Insurance versus luck

immigrants, he lived a hard life andworked as a child laborer in an aspirin factory.

He ran away at a very young age, ate a lot of bananas to qualify for the weight requirement, and joined the US Navy. He traveled all over the world (had better meals than aspirin for lunch) and, after the Second World War, came to settle in what he thought was the best country in the world: the Philippines.

He had fallen in love with our land and My skin is white and my Tagalog may not be fluent, but my heart is as brown as can be, and I believe in the Filipino that my Papa, my gruff American stepfather, said is the best race in the world

lawyer, and then brought us safely back.

Pasay kid

We lived in Pasay. Not in a well-to-do expat enclave. Which of course caused me great shame in front of my American School classmates. I often think that I wouldn’t have been so affected if I had just gone to some local Catholic school. But he paid for the best education there was. And from the time I was 8 years old, every Saturday, after my appointment with the famous Dr. Erana, he would have an assistant take me through the entire retail and wholesale sections of PECO to choose all the books, magazines, comics—classic and otherwise—that I could bring home.

I read the Niebelungenlied, Mahabharata, Ramayana, the Bible (which my Mom hid as she was afraid I’d go blind). I became fascinated with prophecy and started a Nostradamus collection at the age of 10 as I read “The Book of Prophecy,” which was published in the 1930s.

Every Christmas we would make gift bags filled with stuffed toys, notebooks, cookies and candies and distribute them to those around us.

But there was something missing. I never belonged. I was never a Filipina. I was called mestizang hilaw, iyong Amerikana and mestizang bangus.

I sold maruyang saging (banana fritters) with a bilao on my head through the small streets of Pasay. I ate hot pan de sal dripping with Star Margarine while watching movies (like “All Mine to Give”) on benches at the local basketball court.

I played tumbang preso, even carved out sungka holes in the ground and had soil under my nails from scooping the pebbles out of houses razed down by fire breakouts.

I could dance the tinikling, pandango sa ilaw, binasuan, curacha, and many other folk dances.

I read all the Nick Joaquin I could find (“May Day Eve,” etc.), Aida Sevilla-mendoza legal stories, José Garcia Villa, Linda

In his younger years, he was a cautious, lucky gambler. He played poker and bet on horses and at the jai-alai. The workings of fate and fortune intrigued him. An atypical politician, he won five straight elections as congressman for Manila, each time loving the heady unpredictability of the outcome.

The attitude carried over in the distribution of gifts and gratuities among his children. On his birthday, especially after Momhad passed away, he would gather all his children by her and others for dinner and Bingo.

To increase the chances of a win for everyone, he put up many prizes, each to be wonwith every game. But all those prizes combined did not compare in value to the jackpot, which went to whoever filled a full card in a variation called “blackout.”

When, on one occasion, a less lucky one asked whydad didn’t just divide all the money equally and make everybody equally happy, I was tempted to pull him aside and tell him, “This is not about us; this is all about him, always him, and how he gets his jollies.”

Dad, of course, brushed aside the suggestion—chances were all he was predisposed to give. Luck intrigued him, even if it did not involve him. For instance, he loved to open gifts, even other people’s gifts, out of curiosity, surely not covetousness, and I did once catch him peeking through holes he had poked in the gift packages at my daughter’s birthday party.

Return ticket in a box

Ty Casper, Maximo Ramos.

I sat outside and listened to “Ito ang inyong lingkod, Tiya Dely” while watching our neighbor, the garbage truck driver “Papa White,” walk down Mariquita Street, with huge pails of water that hewould pour over the white stubble on his head so that the dust of the street would settle.

I would run as fast as I could so my Papa wouldn’t scold me for being out of the house. We were Americans at home, and we communicated in English.

I had no province. No hometown. I was “Amerkan 60 cents.”

I only felt that I had become part of the Pinoy community when I went to live in New York! I ate and tocino there for the first time, joined a bowling team, and spoke in our secret language of Tagalog so that the white people on the street wouldn’t know what we were talking about. I had forgotten that I was white, too. Then I came home and was “’Kana” again.

My Papa was shocked when I had a son with a Pinoy named Angelo. I named my son after Diego Silang, the Ilocano hero, and promised that if he ever had a sister she would be named Gabriela, after Silang’s wife.

