I Will Be the One

by Larry Farmer

  “Heard of Milton Friedman?” I returned. “He’s as Jewish and as free market as they come, but liberal in the classical sense, meaning looking for answers through an open mind. Not as some political, left-wing dogmatist.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of Friedman. Nobel Prize-winning Economics professor at the University of Chicago. I studied him and Thomas Sowell, also from there. I had to in order to get my Liberal Arts degree. They’re just up the road from Ohio, you know. I’m surprised you heard of them down South in hillbilly heaven.”

  “I thought I’m supposed to be the narrow-minded bigot,” I scoffed. “Being from the South. All your harping got this conversation going. Studying them isn’t learning from them, and they make sense. They obviously were over your head.”

  “Listen, Mr. Banker. The high school class where I teach will graduate soon. These kids don’t have the slightest idea what they’re facing when they leave school. They just think they’re going to marry and raise kids like their parents did. I want you to talk to them.”

  “About what? Banking?”

  “That you work for a bank and are interviewing them for a scholarship. But there’s a catch. You have one scholarship to offer. Ask them why they are the one worthy. I want to get something through to them. How hard it is in the world. They know poverty, but they don’t know about getting out.”

  “And maybe spend the night at your Nipa Hut?” I hinted. “Like the last time you found an excuse for me to visit your site?”

  She laughed and pushed me away while pretending embarrassment. “Yeah, like every excuse I can think of to get you over to my barangay.”

  “The locals aren’t gossiping about these visits from me?” I asked with a chuckle. “Tsimsis, as they call it. ‘Rumor,’ in English. Scandal, by any other explanation. Aren’t you scandalized when I show up?”

  “The locals are attentive to see if they can detect what we’re saying,” she said. “Or any other noises that come out of my hut. But they understand we’re American. Just like your town does. We’re better than a Hollywood movie to them. So scandal’s not the word they use. ‘Entertainment’ works.”

  “So, kiss me, then,” I dared. “Right here in front of God and the ghost of Lapu-lapu, their great chief that killed Magellan.”

  She stared for a moment, then eased toward me before grabbing my neck and pulling me toward her. Her juiciest kiss yet. I kissed back. Then we embraced tightly and kissed again, not satisfied until sure that what we were doing was scandal to the rest of the carindaria.

  ****

  As much as I thought I was used to poverty, Lois’ village never failed to catch me by surprise. Always some new aspect of it appeared with each visit. Sort of like watching a movie again, or rereading a story. On the visit for the bank scholarship interview, I saw a baby with a bloated stomach from malnutrition or worms. There seemed to be more rotting structures not being repaired. Puddles of filthy drinking water used to bathe in or drink from by a family, shared with a carabao. A poverty beyond anything anyone can grasp. Like trying to fathom what a light year is.

  But there was always the uplifting joy of seeing Lois’ anticipating body leaning out of the window of her Nipa Hut, knowing the jeepney arriving now should be the one with me at this time of day. The look on her face witnessing my arrival and the enthusiastic wave of both her arms directed my way never failed to excite me.

  Almost as a ritual we got her water from the hand pump at the edge of her side of the village. In typical fashion, the village stared out their windows to watch us in a procession of two. Their Americans.

  “Hey, Filemon,” Lois greeted the small friend she tutored as he entered her hut after we returned. The boy smiled. “Supper’s almost ready,” she said before turning back to her skillet. “Tilapia today,” she said describing the menu for supper. She then began talking to the boy in the local dialect.

  He smiled at her and sat himself at her dining room table that doubled as a desk.

  “Have you done your homework?” Lois asked him, using English again as a courtesy to me.

  “I’m having trouble with my math,” he replied.

  “You brought it with you, right?” she asked.

  “Can we do it tomorrow? Or even Sunday? Tomorrow’s Saturday, and we only have school in the morning. I don’t need it until Monday.”

  “Since I have a visitor, that’s all right,” she replied. “The two of us want to chat anyway. After supper, just go back to your parents.”

  “Hello, Mississippi,” Filemon finally greeted.

  “Thanks for having me, Filemon,” I answered politely.

  Filemon was shy, and I almost forgot about him as Lois and I talked. He silently ate from his plate after he sat himself in the windowsill. Quietly he went to the grill for another helping when finished. Putting his empty plate in the sink made more noise than anything else he did. Then he was gone.

  “Why don’t you get him a chair?” I asked her after he left.

  “He has one, but you use it when you’re here. I don’t bring it up because I like you here. I don’t want you worrying about it. You’re not here enough to bother with another chair. I had the same problem when the other boy came to be tutored or eat at the same time. I would just stand while I worked or ate with them. Sometimes one would sit in a windowsill instead. They’re used to it. Kids here are part of a big family. They have to share a one- or two-room shack, with never enough furniture. So half the kids are sitting on the floor, while some get the luxury of getting to sit on a windowsill. At our school there aren’t enough desks in all the classrooms and some of the kids sit in windowsills there, too.”

  I listened and tried to absorb all she said. I remembered kids sitting in windowsills as I rode by on a jeepney at times, or as I walked by a structure. I had thought it was just kids being kids.

