A Very Good Day…

“Hey Joe!” is easily the most common greeting that I receive as I struggle through the semi-urban jungle of San Jose de Buenavista every morning, deftly maneuvering and pedaling between smoke-belching trikes and jeepney drivers who are religiously set against any using of brakes or blinkers, on my way to school. The greeting, which stems from the US of A’s illustrious stay here in the archipelago of more than 45 years, and the soldier “Joes” who were (and somehow still are) synonymous with every American ever born, is not meant to be derogatory; I know that in the depths of my soul—these people are reaching out to me, trying to be kind in one of the ways that they understand. Somehow, though, it hurts. I don’t understand. Every time I hear it, part of me, the deranged maniacal part that I keep bottled up and only let out when I play video games, wants to jump off my bike, throw my helmet at their heads, run at them, scream and wave my arms, all the while letting off a slew of that’s-not-my-name-just-because-I’m-white-doesn’t-
mean-I’m-an-American-even-though-I-am-that’s-not-the-
point-my-NAME-IS-NOT-JOE-it’s-Scott-and-I’m-a-person-
and-I-have-a-PERSONALITY-if-you’d-just-stop-calling-me-
Joe-and-got-to-know-me-you’d-find-out-that-I-came-here-
to-help-in-some-way-but-when-I-get-screamed-at-like-that-
by-people-like-you-I-want-to-go-home-and-forget-that-I-
was-ever-here
sort of tantrum at them (though I’ve never really thought about it really…). Instead, I smile as big as I can, nod my head, raise my eyebrows in the ubiquitous Filipino greeting, and cheerily shout out “Myad nga aga!” which means “Good Morning,” even if sometimes in my head I translate it to mean “I Don’t Like You Even Though I’m Smiling At You.”
Actually, as far as greetings go, “Hey Joe!” isn’t as bad as the occasional “WASSUP DUUUUUDE!” chanted by small groups of young, pre-pubescent boys who’ve equated everything western with rap and hip hop (thank you MTV for your wonderful stewardship of American culture). Usually that greeting is paired with a short burst of fancy, hip-hoppish, dancy sort of footwork and ends in some sort of hand signal that makes them look as if they are trying to form a shadow butterfly on the wall. Regardless of the greeting, my answer, like my pedaling and my route to school, is steadfast and sure. Smile, I tell myself. Look. Eye contact. Myad nga aga. Oops, veered off the road. Veer back on. Thaaaaat’s it. Once I think about it though, even a thuggish “Wassssup Dude!” is better than the “Hey Mr. Scott, F&*# You!” I got from one of my doting 2nd graders, whose less-than-perfect-grasp of the English language didn’t quite allow him to understand why that might be considered offensive in some parts of the US. It was a teachable moment if nothing else.
All of that said, I was pedaling my way through the bumpy gravel ruts loosely referred to as a “road” around the corner from our house this morning, mentally preparing myself for the onslaught of greetings sure to be flung my way, wishing that people would just get to know Erin and I as people. Our barangay is pretty small, I just want people to know us here. Usually, we're just "Joe" or "Dude." As I was saying—I was making my way to school when a trike passed me; in itself, not an unusual occurrence. Oh no! I thought to myself, A trike FULL of young kids. Great. What’s my response to them going to be? Do I just nod and smile? Should I risk a wave on this road? I have to grit my teeth whatever I do. I HATE it when they call me Joe. I hate it, hate it, hate it, hate it. Gosh, I want to knock people OUT when they do that. Goodness, this road is bumpy. I wonder what I'll have for lunch. As my mind reels and my tires slide around and through the loose gravel, I look up just as the trike pulls in front of me, and instead of just a bunch of kids riding this trike, lo and behold, an angelic host of children sit upon the smoky beast—their voices ring out above the whiny din of the 2 stroke motor, through the black shroud of exhaust and flit about my ears, tickling and tingling as they reach me, enveloping me in warmness even before my mind recognizes the sweet content. Can this be real? Am I still in bed dreaming? Nope, that was a big pothole—don’t get many of those in my dreams. A smile wraps itself from ear to ear, goose bumps penetrate past the 90 degree early morning heat and I want to stop my bike and dance for joy. If I went home right now, I would be happy. My time is NOT wasted here. Even as I continue to ride on, my mind replays the scene again and again, each replay making me forget about the problems of the day (and the oncoming trike—yikes, veer to the right! VEER! VEER! Phew! That was close…). Instead of “Hey Joe!”, “Wassuuup Dude!” or even the random explicative tossed my way, those children, those beautiful examples of everything that is good in humanity today, greeted me with the simple harmonious chorus “Good Morning Sir Scott!” Nothing could get me down today after that. Except for that jeep, HOLY SMOKES FARVER are you even watching where you’re pedaling! You’re not going to get many more greetings like that if you don’t look where you’re going…