When I first brought Jegs (Diego) to visit New York, someone saw me on a bus and called a friend to say, “I just saw June Keithley and she had a little Filipino boy with her!” Malakas kasi ang Ilokano strain ha ha. So today my home is filled with bamboo, baskets, Pinoy furniture and paintings, Capiz doors, and stuff from my forays to

and the tiangge. In any case, I am a national hero. Presented with the Philippine Medal of Honor by no less than the iconic Corazon Aquino herself.

My skin is white and my Tagalog may not be fluent, but my heart is as brown as can be, and I believe in the Filipino that my Papa, my gruff American stepfather, said is the best race in the world.

When he left permanently at age 91, he left us—meat least—a healthy respect for luck. Whether we realize it or not, we all got more or less even chances—education, startup capital—and each had his or her share of good luck.

I wonder if Dad influenced my own sense of fairness at this stage of my life. Do I follow my own advice and insure myself, or do I, like him, leave things to fate and fortune?

Once a believer, in fact, collecting on an outlived life policy, I have been rethinking insurance myself. It’s a bit late for medical insurance; I imagine the yearly premium is ridiculous for my age bracket. Fortunately for traveling seniors, an insurance is required whose one-time premium is affordable, and whose coverage for the worst scenario is most considerate: medical care and, if it fails, a return ticket in a box, with five relatives flown and housed to accompany it home after ensuring proper packaging.

The policy carries the bad news in illegibly small print, but instead of sucking the wind out of my sails, it has become an incentive for me to travel as often as I can. Not only does it make me feel more secure; it also offers my heirs a chance at a jackpot.

A popular option for older people are luxury cruises with medical specialists on board as part of a comprehensive in- surance. A cruise beats equal time spent in an old folk’s home—it’s cheaper in the long run (if you’re lucky to have a long run) and promises to be a lot more fun.

Back on terra firma, I look into health insurance, the kind that doesn’t require me to go through a medical evaluation, and choose one with a reputable name, one that gives the impression that it’s a local extension of an American company. But I quickly learn the name is all they share. I am also staggered by the premium for my age bracket—p82,000 a year!—yet the medical coverage is limited only to P1.5 million. It’s own bad news in small print exempts the company from paying for anything caused by a “preexisting condition,” whether you have been aware of it or not.

“What?” remarks my husband, sneering at the sick joke. “At our age, everything is preexisting!”

So, we have decided to take our chances and live the rest of our lives sans insurance. Having lived life quite responsibly up to this point—that is to say, with safety nets and parachutes, in the interest of family—i now feel it’s time to become liberated, to become my father’s daughter, to leave to fate and fortune, indeed to the good god presiding over them, matters best left in his hands.

Mother’s Day cookie cake

its people. There was no one like them he said. They were honest, generous, hardworking, God-fearing and loving.His wallet was lost at the Sta. Ana Cabaret and when he returned on another night, all the hostesses went up to him and said, “Mr. Lowey, we found out that one of us took your wallet. We have all contributed to return what you lost. Please check if it is correct.”There were no grills before the war, and if anyone came to your door it was for a good reason, not for criminal activity.He was married to another Filipina before he met my mom, but their family wanted the American dream, so he stayed home, here, while they went to live in Walnut Creek.He was interned at the University of Santo Tomas during the war. They used to boil their leather soles in order to have something to eat and when the US forces arrived, the fighting and shooting took place across the halls, even from room to room. We used to have this big book of the occupation of UST (now long gone and I would be so happy if anyone has info or knows where copies can be found), and there is this photo of the UST façade with all these gaunt-looking expats smiling from windows. Mypapa was there.He became a traveling salesman, told me tales of amok in New Washington, Aklan, and worked hard until he became the Gmof Mr. Gunnell of PECO.He hired a youngwomanwith great legs who typed and took excellent dictation. She needed the job badly as she had a baby to support, but before he could make a move, a PortugueseAmerican married her and took her off to California.He kept his feelings to himself till she found a way to let him know of the abuse we suffered. He helped her escape (my mom would hide me under the hotel bed whenever someone knocked on the door), hired a divorce