I Will Be the One

by Larry Farmer

  Chapter 13

  In the Philippines, women are considered the most trustworthy with money. Our marketing cooperative preferred giving the proceeds from produce to the wife. Such was the case with loans from our bank, feeling they would use it more prudently for family needs. Because of this, it was the women I talked to in my Samahang Nayon household bookkeeping courses.

  “Every time you go to the store, do not hesitate to write what you spent in your household ledger,” I instructed. “To the peso, even to the centavo. Payments out will go here in the right-hand column. When you receive a payment, it goes in the left column. If you keep track of payments and income, it gives you a better idea where you stand in your household budget, whether you don’t have money to spend, or whether there’s money you may have to buy extra supplies. It helps you keep track of your money situation, what you can afford and what you can’t. Hopefully, you will have savings. If enough savings, then maybe you don’t have to borrow as much. You can tell if you spend too much or if you have money in the black, money more than expenses. Add the left column and find the total, and also the right column. If the left is greater than the right, you have money remaining; if not, you are in the red. You haven’t enough money.”

  I worried about insulting their intelligence, but the purpose of the meetings wasn’t to teach them simple math and simple bookkeeping as much as to get them to keep track of their money in the first place, and to even think of budgeting. It was simple bookkeeping in every sense of the word. The simpler the better, in order to build their confidence so they could do it easily, and that they should.

  “Can you sing for us again before you leave?” a middle-aged woman asked me as the meeting broke up. She, like the other women in attendance, bothered to dress up, wearing simple cotton dresses, pressed, and clean.

  I automatically brought my guitar to any meeting I attended anymore, because I felt awkward singing a cappella, and I always got asked to sing. I now looked forward to being asked.

  “I learned the words to ‘Whispering Hope.’ Here I notice you often use it as a Christmas song. Back home, people sing it in church all the year round. Beginning September, Filipinos sing Christmas songs already. It’s not September yet, but I’ll sing it now.”

  “Oh, thank you,” many said enthusiastically. “It is a favorite.”

  I loved gospel music, even though I’m Jewish. I even loved that Mississippians were so religious. Though a bit too dogmatic at times, especially about how the Jews were displayed as legalists in the New Testament, and how Jews killed Jesus. But I found Christian services easily moving, and it created a spirit I appreciated, too. There was a lot of crossover in Christianity and Judaism, I determined. I closed my eyes, at times, and forgot there was a difference when I could.

  The next day was a Saturday, and I went to Lois’ village to work with one of the farmers of the Samahang Nayon on the use of the fertilizer distributer that was made especially for this cooperative by IRRI staff. With the extra irrigation from the earthen dam, and now better use of fertilizer, we were expecting even higher yields in the rice harvest. I wanted to check out the status. Maybe check out Lois’ status, too, I had to admit.

  I also had tilapia fingerlings for one of the farmers and his small backyard fishpond. The family tended to eat the tilapia at such a young age it was hard to breed them. A tilapia got as big as your hand in four months, and that was the age they began to reproduce. But hardly any were left by then, since this family insisted on constantly raiding the pond. After the first month, these small young fish were scooped up in fishing nets, even though they were only a few inches long at this stage of development. The family would catch them, boil them, and eat them like we would eat ears of corn back in Mississippi.

  Lois was preparing supper by the time I arrived at her hut. Filemon studied at her table as he waited for his meal.

  “I already brought my water in for the day, Mississippi,” Lois said as a greeting while I climbed the bamboo ladder to her living quarters. “Do you mind fetching with the five-gallon jugs before the sun goes down?”

  “No ‘Hello’ or ‘Love you, darling’?” I teased her. “You sure are taking our relationship for granted, it seems to me.”

  “Oh, shush, my darling, love of my life,” she teased back.

  She turned toward me, tiptoed, and planted a dramatic kiss for emphasis on my lips, then handed me the containers and shushed me back out the door.

  “Hello, Filemon,” I said as I went back down the ladder.

  “Hello, Mississippi,” he returned, smiling.

