Soon as the force of that fallacious fruit
Was now exhaled
Up they rose
As from unrest, and each the other viewing,
Soon found their eyes how opened and their minds
How darkened. Innocence, that as a veil
Had shadowed them from knowing ill, was gone

Adam gave utterance to these words
"since our eyes
Opened we find indeed, and find we know
Both good and evil, good lost, and evil got:
Bad fruit of knowledge, if this be to know,
Which leaves us naked thus, of honor void,
Of innocence, of faith, of purity."

John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book IX, excerpted from lines 1046-1055, 1065-1074

The sound of home! Would I also someday yearn for the sound of home? Would I also cry for the sad songs of the peasants in Mangusmana? And before I realized it, I began talking in our dialect: "Ama! Ina! Manong! Ading! Sicayo!" The sound of home! Home among the peasants in Mangusmana!

Carlos Bulosan, America is in the Heart

Ann Phelps

I have always been a believer in omens. Prophecies may be a better word. How do I explain this belief in knowing the future. Let me tell you a story I remember. It starts when I was driving on a freeway outside Providence, Rhode Island.

The stone angel fell from the sky, and in the split second I saw it, I realized that it had to be a message from God. It crashed into the car in front of me, and I was jarred into an altered state between reality and disbelief. For whatever reason, I had slowed down as a car had sped up and passed me. The driver in front of me was killed instantly. Death had literally smacked into the car in front of me. I would discover later that a group of teenagers had heaved a stolen cemetery statue from the overpass above. I thought this would be the closest I would ever come to witnessing something so utterly horrific. How could I know that I would be wrong?

This literally life-shattering event took place when I was twenty-one years old. I had just graduated from college, and I was engaged to be married. I had been on my way to visit an old friend, who was set to attend medical school in the fall at Tufts in Boston. I was driving on Interstate 95, heading north through Rhode Island when the car in front of me seemed to explode in a shower of glass. I could have sworn that I saw a bright flash before then. In any case, I don't know if that bright flash was real or imagined. I thought I was going at least sixty miles per hour, but I didn't even rear end the targeted car. It was as if an invisible hand had held me in place, away from harm. I knew immediately that the person that had been driving the large gold Cadillac in front of me was dead.

At the time this happened, I think I had started believing in miracles again anyhow. Perhaps that is the reason why at that moment immediately after the event I wasn't too shocked that my life had been spared while another's life had been taken. I didn't dwell too much on the "why it happened." I was just glad it didn't happen to me. My life had been full of trauma before. I believed that I had done enough penance. I could not feel guilt. And I didn't even feel fear. Perhaps I was too stunned. So many things were flashing through my mind.

I sat in my car, while traffic stopped around me. People got of their cars. Some were pointing. Some were screaming. I just sat in my car, clutching the steering wheel. All I knew was that I was still alive. I don't even know when the police arrived. I didn't hear the sirens. Then there were fire engines and an ambulance and then the coroner's car.

Because I had been following the victim's car, I had to give a statement to the police.

"Can you describe what happened. Take your time. We need to know every detail."

"I was just driving. I remember slowing down, and then the gold Cadillac passed me in front. Then something fell. An angel. A large stone angel."

The police officer looked at me kind of quizzically. "An angel? You were able to see it was an angel?"

"There seemed to be a bright light. An explosion. And I saw the angel's face. I'm sure of it."

"Other say they didn't even see it coming. That it was just a loud crash. Some people thought a bomb had exploded or that the car caught fire."

"No, I saw it coming down. Like slow motion." I knew that the officer was incredulous about my account or else he wouldn't have told me what others were thinking. I sounded like some sort of hyper-religious kook. Though my story did not seem to jive with the laws of physics, I was accurate about a large, stone angel having fallen upon Salvadore Ferrucci, a retired pizzeria owner. I could not have known it was an angel immediately in the aftermath. I didn't even try to look at the Cadillac. My windshield had been obscured by dust and glass and other debris. And the statue had shattered into several unrecognizable pieces. But it was discovered later that what had fallen was indeed a stone angel stolen from the North Burial Ground in Providence. So I know that the statement I gave to the police was accurate.

After several frantic and mind numbing hours, I was allowed to go on my way. I arrived at my destination without further incident. In the midst of all the chaos, I had not even called anybody to recount what had happened to me. Or not happened to me as the case may be.

When tragedy happens, one may wonder why it happens. What I took as my lesson was the randomness of the world instead of it being an omen. How that day may have been my luckiest in many ways. And the unluckiest for another.

******

Yet if I had been paying closer attention, I would have realized that my turn at tragedy would come. There are so many near misses. How could I have known that there would be days that I would think that I would have been better off crushed to death on an interstate than to be living today?

When I left the Eastern Shore and saw the Chesapeake Bay, blue and undulating under a bright cloudless sky, I actually felt pangs of home. I had never thought this was home but it felt that way at that moment.

