“Wena’s good with kids. She should work as a babysitter!”, my boyfriend’s aunt said in French.
And just like any sensitive, semi-woke, semi-feminist 30-something from the global south, I felt attacked.
They were in the kitchen preparing lunch while I was five meters away making paper boats with my BF’s nephews, pretending not to hear a thing.
I didn’t look their way even for even a second.
But if I was in a dream, I’d probably dash to the kitchen and hiss at them.
I’d say something like:
“ME?! A babysitter?! Don’t you know that I’m a writer/ filmmaker/ entrepreneur/ artist/ poet/ advocate/ overall interesting and educated person?! Is this really how you see me?!”
And then I’d throw wads of cash in the air for effect (Peso, not Euro. I can’t afford to be that excessive even in dreams).
But I know I wasn’t in a dream and so I did what any decent person would do in times of great distress: nothing. I kept my cool and just continued making paper boats with the kids…which, I found out, is a more effective way to calm down than counting to 10.
While I was making my third boat, I started to wonder why I got so triggered by the babysitter comment.
Was it her tone?
Was it because she said it out loud?
Was it because she’s French and I’m Filipino?
I mean yeah, I know everyone thinks it…and hey—it’s the truth. The Philippines is the world’s leading supplier of babysitters and nurses. But it just hits different when you actually hear someone SAY it out loud—especially if that someone is a person you want to impress.
“Time for lunch!”, my boyfriend said.
I had to snap out of my thoughts—and fast. You see, if I can’t process my feelings, it consumes me and it shows. My feelings are like farts. No matter how much I try to scoop them with my hands, the stink will still find its way to everyone’s noses. And I don’t want to stink in front of these people!
I want to be the nice girlfriend, not the difficult girlfriend who makes a big deal out of everything.
So I tried to forget about the babysitter thing and just focused on what’s in front of me—which was the delicious Tomates Farçies the aunt cooked. It was my first time to try it in my 37 years of existence. My step-mother isn’t really into cooking and well, we don’t have tomatoes that are the size of a baseball.
Mmm…mmm. The flavors are just right… and it’s warm… and juicy…and, and I should probably be a babysitter.
I tried.
But I guess it’s hard to think about something else when they’re all talking in a language you don’t speak.
And so, while I was stuffing my mouth with more French food, I was thinking of ways to show them that I’m not the typical Filipina—that I don’t just wipe poop and saliva.
The urge to say something was so strong.
But what to say, what to say…and when to say it.
At one point, I was sure that they were talking about their garden because I heard plantes and jardin… and I thought HA! This is it. This is the moment.
“Oh you’re talking about how to plant Jose? That’s interesting…,” I asked. Then I listened. And when they stopped talking, I said “BY THE WAY, I made a movie about farmers.”
Smooth, right?
Then they asked more questions about me. About what I do. I told them that I make films even if the last film I made was three years ago. And that I also write.
I felt better…but only temporarily.
I hated the feeling that I had to say all those things just to feel good about myself.
The meal ended with us paying attention to the kids because one was in a bad mood. My BF’s sister was probably exhausted because she stopped being a mother—like she just sat right there while her kid was throwing a fit. She was probably hoping other people would do the mothering for even a second.
It made me realize how lucky I was.
Having a child is hard work, but I also know I had it a LOT easier than most women.
In the Philippines, if you have an income of at least P30,000 (500 euro), you can afford a nanny.
You can just pay them P 5,000/ month (90 euros) and they live with you and basically do whatever it is you ask them to do 24/7.
I know. It’s some kind of slavery. I’m ashamed just to even talk about it. But in my defense, my 21-year-old self didn’t bother about such things. All I cared about was getting help. Besides, it was (is) the norm. Everyone in the Philippines is doing it. In fact, I only had two years in my life where we didn’t have house help.And hey, I treated her like family. It’s…complicated. If you’re not Filipino, you’ll never understand.
My child’s babysitter’s name is Febe.
We call her Ate Bing. She used to be the smartest in her class but she had to stop when she’s 10 because her family was starving. She had to work even before she had her period.
She was with us when my daughter turned one. She was only 35 at that time with three kids who she left in the province. I paid her only P 4,000, which she sent back to her family, except for 200 pesos she used to buy load for her phone.
Because of her, I was able to film and pursue my dreams.
Because of her, I was able to get drunk on some nights.
Because of her, I was able to become the Filipina that I can be proud of.
END