Why I'm not afraid of white guys
Image from PostSecret
The first two non-Filipinos I made friends with were white guys. They were part of a group of Mormons who went to the Philippines, presumably on mission. They first visited our house one unassuming weekend, and my mother, never to turn away a kind face (or two), served them water (or was it Tang, imported from the US, like our white friends?) and allowed them to enter our home to pray for us. Keep in mind that we live in Pampanga, in a subdivision about 20 minutes away from the Clark Air Base, so seeing tall, white guys was hardly a new experience for my family.
Back then, I didn't understand what it was they were doing in the Philippines. I remember thinking that they were vacuum salesmen by weekday, religious volunteers by weekend. After all, to my innocent mind, what person can subsist on religious bread alone? Plus, they were wearing the same thing my mother's favorite door-to-door salesman wore--white long-sleeved button down shirts tucked into black or gray slacks, a tie and leather shoes. To this day, anyone wearing that outfit is instantly filed in my mind as a salesman or a Mormon missionary--or both.
They came to our house almost every weekend. If you knew me then and know me now, you wouldn't be surprised why their visit was one of the highlights of my week. They didn't offer to take off their shoes like our other guests, but I always thought that was okay because: a) they were "different"; b) they prayed for us. Never mind that I rarely joined in the prayer session because I was too busy taking them apart in my heads: Are they going to hypnotize us and then rob us blind?, was my recurring thought the first time we invited them in. The next few questions were generally more good-natured but equally imaginative intrusive. Where do they live? I wonder if they read, and would they give me books from their hometown if I ask nicely? How do they earn money? Do they have kids? Do they even like kids? And more importantly, what appliances do they sell and is it better than what Francis, the gay salesman, sold my parents the last time he came over?
Like all good men, eventually, they stopped coming. There was no gradual decline in visits--only an abrupt halt in what I thought was a blossoming friendship between a Filipino family and a couple of strange, tall men. At first they missed a weekend, then that single weekend became two... and well, you know how these relationships end. After giving up hope that they were ever coming back, I did my own leaving too. I stopped getting excited and sticking my head out our school bus window whenever I see uniformed white men by the side of the road. As the months grew into years, I forgot their names. Joe, Dick, Harry, Matt--can be one and all of those.
For several years following my Mormon-weekend period, the only white guys I encountered were fictional characters in books and television. But until today, my "spiritual but not religious" self attributes the fact that I don't hold my breath around white people to Misters Joe-Dick and Matt-Harry.
Too bad they don't export Americans like the 90s anymore; they don't sell appliances like Francis did anymore.