When I arrived at my parents' house, my mother came out to greet me. It was a bittersweet event. This had been the first time I had seen her since the funeral, but she was happy to see me nevertheless.

"Where are your suitcases?" she asked.

"I don't have any."

"Is Allen coming?"

"No, he's been busy. Couldn't get away. His patient load was just too heavy." My mother eyed me suspiciously but did not press further. I could not bring myself to tell her that I had left him and in the manner that I had done so. Besides she would find out soon enough. He would probably call to try to find me.

"Come inside then and get something to eat."

My parents lived in the same house though they were at a point where they could move out of this neighborhood. Many of our old neighbors were gone, replaced by strangers. I had always hated this neighborhood and had gotten my wish to leave. And while it was not the same place, I viewed this neighborhood with a mixture of affection and disdain. I would never belong here again. Too many things had changed, including myself.

I had driven straight from Boston after picking up the rental car. I would not take my car or anything that belonged to that life up there. For me it was over. The only way I could cope was walk away from it all and ask for nothing. Allen is a good man, and I knew at this moment, he was probably bewildered and angry, justifiably so.

I settled into my old room. The wallpaper seemed dingy though it was taken care of. I lay on my old bed and looked at the certificates and awards that lined the room. So much time I had spent in this room, wishing for the world outside. And now I was back, wanting to be inside this room.

I had never thought I would miss this place. Is it always the case that you find yourself yearning to return to the place you have always wanted to leave? The past few years I had been living in a world that seemed so out of reach before. And yet it was a world where I no longer knew myself. That much I knew even if I felt had no answers for anything else.

*******

My roots are originally in the Bay area in California. The Navy brought us to Tidewater Virginia as it did for others like my family. As a result there is a high Filipino population here. I hated the South. Hated that I was now a minority. In California, there were so many people that looked like me. I had never known I was different until moving to Virginia at ten years old. I knew I would never fit in here. I went to school with kids who had roots from the time of the Revolutionary War. The ties between land and family were very strong here, and I, along with the other Filipino kids, had no claim.

But this is where I grew up. There were seasons here, and I saw the leaves turn for the first time. Found out I had allergies in the springtime. I grew to love the heat and the water and the sand spit islands that abounded. It was not until I moved to Boston that I realized this place was in my blood, that I was a part of this place, even if I had always felt like a stranger in a strange land. There was this thing called the New South and that was where I belonged. I had a Tidewater accent without knowing it. People pointed it out to me up North. They found it peculiar, even funny.

Growing up, I was called "the Spaniard" because of my light complexion and Western features. If it weren't for my very straight black hair and dark eyes and the slightly wide bridge of my nose, I would be able to pass myself off as white. This is what the aunties and uncles always said about me. In fact, there were instances that I was mistaken for being white or at least for being mostly white with something interesting thrown in and that happened with both Filipinos and whites. I was, however, full-blooded Filipino. No doubt that European or even white American blood probably flows through my veins, and so some distant ancestor has manifested his genes in me. This seemed to be such a lucky thing.

Because of this supposedly happy accident, I was able to straddle the world between whites and Filipinos in a way that other Filipinos could not. While others had commented on my luckiness, my father did not agree. His fear was that I would attract the attention of white boys in ways that he felt was very bad. He was right that I attracted their attention, and the other Filipino girls envied me. I did not care though. When you are young, you feel invincible.

My father always told me to ignore the silliness of my uncles and aunties, who had fallen in love with my light skin. It angered him when they spoke of it though he would keep it all inside to keep peace. But afterwards, he would always tell me, "Remember that you are Filipino, not white. Don't you pay attention to what they say." I did not look like my father or I thought that for a long time. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I have his same expression, the arch of the eyebrows and the placement of the lips. He was worried that my head would swell too big from believing the tsimis of others. He was right to worry. My mother said that my mestiza features came from her side. Her maternal grandparents each had Spanish fathers. She said that she could tell I had Western blood. I was stubborn and temperamental and not very good at being obedient and quiet. I talked too much and found self-discipline difficult.

While I knew that I was not white, I was pleased to know that I could come close. I hated the features that gave me away as being Asian. A number of Asian girls had bleached their hair, trying to make it blonde but it became a dried out brownish-red instead, which became brittle and fell out when you brushed it. The white girls loved the Asian girls' natural hair though. In class, sometimes I would let a girl touch my hair and braid it. But I still would have liked to be blonde, be all-American like Christie Brinkley. I would sigh when I looked in the mirror.

But I was a brown girl light-skinned enough to date white boys. I found that my relationship with them always consisted of my having to fall into the "island girl" role. The boys were often blond and blue-eyed, the male mirror of what I wanted to look like, and they always said they liked the color of my skin and the length of my hair. One boy used to sing the song "China Girl" to me. I remember feeling faintly repulsed but managed to smile in false appreciation. I was expected to be passive and yielding, which I was not. The relationships never lasted long as a result.