  It was the first time I fetched water for her on my own. But I knew my way by now. The feeling of acceptance, even being taken for granted by Lois, felt good too. I loved being at this stage of our relationship. It felt comfortable.

  Filemon was gone by the time I arrived back with her water. Lois had just finished rewarming our food when we heard a noise outside. It sounded like chanting.

  Lois shook her head as she walked with our plates to the table.

  “Sit down,” she said, “I’ll explain.”

  The chanting got louder, and now it was coming from all sides of her Nipa Hut.

  “They are lovely people.” Lois sighed. “That’s how you start a sentence before you say but. But.”

  As the chanting continued, she grimaced before continuing her explanation.

  “I told you,” she said, “that for my security, me being alone, white-skinned, and a foreigner, people wander in and out of here all the time. But it’s more than that. They are very nosy. I used to leave my hut open even when I left. All the time, in fact, except when I board up to go to sleep. I have things I don’t want stolen, but mostly I trust them, especially since I’m their guest. They respect guests. Except for minding their own business. Nobody was stealing anything from me, but it turns out they were going through my things. Just to check me out. Not even for drugs or illegal things. Just to find out things about me. What kind of clothing do I have, what kind of pictures. What kind of books.”

  She took a bite of her food and purposely chewed in a pronounced way. As if to relieve tension.

  “They went into my personal trunk, which is under my hammock,” she said, stabbing at her food with her fork and sneering while she spoke. “They found some of my Eckankar books, which I had placed among my clothes. Knowing everyone here was Christian, and with our PCV pledge to keep our own beliefs silent, which I fully agree with, I never left my non-Christian books lying around for anyone to stumble upon. However, they snooped on me, and after finding them, the lady two houses down told me she didn't want non-Christian practices in her village. I agreed to put aside my spirituality while I live here so as not to distress anyone. Which means inwardly putting it aside since I do nothing outwardly anyway. I can handle that because I get to fly out of here someday. Meanwhile, some of the families that you hear below us now, and around us, get together occasionally in the evening and hold a prayer group where they pray out loud that I be released from Satan and his demons, because that was how they interpreted the books. Right now, as we eat, they are trying to exorcise away the evil demon of Eckankar. That’s why you hear the chants now.”

  She put her fork down temporarily and looked at me.

  “You’re here now too with me,” she sighed. “Some of the prayers are for you. Not for our sinful ways, sleeping together in sin, but because you are Jewish. A non-believer doomed to hell. A Christ-killer.”

  “Reminds me of parts of Mississippi,” I said. “At least Lola doesn’t do that.”

  “Are you sure?” Lois asked. “Have your language skills picked up? Every night she has a Bible reading with the college girls in the living room. At least when I’m there. And then they pray. They always end their prayers with a prayer for your Jewish soul not to go to hell. She is the most loving, kindest person, and she does her prayers for you from love, but she prays for your Christ-killing soul, Mississippi. Hope I didn’t pop any bubbles with that revelation.”<
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  “I can handle that,” I said. “She means well. I’ve had worse in Mississippi. Not everyone prays for my soul. Some still believe in the Crusades. But I thought you were Quaker, Lois.”

  “Let me update my spiritual resume with you,” she replied. “In Cleveland, I was loosely involved in Eckankar, which is an Americanized system of meditation based on Indian Sikh philosophy and the offshoot system called Sant Mat. What attracted me to it was how it exploded the small box of spiritual consciousness that I learned from Christianity. Although I never really belonged to a Christian church, nor have I been baptized, I began a spiritual search when I was twelve years old, and researched the library through a number of Christian writers, with emphasis upon the mystics. I was an unusual child. My mother was afraid I’d run off and join a cult. Anyway, something always kept me from joining Christianity—something about it just did not sit right with me. The closest I came was Quakerism, and when asked what church I belong to, to avoid complications, I always say Quaker. I realize there are many good, sincere people. I don't have a problem with any of that. I just would like the simple courtesy of being left alone. Like you do for me. I can talk to you. Even non-religious friends think I’m weird for any of this, if they find out. They think it is a cult. Not going to hell for it, just not sane for it.”