  “Where’s your bicycle, by the way?” I asked. “I thought maybe you lent it to Filemon. It’s not chained to your post downstairs.”

  “It got stolen,” she said. “When I came back from a weekend with you the last time, it was missing. The neighbors said that very Saturday night I was gone, the NPA came and took it. Hacked through the post to get it. When the neighbors saw the damage the next morning, they got a new bamboo post and fixed the damage for me. They’re sure it was an NPA raid, but you never know. It happens now and then. They pass through collecting involuntary taxes.”

  “Are you safe here?” I asked her, frowning from concern.

  “Safer than you,” she replied. “You’re all over the countryside. Susceptible to ambush. There’s never murder here. Just occasional theft. Excuse me, tax collection.”

  “Whatever happened to the other one?” I asked. “That other boy you were tutoring besides Filemon.”

  “The older boy?” Lois mused. “I told you how I gave him that money to buy his books and he bought food.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was his attitude about everything. He was smart, maybe smarter than Filemon, but no vision. No sense of sacrifice. I understand hunger. This whole village is hungry. But he knew I would feed him when he came back from town. I think he got excited seeing all the things he couldn’t have here. Anyway, I told him not to bother coming anymore.”

  “Getting to be a hard ass, aren’t you?” I smirked. “You sure you’re not from Mississippi?”

  “Actually, you’ve scored some points with me,” she answered. “I’ve always been a hard ass, to be honest. It takes some of that. I’ve seen what it’s like to not have a chance, what it does to you, to whole groups. I want to give people a chance, but how? I’m quite stuck with these limited resources you keep harping on. There’s an urgency to save the world, but I just don’t have enough resources to do it. Not enough of me, or money, or patience, or supplies, or anything. I’m sick of blaming the rest of the world for what’s lacking here. More and more it’s me, me, me to turn things around here. I have to focus on that.”

  “When did this transformation take place?�
�� I asked.

  “I haven’t really transformed,” she replied. “But something just happened and I’m still stewing over it. So some of your redneck came to mind lately. I don’t necessarily agree, but you did score some points.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Remember that loan the Australian agency gave for that dam project? The one you witnessed and got off to them talking like you about throwing money down a sewer?”

  I nodded yes.

  “I helped get that loan, as you know. It wasn’t much, because the dam they built was a reinforced earthen dam and they used local labor. But it was a lot of money for these people. And their credibility was just about spent, as you recall. They never returned most of the money lent them before on other projects, and the Australians decided they probably couldn’t be trusted. And like with your damned IMF, accountability matters to this agency.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” I mocked. “Even with grant money from rich countries, Lois, resources are limited. And poverty and desperation are worldwide. You have to give it not only to those in need but to those who understand about responsibility and doing what it takes. Otherwise aid barely helps out one time, and then it’s gone. And helping in desperate times has its place, but in most cases you have to worry about a dependency mindset. There’s so much to turn around, and it’s not just material needs.”

  “I went around with the village leaders,” she continued, “and the Australian organization. We went to every single villager affected and had them all but sign a blood oath to pay back the money. Every cent.”

  “Great,” I said approvingly. “That’s what it takes. And follow-through. Y’all talked about that the night I was with you and the mayor.”

  “They got the follow-through, too,” she said. “We collected every penny. The irrigation it provided created an extra harvest. The villagers were so proud. It was fulfilling. I thought of you.”

  Her pause let me know there was an epilogue.

  “We gave the money to the mayor,” she explained further, “who was to give it to the Australians personally. But he pocketed it, I just now found out. He fixed up his house. Even used some for cock fights. I thought he was using money from extra harvests, but it was the loan money we collected.”

  So many of my own experiences were like this, but my heart sank anyway.

  “There was a riot when we found out,” Lois continued, “and they almost burnt his house down. But the final result is, he’ll probably even be re-elected. He’s a Marcos crony.”

  “You’ve inspired me for tomorrow, Lois. Not that I needed it. I’m going to be rough on your students tomorrow. I want to get something through. That’s what you wanted me here for this time, and I’m ready.”

  “So, my dear,” she said, “you’ve got carte blanche. We’re supposed to share their culture and present ours. I think their little horizons are about to be broadened.”

  She looked at me meekly. Approving, but resigned.

  “Lois,” I blurted out to suddenly change the subject. “After the interview with your students tomorrow, I’m going to see Margaret, Rhonda, and Jennifer at their regional capital. I want you to come with me. You have tomorrow afternoon off anyway. And you won’t be crashing our party.”

  She nodded approval and went back to cooking. Her demeanor got more serious by the minute. Suddenly she put down her spatula, turned to me, placed her head on my chest and held onto me for a few seconds. Then just as abruptly she faced me, pulled me down forcefully to her, and kissed me deeply, holding onto the warmth of our tenderness. As if our kiss renewed assurance she needed, she gently laid her head again on my chest, but more as sharing affection rather than demanding it.

  The next morning I had added vigor about the task at hand with Lois’ students. Before last night, the caring for our Filipino extended family was mixed with a sense of duty. Duty to do what we could, as all but insignificant PCVs, trying to turn around a third world setting. But now duty seemed trite. Now there was urgency.

