“Capitalists of the World UNITE!”

I took a survey that was included in the textbook I was using for my Business and Management class. It was as unscientific as it gets. In as little as 12 questions, the survey claims to measure my level of entrepreneurial spirit. Some of the questions were odd, like one if I liked spending time alone as a child and if I was a “first-generation American” (a what? How do you measure that?). But one of the questions was I thought right-on. It asked if I ever engaged in an enterprise as a child. Though, it actually asked if I had started a lemonade stand or had a paper route. I scoffed when I read the question. “Lemonade stand? How conventional!”

It was in 3rd grade when I was first bitten by the capitalism bug. At that time, I always carry to school home-packed lunch and a large juice container that contained the only liquid I am allowed to ingest while in school. My aunt was very protective and had prohibited me and my sister from drinking the water piped into the school. (At home, she would have my godmother purify the water using a purifier and then boil it before we can drink it.) Since this was in the Philippines and I guess my Kool-Aid drink was considered special or novel (made in the USA!) by my classmates, I would always get requests from my classmates if they could have a sip. I would pour them half a cup (my juice container included a cover that doubles as a cup) and they would sip to their heart’s content. After a week or so of that, my aunt found out that I have been giving away my drink. I got scolded and told to refuse any future requests for “sips.” The next day, I again received requests. I refused, they pleaded, I refused, they pleaded again, and I refused again. But then something happened. One of them offered money for a sip! And soon, all joined! 2 pesos for half a cup of my delicious Kool-Aid. Being the greedy child that I was (I was too young to have an allowance), I agreed and started to charge. Word got around that I was selling my juice and soon it took only the morning for me to run out of something to drink. It happened. I became a juice pusher.

My aunt found out again, of course. She always did. I could not keep anything from her. She knew where I sat in class, who I talked to, who I hanged out with, any misbehavior that day… Except this time her reaction was a bit different. She looked me in the eye and asked if I had been charging for my Kool-Aid. Knowing full well it was futile to lie, I told her the truth and said that I was. She laughed.

My stint as juice pusher ended when my bitch of a 3rd grade teacher started to sell Hi-C juice packs in class. My business went under immediately after that. It was not, however, my last attempt at enterprise. When I was in 4th grade, I started a service called “Kid-o-Gram.” I got the name from a show, but the services I rendered was very different. Instead of just delivering letters, I had a letter-writing service!

A capitalist pig. Art by Jayel Aheram.

It started out because my sister and I collected stationery. We would sneak into Rona’s (a school-supplies store) before and after school and indulge ourselves with unique stationery. My favorite was this very fragrant stationary with rose designs. Anyway, my collection grew and wanted to do something with it. So, I had a lot of assets” just nothing to do with it! The whole thing started out as me writing love letters for students to their objects of affection. I expanded to include letters between best friends or even enemies (I sometimes acted as a mediator!) The market was certainly there, there was a whole lot of drama going on. I charged extra if they wanted me to use fancy scented colored pens (I had different kinds. Green, pink, and purple.) and even more if they want the letter in English. I had fixed, and what I consider to be fair, rate and I advertised it as such. I even made a little sign that I would tape to the front of my desk during breaks. Business was booming and soon I was able to expand. I “hired” the kid next to me as my writer as he had prettier handwriting. It was a pretty successful as projects go. I was making money. People liked getting letters and sending letters. It makes them feel all special. And then it came to an end when a teacher found out and told me I was going to hell for profiteering.

By the way, in the survey I got a 27 out of the 29 possible points with 20 being the maximum score. Go me.

Not every baby is cute. That is a fact. Yes, some babies turn out to look like complete angels, but most babies are actually quite ordinary looking. But because of their innate babyness, with their big googly eyes, innocent smiles, and incoherent, but totally adorable gurgling, even plain babies are considered cute, causing adults to act all silly and go “Goo! Widdle baby, poo!” at them. But for some babies, the very unfortunate few, even being a baby cannot overcome their ugliness.