  And on that note from Lois, as if on cue, the chanting stopped. We spent the rest of the night recovering in the silence. I helped her wash dishes, we read, we showered, we went to bed.

  Lois and I had our own cultural exchange going on, too. Each night together we would lie snuggled and bring up a topic to discuss: Her more liberal view versus my conservative one. It was akin to negotiations of a contract. If we didn’t find a respectable common ground, we might not be in the mood to make love. We had to ply our views gingerly or risk our ultimate reward being denied.

  “The counterculture,” she explained while we cuddled facing one another in her hammock in the dark, “has to renounce gross materialism and consumption. We need a green balance if we intend to survive. If the human race wants to commit suicide, it doesn’t have the right to take down the entire planet with it.”

  I could feel my blood beginning to boil. Calm down, I told myself. I had to find a way to get my side out, but this get-back-to-nature naïveté jerked my strings. I took a breath and thought before I responded.

  “Okay, Lois. In Judaism and Christianity, we have these primitive paradise origin stories. A lot of religions do. How there was paradise in the beginning and peace with God. Then sin happened, and now we have exile until we work our way back. But even when mankind was small in number, and material wealth as we know it today was unheard of, both people and animals were dying. Dinosaurs ate other dinosaurs, mammals had a food chain, man came along and raped and pillaged other tribes. In our genetic makeup we have instruction to survive. Survive for the sake of life. The species must continue. It’s up to the individual to survive for the sake of reproduction, and for the group to survive, too. So we have to find ways to protect ourselves, even to thrive. In our genetically influenced psychological makeup we are given a huge leash in managing our affairs. If we feel threatened, genetic instruction—or at least genetic persuasion—comes out in us. But we have our social cues, too, influenced directly or indirectly by our DNA.”

  “There you go again, Mississippi. Get to the point. I don’t wander all over the place on you. Are we going to make love or not?”

  “Am I just supposed to give in to you and make you happy and get serviced?” I asked, showing frustration. “Don’t you want our reward enough for us to earn it? Our little talks aren’t going to accomplish much if I just give in to you, you know.”

  “Get to the point for my sanity, then,” she whined. “I’m not trying to cut you off. I want to make love too. But you’re turning me off with all this philosophical meandering. Is it the Jew in you?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll cut to the chase, Lois. The whole universe is a mixture of survival of the fittest. Not by one element killing off another, but strength overcoming weakness. Including by inclusiveness and cooperation. But dog eat dog gets in there, too, if cooperation fails. There are more people on earth now. We seem to have more security and physical betterment, as in more goods, but we’ll always have infinite wants. More joy from more food and more entertainment. These people we’re with right now in the barangay slash and burn and pollute the air.”

  “They’re trying to just survive,” she explained.

  “Yeah, survive as an individual, as a family, and as a society. And polluting the earth as they do so. And eroding it. That isn’t very green, you know. You act like the industrial world is just this great unjust, blind, rape-the-earth machine. That happens. And other species do it, too. Then on top of that, there are tornadoes and volcanoes, and tsunamis from the volcanoes.”

  “Corporations on Lake Erie just dumped their chemicals into the lake,” she countered. “It got so bad Lake Erie caught fire right there near where I grew up. Corporations are out for themselves. They are greedy and malicious, and the rest of us be damned. They want everyone to work for nothing, and they fire and outsource. My daddy lost his job so they could hire cheaper people in Mexico.”

  “He was part of a union, and it collectively bargained for wages higher than market value,” I countered.

  “Don’t come at me with this tripe, Mississippi. I want to forget this side of you.”

  “Don’t forget it. Listen to it.”

  She jerked away. “Aaaaahh.”

  “Your daddy is equal in the sight of God and the constitution, but not equal as an economic element,” I continued. “The marketplace is indifferent, my sweet, naïve darling. That’s why idealists hate it. But put your idealism to better use. Work with what produces in this material plane we live in. Because this is how we physically survive. As economic elements. You just look at a corporation as some fat, greedy, selfish cat. As indifferent. It’s struggling in the same world you are.”

  “That’s what they are,” she sneered. “Fat, greedy, and selfish.”

