My S.O. has agreed to carry a rocket on his back during the Chinese New Year’s Parade. I reluctantly sit inside a Starbucks on 1st and Market Streets in San Francisco. Outside, it’s pouring. Inside the belly of my enemy, it’s warm and dry. I am temporarily placated by the free cup of coffee the Starbucks “barista” has accidentally poured. This parade will happen, rain or shine; it’s a San Francisco tradition. I have tried to convince my S.O. to BART back to Oakland with me, but for some reason he feels obligated to walk the mile and a half parade route with a rocket on his back. I try and convince him to be a gong bearer instead but I think he has his heart set on carrying the rocket. The Lao Association (San Francisco chapter) is a small, group of individuals dedicated to keeping Lao culture alive. I admire their dedication to their cause. If it were me, even the promise of down-home Filipino cooking at the end of the parade route would not provide enough incentive for me to walk a mile and a half in the rain with a rocket strapped to my back.
In college, I never even attended one PAA meeting. That’s “Pilipino American Association”. Pilipino, with a “P”. Somewhere along the line, the “f” sound made its way into the mutt language of Taglish (English and Taglog), even though there is no “f” sound in Tagalog. My Mom calls my Pops, “Prank” for “Frank”. I never really ran with the politico-Filipino set in college. They’d all hang out at Sproule Plaza, passing out flyers and being pro-Pilipino. Fatima, Charles and Amy were my Filipino friends. They were a year or two older than me and I met them, not through the student Filipino association, but because we all worked at the student-run store on campus selling Cal-themed sweatshirts and baseball caps. They’d invite me to attend; I’d politely decline. I wasn’t a “joiner” in college but now looking back I regret not going to at least one. At the very least, I could have swapped adobo recipes or found out where the best turo-turo Filipino joints were.
We take advantage of a reprieve from the rain that has pounded down all day and step out from the protection of my new best friend, Starbucks. Market and 1st streets are the main staging areas for the parade. Beautiful, young asian faces are everywhere. Rooster-headed children and pretty, teenaged girls in Asiatic costumes are corralled and set in formation by adults wielding digital cameras and whistles. A float with a giant gold Buddha waits for the signal to move forward. I wonder how the dragon troupes wearing only T-shirts and pants will survive the cold, wet weather as they wind down Market St. A heavy wool coat and an oversized umbrella doesn’t seem enough protection for me, as I huddle as close to my S.O. as possible. In a move that belies his mid-western constitution, my S.O. has wisely chosen to skip marching in the parade, opting instead to be a spectator. He walks, rocket-less, along side me, as we weave through groups and troupes waiting to take their place in the spotlight.