When I was a young boy, there was hairdresser who ran a small beauty shop right next to an aunt I called Mama Taba (or “Fat Mama”). The hairdresser’s name was Blanca and she was an incessant gossip. She would talk endlessly about other people; customers, strangers, even her friends became the subject of her gossip. If that is not enough, her gossip would always include snide remarks about their appearance. Since beauty was her business, she must have thought herself an expert on the matter. She would pass judgments and be cruel in her insults. She was a beautician, after all, and she looked it. She was extremely pretty, with perfect bouncy hair, finely manicure nails, and expertly made-up face. Her lips was full and pouty, her figure trim and tight. If she had entered a beauty contest, I would not be surprised if she garners one of the top spots for herself.

So, it must have come as a surprise to her when she gave birth to the most ugliest baby in the neighborhood. People were cruel about it as she was cruel to them. “It is karma¹,” people said. For her acid tongue, she got a baby that looked like it was dipped in acid. My older cousins snickered to themselves about Blanca’s tianak². I almost believed it, too. The baby certainly could look the part! Being the premier gossip in the neighborhood, she must have known that her and her baby became the butt of jokes.

The moral of the story? You get what is coming to you.

¹ They might be Catholics, but Filipinos also believe in karma.

² A tianak is a demonic spirit that takes the form of a baby. They eat their mothers from the inside and then break out of the womb to attack, terrorize, and wreak havoc upon some hapless village.

A young Jayel Aheram. He worries about many things, but race is not among them.

I am a half-breed. In fact, I am more than a half-breed, I am a mongrel. I was born to a Filipino mother and an American father. She was half-Spanish, part-Chinese, part-Tagalog, and part-Ilokano and he was Caucasian of indeterminate origins. Maybe he had Cherokee blood in him, too, or maybe not. I used to joke that I have the best of all worlds in me and that becomes apparent when people attempt to guess my ethnicity. Their guesses run the gamut from Arabian to French to Venezuelan.

Race has been such an issue for all of my life that it was such a non-issue for half of it. That is, for half of it I accepted it as a part of my life. I did not know any better. It never occured to me that the teasing I had to endure as a child in the Philippines was meant to scar me forever or that it was not right to be teased. I just accepted the fact that I was different. I knew I was different and it was the only thing I knew. It must be a testament to how I was raised by my aunt and godmother. They taught me early on that it was all right to be not like anyone else. Their love and lessons withstood the teasing, the taunts, the barrage of prejudice so much that I did not realize that the words were meant to be cruel until I was much, much older and was introduced to the wonderful world of racial relations.

My godmother used to call me “tisoy” from mestiso (meaning half-breed) or “kano” from amerikano (meaning American). These were terms of endearments from her, but from classmates, names. Unfortunately for them, I was already being called that by the women I love (and just a bit of naivety on my part) and so it just produced giggles from me. My half-black cousins have their nicknames, too. Their mother and my aunts call them “negra” from negro (meaning black). They must be geniuses in psychology or something, because their loving name calling innoculated us from the teasing. But while my being mestiso did not affect me emotionally or scar me psychologically, it nonetheless had a significant influence in my life as a child. From school to friends, it played a large part on how I was treated by others and my experiences with people.

The lady on the left is my cousin. Her father is black and her mother is my mother’s sister. She and her sister are lovingly called “negra” by their mother.

I went to a Catholic elementary school from first grade to the first half of sixth grade and from the very start, I was the odd one out. Not that I noticed it! I was too busy being a kid. I had friends, of course, but no best friends. I am mostly friends with the weird kids. In first grade, I was friends with another mestiso, a twitchy fellow who I got into trouble quite often. In second grade, it was this really ugly Chinese kid who looked like a bulldog and Joan, my class’s only half-black. She sat next to me and comforted me when I found out and got upset that Charmaine Navarro, a girl I had a crush on since 1st grade, had other admirers. She is also a neat freak. Third grade (and in another school), I was friends with a crazy Japanese kid who buys me Street Fighter stickers and I was also friends with another mestiso whose mother once complained that I should have gotten the top academic spot in my grade. Fourth grade (back in my old Catholic school), I was friends with Darren, an extremely effeminate half-black. Both of us sat together in the back of the class, giggling like little girls.

