Carmencita, one of her many prized portrait photos.
Let me tell you about Carmencita…
Much was said about this feral woman- known for her dramatic tendencies, penchant for Cadillac margaritas, and unparalleled cooking. In her eulogy, my mother called us partners in crime. This isn’t factual… she was indeed the mastermind, but I was merely an accessory. Besides- mahjong is just a silly tile game…
Having immigrated here alone, and leaving her daughter and all she’d ever known behind, she was befriended by a French woman in her ESL courses. Though they could barely communicate, they did share a sense of rebellion as unchained women and spent their free time conning men into nights on the town and lavish dinners- playing up their allure as the new foreign girls in town. It was the 60’s in Los Angeles and they made it their playground.
Between her scrappy adventures and working as a cashier throughout downtown office building cafeterias, she became adept at assimilating to this American life and she was proud of it. She was the entry point for everyone in the family looking to make the journey- countless cousins, friends, friends of friends lived on her couch as she ushered them through the process: visas, drivers licenses, school, first jobs, bank accounts. She prided herself on the ability to navigate the world with ease… or at the very least- with charm and a sense of hustle.
Eventually she had not just one but two daughters who had to endure her wild antics in a craftsman cottage along the foothills. There were many boyfriends and failed marriages, a lot of booze and cigarettes, and only 1 arrest (for dramatic effect), alongside many, many meltdowns and travels around the world. They gave her four grandchildren, one great grandchild, and a lot of trips to Vegas paid for with her blackjack winnings.
I remember the version of her I saw as a kid vividly- a nasty old bitch. She was mean, short tempered, and yelled even the simplest questions with an aggression that was almost comical. She didn’t know how to make sense of a young one- but she did know how to spoil them into oblivion… She began working in a hotel gift shop when I was young- and she was sure to leverage that position when the beanie baby craze of the late 90s hit and celebrity gossip magazines were all the rage. Wanting to ensure I looked like the LA girl I was trapped in a suburban high school, she accumulated a collection of the best designer knock offs she could find in dark corners of Santee Alley for me to parade around with. I told her to stop once, because a popular girl was nagging me about them not being “real.” Grandma got annoyed- “Tsk. Excuse me? Does she not see it? Can she hold it? Ob course it’s a REAL. It’s right THERE.” The same theory applied to Cartier watches and supposed 5 carat “diamonds.” She did indeed soften as I/we got older… especially when she realized I could be her new happy hour buddy.
It became a ritual… every week I’d meet her after work for happy hour, with a mandatory two drink minimum (her rules, not theirs). She’d inadvertently spill family secrets and anecdotes of her past- quickly followed with “OK now don’t tell ANYBODY.”
On her nights off you’d find us at her favorite steakhouse. “Only eat hap” was her way of concocting a 2 for 1 special. The halves we took home would be transformed into some version of a Filipino dish that would be better than anything the restaurant had to offer.
As it was seemingly a coming of age right of passage- I too lived on her couch in that liminal space where a young adult in a recession has nothing left to lose and everything to gain, someday. I’d lay staring at the ceiling reminding myself to be grateful- and not judge the ungodly snoring over the raging sounds of lifetime movies coming from her room in the depths of the night.
She gave the best movie and tv reviews, that were more of a game. It usually started with “my god, it SO nice” and ended with an obscure scene spoken in some kind of code she expected everyone to understand. She was once thrilled to tell me about a new moobie because it was so punny. None of it made sense for most of the drive to the steakhouse- “and den- de lady? She ate a pie! With de poo!” She was in stitches over “The Help” starring Emma Stone.
While my knack of story telling is derived from all my immigrant grandparents- my love of film and drama grew from Her. There was a theater matinee at least once a week, either solo or with her girlfriends. She was at her local video store 3 nights a week, and never perused the aisles. They just knew what she would want to see next and had them waiting for her arrival. There was always a stack of 3- a classic to revisit, a new release to keep her sharp, and a wildcard to test the waters. Nothing was off limits and her patronage ran like clockwork. When she left her little east side apartment after 25 years… the store closed. She may very well have been their last customer, or they stayed open just for her.
Though this is long, it merely scratches the surface of the countless stories I could share. I brought lunch to the nursing staff that cared for her these last two years a week after she passed. Of course they were Filipino, and of course they loved to talk about all the stories Grandma would regale them with. “Surely they weren’t true- it must have been the dementia.” One by one they shared bits of the tall tales they inherited from her and much to their delight- each were true. But of all the stories told- there has been only one I couldn’t corroborate: “I was an actress in the Philippines.”
While there is no evidence to support such a plot twist, and she and all who knew her as a young girl are now gone- I can’t help but wonder: what dreams of hers never came to fruition? What dreams didn’t even stand a chance? Why did I not think to ask until she was gone? The signs are all there- her passion for movies and tv, her obsession with following every bit of celebrity fodder, her love of drama, her affinity towards theatrics. She had an incessant need for a portrait and a good picture- and made a point to get perfectly done up for a passport photo every year “just because.” She loved a studio shoot more than anyone I know, and went so far as to have a proper portrait painted of her specifically to be used at her funeral (30 years prior “So they remember I was bootypul.”) I couldn’t be more opposite. I am an immediate clown when faced with a camera. But I remember how she would beam when school pictures rolled in. Her delight in hearing my brother was casted in plays. The thrill on her face when I’d tell her about my time on real sets and shoots. How she would perform when given the chance. It may have all been evidence to something much bigger she dreamed for in life. And thus this self portrait series was born. It is as much of an exercise in honoring her through my work, as it is in continuing just a small part of her lore.