area of the country I now called home; the legacy of slavery, racism, and violence. Yet most people were polite, courteous, something I rarely encountered in my lifetime home of San Francisco where civility, as far as I was concerned, was close to non-existent. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut, as the old adage goes, and began to realize that “3 C’s” seemed to be at the altar of worship in my new surroundings: Church, Cops, and Cole Slaw.

I kept my eyes out for Filipinos. I’d seen a few. One had a vegetable stand at the local farmer’s market, offering her bounty near Main Street on Saturdays. She ran a small farm with her “American” husband. I bought a few vegetables from her; eggplant I think. We chatted a bit. It was close to October, Filipino American History Month. I was organizing a Zoom event in celebration connecting Filipinos on the West Coast with those on this side of the country. I invited her to be a guest. It would be a beautiful way of linking Filipino American History in agriculture to the present with her work in running her own farm. Unfortunately, I didn’t hear back from her. The event moved forward without her. 

After a year or so of chopping vegetables at local restaurants, I ended up getting a job at a local thrift store. That’s when he walked in, Manong Gio, short for Giordani. He was about 5 foot 3 or 4 with legs slightly bowed, which caused him to wobble when he moved. He browsed and came to the register. Manong, I said before ringing up his purchase. He looked at me. He asked me where I was from. I told him in my limited Filipino that my grandmother was from Bicol and that I was born in San Francisco. We exchanged phone numbers. Before he left he asked me, since I was a cashier, to keep an eye out for 50 cent or one dollar pieces as he was a collector. OK, manong, I said as he left for his home in Edneyville.

 

I found a couple of coins to give Manong Gio—50 cent pieces. He told me he was born in Manila. His father was a survivor of the Bataan Death March. He lived in the Bay Area for a time and had traveled across the country, through Virginia and across time. He survived a triple bypass at the age of 68 and is now 73.  I believe in reincarnation, he told me. “I was here before white people came and stole this continent.” He said the natives of this land had the right philosophy. He said he’d been a samurai in Japan by the name of Koichi Tokagawa. He said he’d also been an Egyptian general and then a Pharaoh. I fought many wars, he said. I reached into my pocket for the coins. I looked at them. They were ancient Egyptian coins that slowly turned into very old coins with Japanese characters. I looked again and they were American coins. Was I going crazy? I handed the coins to Manong Gio. 

I spent more time with the manong who had been a Samurai manong, a Cherokee manong , a manong Pharaoh and now a manong vegetarian. We ate at the Golden Corral buffet where he swarmed the salad bar. He knew which vegetables cured various ailments. Crab apples are good, they fight cancer, he said, adding, “I grow them. I’ll give to you.”

I visited him at his home in Edneyville. In his living room was a pair of Samurai swords.  He fulfilled his promise of giving me crab applies but not before I cleared the thick growth at the side of his home. He gave me gloves and a pair of shears, and I cut through the overgrowth in 85 degree weather; hot weather to me but to the manongs of old, not hot at all. As I cut through the thick growth I heard voices, Filipino voices that said, “He is not a Filipino, look at him, his hands are too soft, they have not planted seeds or scooped rice with his fingers.” I thought about those words. I thought about a trip I took to the Philippines in 2018, to the rice terraces of Banaue. I walked into the valley with my companions. I was told to be mindful, to not to step into the rice paddies. I ended up losing my balance with one leg plunging into a paddy. I then thought of the book, Elvis What Happened, when one of Elvis’ bodyguards described a football game they had with Elvis on a farm where he ended up knee deep in sheep shit. While I wasn’t knee-deep in sheep shit, I realized I was knee-deep in a lack of balance.


I shook my head. I reached into my pocket and pulled out several coins. One was Japanese, one other, Cherokee. I looked for Manong Gio and he was gone.


After I cleared the overgrowth, we ate lunch. He now works at the same supermarket deli I had worked in. He brought two large slices of pizza—hard crust, hard cheese, and all. He then walked over to the wall and pulled a Samurai sword. He handed me a crab apple. Put it on top of your head. The sword, I asked? No the sword, the apple. I placed the crab apple atop my head and the manong drew the sword back. I closed my eyes. I heard a sharp sound cutting through air. Open your eyes, Manong Gio said. I opened my eyes and Manong Gio reached atop my head and presented two perfect slices of crab apples. We’ll take that for our dessert he said. I stood in silence.  

I don’t know if Manong Gio found me or if I found him. Perhaps we met in a past life. Maybe I too was a Samurai or a pharaoh.  

I recently celebrated my 60th birthday. I invited family and friends to celebrate at a restaurant in Fletcher, NC, Manong Gio among us. He spoke of his past lives in the presence of friends that included an atheist, a Christian bishop, a poet, and a former Presbyterian minister. While eating a plate of broccoli and hush puppies, he spoke about a sled dog named Balto who saved people in Alaska by leading sled dogs carrying life-saving medicine. Being the birthday celebrant, I was presented with a lobster and a plastic bib. The lobster looked scrumptious, but I had to wrestle with it as it struggled to get away from me, moving towards Manong Gio, mesmerized by his many tales.   

After the candles on the cake were blown out and we began to depart the restaurant, Manong Gio went to his car. He pulled out a small plastic bag and handed it to me. Watermelon seeds, he said before closing the car door. He then realized that he’d left his keys inside the car. He searched his wallet for his insurance card. My girlfriend, fortunately, had AAA. We waited a little over an hour until AAA arrived. The driver got Manong Gio’s car door open. 

Manong Gio then said, Walang naiwan. Do you know what that means? He asked. I shook my head, no. It means no one left behind. I locked my keys in the car and you did not leave me. Maybe that’s why it happened, so that we could have more time to spend together.  

I shook my head. I reached into my pocket and pulled out several coins. One was Japanese, one other, Cherokee. I looked for Manong Gio and he was gone. I looked out into the Blue Ridge Mountains. I heard a voice call out: Walang Naiwan! Walang Naiwan!  

I got into my car with the seeds that I will plant from Manong Gio. I know that he will find me again.


Tony Robles, "The People's poet" is author of two poetry/ short story collections: Cool Don't Live Here No More-- A letter to San Francisco" and "Fingerprints of a Hunger strike ". Short list nominee for poet laureate of San Francisco in 2017 and 2019 individual artist grant recipient by the San Francisco Art Commission. Currently lives in North Carolina and is working on his first novel.


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