  As I walked with her to the school, I wasn’t hardened as much as determined. I knew what to expect from her students, and I intended to be ruthless. I wanted them to remember their meeting with me for the rest of their lives, and if a real opportunity ever approached them like the one Lois and I were simulating, I wanted them to be ready for it. I knew they would not be ready for me. I was so proud to be from Mississippi. It was more the Mississippi in me than the banker that was going to confront these kids.

  They were so young. Virtually none of Lois’ students would have the opportunity to go to college. It wasn’t just a lack of money; they weren’t prepared socially or mentally for what would await them at a place of higher learning.

  They had a pride about them, though. No matter how poor a family was, they were well kempt. They showered, and their clothes were clean and pressed. Pressed by ironing them with coconut shells and stones. The girls wore cotton dresses, and the boys wore khaki pants and a shirt.

  “Good morning, sir,” the boy said as he entered the classroom alone to be interviewed by me. He then looked over at Lois, who sat next to me as on a panel, and smiled. “Good morning, Lois,” he said shyly. Lois smiled back and nodded, then put on a serious look. The boy immediately looked back at me nervously.

  “Good morning,” I greeted before looking down at his profile to get his name. “June? Is that your name?” I asked. It stands for Junior, I was told. “How are your grades?” I asked him in a businesslike tone.

  “I am passing, sir.”

  “Do you know why I’m here? Do you understand what this is about?”

  “You are going to send me to college,” he replied.

  “No, that’s not it,” I answered sternly.

  Lois said something crossly to him in dialect. The boy squirmed before looking back at me.

  “I represent a bank, and we want to help underprivileged children like you. But we only have one scholarship to offer. Only one. And even then, only if we can find someone qualified.”

  “I am passing, sir.”

  “I see you only make Cs,” I said in a near monotone. “That’s not good enough. It would be hard to find a university that would take you with these grades. Why should I give our one and only scholarship to you?”

  “Because I’m poor, sir.”

  “Everyone in your village is as poor as you. You make only average grades. Is there anything else that might give you an advantage over the others?”

  He squirmed more as he thought. “I am poor, sir. If I don’t get this scholarship, I cannot go to college.”

  “I want to help you, but I have only one scholarship. Can’t you help me out? What sets you apart from the others to earn this one scholarship?”

  “I am poor, sir.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, showing my distaste.

  “I have no money, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said crossly. “I don’t believe we’re interested in you.”

  He looked at me in disbelief. Just like that, he seemed to think.

  The warm smile on the face of the next applicant, a girl, quickly turned uneasy as she saw my serious look and sat down. Lois offered little consolation as the girl glanced at her.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” I asked her as I had the boy before.

  “You are going to give me money to go to college,” she answered predictably.

  “What are your grades?” I asked.

  “I am passing, sir.”

  “I see you only make Cs. Is there anything else about you that makes you worthy of the one scholarship I have to offer?”

  “I am very poor, sir.”

  “Your whole village is poor, and I have only one scholarship to offer. Why should I give it to you?”

  She looked at Lois for support, but Lois remained grim.

  “I am poor, sir. I have no money for college.”

  “If you stay in this village, you probably will stay poor,” I answered her. “I only have one scholarship
to offer in your entire class. What have you done to make yourself worthy over the others?”

  “I am poor, sir.”

  I showed some impatience. “Everyone is. I only have one scholarship. Only one for your entire class. Why should it be for you?”

  “Because I am poor, sir.”

  “I don’t see anything different about you. It won’t be you who gets the scholarship. Can you call in the next student as you leave the classroom, please?”

  She looked at me in disbelief but seemed grateful the interview was over.

  Of the twenty students I interviewed, only four bothered to show reasons they deserved the scholarship. The girl who was to be Valedictorian not only offered good grades but knew what she intended to study and what she wanted with her life once she graduated from college. The determination in her wanted to leap out of her skin.

  “I’m going to talk to one of the universities in my town,” I told Lois as we prepared to leave after the last interview. “They must have something for your Valedictorian.”

  “She has a fire inside of her,” Lois affirmed.

  “Don’t tell her what I’m doing,” I pleaded to Lois. “She reminded me of Jacob in the Bible, like I was the angel Jacob wrestled. She fought so hard to get a scholarship that doesn’t even exist.”

  “It’s called desire,” Lois said as she tiptoed over to give a quick peck of a kiss on my lips. She then hugged me, but in a manner as if to rest from a weary day. “She has so much desire. She’s such a fighter. I will remember her for the rest of my life, with every failure or fear I encounter. I taught her how to speak better English, how to write better essays, and understand pieces of literature she never before came across. But she’s the one who taught me the most. How to win from nothing. She has so much talent, but what I’ll remember is how she’s so determined. The Philippines will prosper someday because of her ilk. Once they get rid of dictators like Marcos.”

  I couldn’t let this opening go and grinned at her as I spoke. “And all his corruption, and the overimposing, prosperity-thwarting, manmade laws that come packaged with a superstate.”