Fifth grade, I started to have plenty of friends. There was my core group of friends; Michael, Donna, Jean, and Lisa. We hang around each other and once, we made a highschooler cry. Donna considers me her academic rival. She constantly compared her grades with mine, even if other kids got higher grades (we both knew that some of the teachers were being bribed by the parents of our top classmates). Michael was a tall, stocky fellow who was extremely insecure about his size. Children were intimidated by him and he hated it. Jean was a boy-crazy girl. She also had a lot of money and loved to flaunt it. Lisa was a large portly girl with very large breasts. She was self-conscious about her breasts (I would be, too! They were humongous!). Together, we made life hell for substitute teachers and anyone who got in our way (we once made a substitute teacher run away from class using a Sweet Valley Kids book as a guide). I was also friends with a girl I knew from third grade (she followed me into my old school). Her name was Angel and she was another mestiso who thought she was Sailor Moon. She sits alone in the front of the class and had all sorts of fun items. She was more friends with my sister actually, because my sister drew Sailor Moon very well.

My sister and I started to live with our mother and her new husband in the middle of sixth grade. I was transferred from my Catholic school in the Philippines to a public school in California. It was there that I was given a crash course on race relations and became aware of racism. Apparently, saying that one race is superior over another is considered racism, which was new to me. In Catholic school, I remember being read a religious fable about how God baked humans into being and that he preferred the perfect golden brown Filipinos over the undercooked whites and overcooked blacks.

But of course, race relations is more nuanced than that! Only white people can be racist, I learned, but at the same time, only whites can ever be called simply “American.” In the Philippines, I was an American. In the US, I was a hyphenated American. When I was in the Philippines, I learned that I was not good enough to be one of God’s perfect brown children. In the US, I learned that I was not worthy enough to be called simply an American. I have been called a racist by a black girl who made fun of my race and origins, snubbed by Asians because I was not Asian enough, and treated like novelty acquaintance by whites. The Hispanics that could barely speak English poke fun at my accent. The counselor in my “enlightened” school once asked me if I “think in English.” I thought then that it was a ridiculous question and it has not changed. But even if I had those experiences, I still had some fun in middle school.

Me, my long hair, and my multi-ethnic friends in Hawaii.

High school was different, though. I went to a high school in Hawaii where almost all the students were half-breeds like me. They had a name for it, too: hapa. It was like a breath of fresh air. While race was still an issue, it was a very minor one. They do not consider themselves to be hyphenated American, but they are proud of their various lineage all the same. The more blood in you, the better! My accent (which by then have a Hispanic tinge to it) was still a curiosity, though, but most people seem to think it was either sexy or cute. Of course, Hawaii was not free of racism. It had its own brand of it. Whites and especially blacks have a tough time there. They are called haoles which means “foreigner.” Hawaii had its own supremacists. There are Hawaiian-only schools (if you have above a certain percentage of Hawaiian blood, you can attend it), state agencies for Hawaiians-only, and government sanctioned and subsidized racism. But we lived away from the Honolulu where all the politicians lived, so it was something I read in the news and not really experienced.

I look back in awe at my younger self. I am amazed that I went through that without a scratch. Sure, it affected my life in significant ways like the friends I had and my experiences with them, but it was still overwhelmingly positive. There might have been missed opportunities, but I do not think I missed anything since my childhood was colorful enough. But that could be negative since in my adult life, I rarely think about race. I might say something factual and be burn because perceived racism on my part.

The only thing Jayel Aheram gets sad about is not having enough cake.

The only time I ever think about race is when I am thinking about politics, but that is only because it is being used as if it matters that much. The Black Caucus, the Hispanic community, blah blah blah blah blah! People could learn from me. Prejudice exists, but it should not be the reason to hold someone back or be used to justify victimhood. Take it, put it in a ball, and toss it behind you. Simple as that.