  “They ain’t rich when they fail. They have to compete.”

  “They need to have a heart. They need cooperation for the species to survive, you said so yourself.”

  “They have to survive, and it takes cooperation as well as competition. If they don’t make the best product for the lowest price, someone else will, and the consumer, who also wants to survive and prosper, won’t buy his piece of junk for that price. No wonder you live in the rust belt, Lois. Nobody gets it up there. The automakers in Detroit used to have planned obsolescence with their cars, purposely making them to wear out quickly, so we’d have to buy another one.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she snapped back. “Corporate greed. And they didn’t pay their workers diddly-squat while they did all that.”

  “Because of collective bargaining, they paid their laborers more than their economic value.”

  “You are a barbarian. And boring.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m not the one who started buying German and Japanese cars. The American consumer did. Or Japanese steel instead of steel from Pittsburgh. The American consumer did. Once competition entered the formula, our automakers, and our steel mills, and our broom factories, started losing out. They were paying their laborers too much to make an inferior product. Managers and investors had to give up cheating us with planned obsolescence and make a good, if not cheap enough, product. Our consumers chose something else until satisfied. I didn’t, the rest of America did. You probably did. When we go to the market and shop I don’t see you taking the flimsiest and most expensive barrio buster. You shop to kill.”

  “These corporate executives sure make enough money,” she said. “They make millions, while the little guy barely gets by. And you’re taking up for all that.”

  “Well, the small guy doesn’t make the company run. The small guy shows up and puts lugs on a wheel, or does the accounting or engineering, and has jo
b security while doing his small share. The engineers make more than the welders by the way. I wonder why. Welders are important but they wouldn’t have much to weld if the engineer wasn’t smarter and doing a more important job. So there. This fat cat CEO you hate makes sure the company doesn’t go bankrupt. This job security thing you take for damn granted. The fans in the stands don’t come to see me quarterback the San Francisco 49ers, they come to see Joe Montana take the 49ers to the Super Bowl and win the championship. He’s worth his money. If not, they fire him. Same with chief executives. They’ve got a company to run, a product that better get built and sold, and a nice hefty profit made for all the workers, the investors, and the governments that tax them into oblivion.”

  She just lay there. I could tell she wasn’t listening. She was hating my guts.

  “With competition,” I continued, “the corporations had to make a better product, and they had to make it for less, or the consumer, you, wouldn’t buy it. If they don’t hire Joe Montana, who charges a high price, they don’t win the Super Bowl. And there is a huge difference in Lake Erie now. Competition and technology cleaned it up.”

  “Yeah,” she came back, “after a law was passed to make them.”

  “If you share a resource, you don’t treat it the same way as if you owned it.”

  “You’re suggesting corporations should buy Lake Erie. They’d take good care of it then? Yeah, right. Ha.”

  “They’d take better care of it than just dumping chemicals in it and letting it die and not have water to drink or fish in. They’d be more responsible about it.”

  “Tell it to the Marines,” she bit out.

  I squirmed. “I admit that if their major concern was a cheap dumping ground and they had access to other sources of fresh water, Lake Erie might seem expendable to them. To the detriment of both us and Mother Nature. You got me on that one. Half got. My principal has some merit. It doesn’t always work out, though. I am generalizing a bit, I admit. I know there have to be some laws, but speaking of greed—give a politician a cause, and the next thing you know you’re so lawed up the fish can’t use Lake Erie, either. Anyway, I’m just saying people take care of what is theirs better than they take care of what is collectively shared. In general. So if we have to share a resource, we have to pass a law to protect it equally. And empower our governments while we do it. And those governments are no paragon of virtue, like I just mentioned. With technology, though, we were able to reduce pollution in the air. We’ll find more solutions as time goes on, unless we resort to living in caves. Going back to the slash and burn they use here isn’t the answer. Because people are going to instinctively survive, as genetically induced, no matter how many laws you throw at them. With a better economy, we voluntarily reduce our family size, increase our education opportunities, and find other things to do than just plant and hunt and fish. You act like only the rich are greedy. Everyone wants betterment.”