Green Ain’t My Color
For the Christmas program at nursery school, I was cast as “mommy” in our production of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” It was a pretty meaty role, and I remember wearing a little floral duster as I rendezvoused with jolly ol’ St. Nick by the Christmas tree.
Two things about this incident stand out in my memory. The first was that Santa, played by a classmate whom we shall call Georgy Porgy, was supposed to give me a peck on the cheek. But he ended up kissing me on the lips! I really don’t know if I’m making this up, but I distinctly remember vigorously wiping my lips with the back of my hand right after he committed the crime of stealing my first kiss. (Years later, another classmate told me, “Ah si Georgy? Naghuhubad ‘yun tuwing absent ka eh!” I filed that revelation under “too much information.”)
The second thing that stands out in my mind is that, while I was given a good role, I was really bummed that I didn’t get the princess role. Every little girl wants to be a princess, and I was no different. I remember looking at The Princess one recess, as she prepared to go down a slide. She looked breathtaking as the sun shone on her perfect brown hair and milky skin. I must’ve scowled and crossed my arms across my chest. Why, I asked myself, were the pretty mestizas always cast as the princess? And she even had a mestizo prince to boot. It was my first taste of envy.
I was telling a co-worker about this childhood memory, narrating how I succumbed to one of the seven deadly sins at the tender age of nearly-four. She looked at me without saying anything for a couple of seconds. And then she spoke. “Ati,” she told me, “buti ka pa. ‘Yung role ko nung kinder, Ifugao!”