Most of what I remember from my childhood was that of school and playing after school. The former was filled with classmates and friends and social things, the latter devoid of it. What I did in school usually stayed in school and it did not spill over to the home sphere (after school). A few times, my classmates visited me at home and it was awkward to say the least. I was not comfortable then in the idea of mingling my home life with that of my school life. Not that I was shy, hardly in fact! I was outspoken, talkative, outgoing, vivacious, and in trouble with my teachers most of time. This kind of dichotomy between school and home was voluntary in part, because I never needed to meld the two together. School was fine if it stayed in school and I was perfectly happy not having my classmates play with me out of school. This pattern of behavior (of separating school and those who make it up and after school) continued until high school, when the merging between the two spheres of my life became inevitable.

But even if school and after school somehow merged when I was young, I would not have been able to do much! My aunt was very protective of my sister and I and we were limited of what we can do or where to go. We were hardly out of sight. The only times my sister and I had privacy was when we were closed inside our room, playing our games. A few third playmates came and went, adding variety to our playtime. But for most of our childhood we were playmates to each other. Which was fine, since we were able to make our own fun. She is only 10 months older than me, close enough in age that we made compatible playmates, but far enough that we were in separate grades (which helped with my mental separation of school and home).

Playtime between my sister and I was epic. Not in its scale, but in its depth. The stories we wove, the characters that developed, the plot that unraveled, the interactions that went on were so detailed that even if we had a third playmate, they would not be able to follow along! Some children have imaginary friends, my sister and I created an imaginary world. Characters like Linda, Luisa, Rolly, and Roy became alive in our play. We gave personalities, thoughts, desires, and even dreams to these characters through our interactions. We were roleplaying using whatever we can. Dolls, toys, plushies, and miniature statues were given names and stories. Linda was a very small teddy bear with the message “Merry Christmas” scrawled on her red shirt and a missing ear (we decided that the remaining ear looked like a pony tail). Rolly was a similar “Christmas” bear, except his eyes looked more fierce (to us at least) and his ears made of sterner stuff (he had both of them). Luisa was a lamb plush my sister had, but for some inexplicable reason, she disappeared and we never found her. Roy was actually one of the first one we named. He was my large educational bear. He had a zipper labeled “Zipper” and buttons labeled “Buttons” and his outfit was multicolored and were labeled as such (“Red,” “Blue,” “Yellow”). But even if we had the toys, the richest stories we ever wove were created without them.

Sometimes, when we were right in the middle of a story and playing, my aunt would tell us to put away our toys because it was getting late and we needed to go to sleep. But we were so reluctant to stop playing that we continued the story regardless. We did not dare to disobey her and continue playing with our toys, so we devised a way to continue playing without getting into trouble. The way was hand puppets. Literally. We formed distinct looks for each character. They were also anthropomorphic. Linda looks like a swan or a songbird, Luisa looks like a hen, Rolly is a snake, Roy is a horse and so on. We developed favorites, of course. My primary character was Luisa Lovelace. She was a foreigner or something and had problems fitting in despite being popular. My sister’s primary character was Linda Reyes. She was shy and smart (though she was picked on for her poor grades). The two became best friends, but often had explosive fights that left me and my sister crying. Our characters’ personalities and problems reflected our own. We roleplayed (because that is what it was) conflicts and resolutions and we even maneuvered through a minefield of social interactions.

Even in our imaginary play we cannot escape the social dramas. Cliques form and a social hierarchy developed in our pretend world. There were true friends, backstabbing friends, and fairweather friends that just used us. Romance came in form of boys who ignored our characters, boys who were mean to us, and boys who were perfect gentlemen. Luisa had a crush on Tony, a very cultured jock who did not know Luisa existed. Linda liked Rolly, a tough troublemaker. Pina (Linda and Luisa’s nerdy best friend) liked Zur-Zur, a very good-looking geek. There were enemies, too. Mendy was the other popular girl and her entourage consisted of Diana (an obese bunny) and Jessica (a vain, but very pretty short girl). Mendy was smart, rich, and beautiful and picks on Linda quite a lot. Luisa defends Linda, but soon became the target of Mendy’s meanness since she considered Luisa as a threat to her own popularity. Mendy was also the school slut. Mendy routinely flirts with Tony and Rolly much to our character’s consternation. At that age, we did not know what sex was about. We assumed that if a girl presses her hands against the boy’s hands and then kiss, that was it and the girl gets pregnant. Oh, and a lot of moaning. We had our 3rd-grade characters kissing and making love and moaning. And we did not even need MTV.