When I got married, I did marry a white though my father had gotten over the fact long before. My father had liked Allen, and Allen was respectful and exuded intelligence. He was clean-cut and good-hearted and would make a good living as physician. I had attained upward mobility, the seemingly elusive dream of so many immigrants. My father knew these things and it eased his fears. As I grew older, my father realized we were living in a white world and that I had chosen their world over his. He had always emphasized that we were Filipino though he would also say, "Remember that you are an American. You were born here. Don't forget." He was hypocritical without knowing it. I wanted to be full-blooded American and managed in many ways to masquerade Americanness with apparent ease.

Yet in some ways, I loathed myself. I would never be tall and thin and blonde. I would never be beautiful, not in the way I wanted to be. This was a terrible feeling that I had and could never explain.

******

I speak when I want to. Maybe now is not the right time. I am always wanting to hear what others have to say, and it seems that I am always doing that with ease. When I listen, no one notices me. I see things that others cannot see because I've learned to observe while waiting. Only when I think my opinion is important enough to say will I speak it. In that way, it always seems surprising when I hear the sound of my own voice. Is it a wonder that as a woman, I'm still not sure what to say? I'm always hiding behind different names and different faces. I don't cater to anyone's whims.

Rage is a four letter word. In cloaking myself with it, I am able to be invisible. It remains unspoken and greets you with a smile. I can't explain it. That is, the feeling of simultaneous luckiness and unluckiness. Or the duality of being both beautiful and plain. The contradiction of being both true and false to your own identity.

In thinking true thoughts, I'm a woman with my given name, Anna Maria Cristina Fernandez. Or perhaps a girl. In coming to know myself, I float in the subconscious. What I say is not articulated outright by my mouth. My intuitive thoughts are slicing through meticulous chains of reasoning. A natural tension exists between what is me and what is not me, and the truth is that I am both to those who see me and claim to know me and maybe love me.

What do you want to know about my world? Do you really believe that the hopes, worries, and fears of someone encased in brown skin is really that different from your own? You're wanting answers. The truth is that I cannot teach you everything, only give you my own impressions. Even then you'll only know a small part of me.

I'll share small things. As a girl, I remember lying awake at night, listening to my sisters' breathing. They were younger than me and always scared of the dark. I was afraid, too, but never let on. We shared the same bedroom, and they would crawl into bed with me, even if there wasn't really enough space. But we all felt safe. That was what mattered.

The smell I miss most is my mother's cooking. There is nothing more soothing than the smell of steamed rice mingled with chicken in garlic and vinegar. Maybe you know what this is like. Maybe not. All I know is that there is no other smell like the things my mother cooked, and it was a wonderful smell. But I hate to admit that I did not always think so.

What else do you want to know? When I pass mirrors, I always look at myself. Not always out of vanity but to see if I am really the person I think I am. What others see, I am sometimes blind to it.

I've been told that I'm pretty. I've been told that I'm exotic. I've been told that I am plain. When you hear all these things, what are you supposed to believe? Maybe all of it is true. Maybe some of it. Maybe none of it.

How do you know that what I say is trustworthy? You think because it comes from me that it can be believed?

School was one big blur. What did I learn? I'm not sure. I graduated near the top of my class and went to Duke. Those things could be certified as something like fact. And yet it seems that being smart has never provided me with the enlightenment that I've wanted. It's hard to know in what direction to go when the expectations of others drowns out your own desires. I know I felt nervous a lot. I questioned everything but tried hard not to show it. That would only bring trouble.

I didn't know what life would bring to me. I only hoped that it would be better than what I had known.

It seems to me that life is about rising and falling like the way the we inhale and exhale. Moments I am rising, I know I will soon fall and vice versa. But it seems that there is not always security in that vision. Sometimes we hold our breath and draw out moments that should have passed sooner than they do. Maybe it's true that time can be manipulated. I am thinking that anything is possible.

A gray light filters in. Are we hard-wired for grief? It's as if I've always known it was coming. The sadness that emanates from stringed instruments, the clouding of the sky. But look how beautiful the day is.

"She is dying," they said. I only listened-that was all I could do. The turning of the leaves. The trees were starting to bleed crimson and orange. Is there such a things as that it was meant to be? Then what roles does free will play?

My hands are fragrant with the juice of apples and oranges, the juices so sweet that the yellow jackets come to feast upon my hands. I feel like sweetness is intermingled with grief. The people I have loved-it seems that each time I was only preparing for their leaving, for the plummeting of the heart. Sorrow has a keening sound, like the wail of a violin.

Why do we become obsessed with the might-have-beens? The future, how hard it is to grasp, that there might be possibilities in endings. How is it that there are places that seems untouched as if life of pure bliss might be attainable?