Growing up in the Philippines and then moving to a new
country, much less America, was fraught with fear and anxiety for a young kid. But our family home at 47 Brighton Terrace
soothed and allayed my fears as I
learned about life, friendship and sports in these united states.
Brighton Terrace was a short street of row houses that were
similar in size and shape and distinct only by color. The street was on a hill
and my house stood towards the bottom. It was a nondescript gray and white skinny duplex with large
living room windows that faced the street.
The dining room flowed from the living room and right across was the
kitchen which was separated by a window wall where food and conversations were often
passed. The bedrooms were in the back
and mine was in the left side corner with two windows with a backyard view.
There was a finished basement with a full kitchen and
bathroom where many a day and night were spent hanging out with friends. The lot was rectangular with a sloping side
and backyard and during winter provided
a great sled track. The home was important
because of its location. Kids around the
neighborhood would gathering in front of my house and play. Even as I was doing my chores or practicing
the piano, the constant sqwauking and giggling of kids playing, made me feel
like a caged bird needing to escape, which left the chores halfheartedly done and
the piano practice cursory. The house
also served as a meeting point where we assembled to plan our next sports
activity.
What I cherish most
about the home was how it brought me many friends where true, deep
relationships were forged with no
self-pride, pretenses or racial bias. We
were all from different cultures but holding no notions of self
importance. Mike and Anthony, brothers three years apart, were kids of Italian immigrants and my
constant playmates. Their father was hilarious
as he told stories about life in Italy, with his thick Scicillian accent, which
I found hard to understand but enjoyed
nonetheless. There was a Chinese kid next door named Henry who was a bit younger than most us .
He was a skinny kid, not very athletic but he had one important
asset. He had a 16 year sister who had lots
of friends and on hot summer days would wear the skimpiest of bikinis as they
lounged around their backyard pool. My
friends and I made spying on them a spectator sport as we looked out my bedroom
window hoping not to get caught. John was
another friend who lived on the next block.
He was a Portuguese kid, thickly built with curly black hair, and always
a source of comical entertainment, trying hard to fit in but always making a
fool of himself. We loved him!
Then there was Debra who lived a few houses up and across
the street. She was kind of chubby but
had a very pretty exotic face. Any time
her parents were gone, she would always invite me up to here room. Either I was naive or just plain stupid, but
I always refused. I knew in my head and heart that it was probably a bad idea. Although we were all young, there were definitely stirrings of
sexual feelings and awareness. Lisa,
short cute and blonde, lived on the next block and our backyards shared a common chain-linked
fence. We would spend hours along the fence with our arms hanging over talking amid the laundry line of sheets and clothes
flapping and fresh linen scent wafting around us. However, during high school she became a
cheerleader and our interests went separate ways and we lamented as we signed
each other's yearbook at how we drifted apart when once we were so close.
Mark Ver Sprill who lived up the street and around the
corner was my best friend. We shared a
common interest in sports music and
girls. We were partners in crime in
almost everything and leaders in promoting our sports activities. It seemed that playing sports was in his
life's blood and he tranfused that love into me.
The beauty of living in the east coast was the distinct
change of seasons. As the seasons went,
so did our sports activities. Summer
brought baseball. School was out, which
in itself was sheer joy, the sun as beading down relentlessly, days were humid,
sweltering and sticky, but you couldn't find a kid inside.
Fall in Irvington ushered in the vibrant change of colors.
Trees displayed the hues and nature's color pallete. Bright orange was the dominant shade with touches of
yellow ochre and copper complected leaves. Oak trees, that had not yet received the
signal that it's fall, created a deep green canvas background that exposed the
brilliant colors.
Fall also brought about football which is inherently
dangerous sport where immovable objects collide and bodies get battered and
pain was a foregone conclusion. Tackle
football on concrete was the norm and
torn pants, bruised knees and ripped shirts kept moms busy at their sewing
machines and merthiolate at the ready.
Winter arrived with its gray dark days and freezing temperatures
stung our little faces and the sport was street hockey, our favorite. Endless hours of playing didn't make us
markedly better but we didn't care. We
were just happy shooting the ball around.
I was the goalie, a position I loved,
because it was the most important defensive on the team. I fashioned goalie pads out of old foam couch
seats but constant use made them tear and shred around my pants. Blocker pads were made out hard cardboard and
duct taped around my forearms. Masks
were optional but black eyes and head contusions warranted them.
Looking back at my life, I know that my days growing up on Brighton
Terrace . I'm not sure that any other
place would have been a perfect teacher for preparing me for the life in this
country. There were ranges of emotion
that filled my childhood from euphoria of stopping a breakaway or the
despondency of seeing a girl you liked going out with another kid, the
contentment of sitting on the stoop telling stories that were half truths, lots
of lies but always believable. The house
was more the roof or a shelter from the
heat and cold. As a kid from the
Philippines It was the perfect teacher on how life is lived in the United
States.