But playtime did not stop at hand puppets. Sure, the characters had a name, history, school, birthdays, and were incredibly complex and that we played these hand puppets for six years (it ran longer than the Mexican soaps we used to watch), but it was not the only thing we played. We had a box full of toys. A lot of the toys we played did not retain their original use, though. My sister’s tea party set’s tray became a three-story apartment for our small toys. My Ninja Turtles became policemen (except for my Samurai Leonardo, he became either the mayor or the “city’s” richest denizen) and Hollywood Barbie became a teacher. We would use old boxes and turn them into classrooms for my sister’s McDonald mini-Barbies. I remember one time that a third playmate introduced the concept of a pageant to our play. He even made tiny sashes with the names of countries. I can remember debating whether the pink-dress-wearing mini-Barbie looked like Ms. Portugal or Ms. Swaziland. My sister’s tiny Belle miniature became Ms. Norway while her mini-Hollywood Barbie (we played her as the daughter of the actual Hollywood Barbie) became Ms. USA. My Boy Scout neckerchief ring became the winner’s crown. A battered gorilla hat-and-bucket became the stage. There was singing and dancing and even a question-and-answer round.

One thing that was consistent with the games I played with my sister was that it was always her games that we were playing. I could never get her to play Street Fighter with my toys so I always end up playing what she wanted to play. Not that I minded, her toys were usually cooler. Her Barbie dolls were more flexible than my chunk-o-bots (except my Ninja Turtles though, they were the only toys I thought that were cooler than anything she owned… so much so that my sister owns them now ). I used to pretend that her Hollywood Barbie was Chun-Li and I had it do back flips and helicopter kicks. And so many clothes! They were like the Legos I never had. In cheap fabric. Her Barbie Bubble Bath also made real bubbles! She also had a Barbie Corvette (she had the largest toy car between the two of us. How unfair was that!). I played with her so much that I ended up with my own purse and wallet. It was a baby blue purse with a flower and a baby blue plaid background.

Another fun thing we did was drawing. On anything but paper. My aunt was not the type to give us blank sheets of paper to “waste.” So, we made do on whatever medium we could find. Our favorite were plywood walls. With a damp finger, we could draw shapes on it. We soon stopped when my aunt found out were we sticking our fingers in our mouths and using our saliva as ink. We did use paper also, but the paper we used belonged to pages of books. Our particular favorite was an old Bible. It had many pages where the chapter ends and it had only one or two sentences. So, we ripped those out and drew on the white space (we knew that Jesus did not mind, it was for a good cause, after all, idle hands are the Devil’s workshop, and we were not idle). The back of the books were good sources of paper. We found many books with several blank sheets in their last pages that were soon drawn on.

We also used to play “house” or our variation of it (we were neighbors instead of living together) with ourselves. The game usually starts with us “buying” supplies for our house. We rarely play this because it gets quite messy and it was a headache to clean up. “House” involved taking care of “children,” too. And cooking. And getting children to school. “House” with two people was boring, actually. It takes too long to set up and twice as long to clean up. My fondest of memory of “house” consisted playing with very few toys (15 at the most) between the five (me, my sister, and two other children). We also played “school” with our older cousins. They were the teachers and we were the students. They had us do spelling contests!

I look back at those times with a smile on my face. Sure, I never had the fun experiences I read in books about children, but I know that my experience was uniquely mine (and my sister’s) and it was fun in its own special way. There is no regret.