We Belong - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Cookie Hiponia was born in the Philippines and immigrated to America when she was nine years old. As the mother of children born into two cultures, Cookie had spent years searching for books that reflect her family’s experience. When she couldn’t find such a book, she heeded Toni Morrison and wrote the book she wanted to read with her daughters. We Belong is that book, a semi-autobiographical middle grade novel-in-verse about the Pilipino American immigrant experience that weaves in Tagalog cosmic mythology. Cookie lives in Seattle with her family.
 

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Mama, tell us a story

For as long as I can remember,

children in my family have asked this

of every mother in my family.

“Mama, tell us a story.”

Tonight, as they do every night,

my children ask it of me.

Some mothers, daughters, and sisters

sew, paint, or cook their stories;

my mothers and I sing ours. 

Mama, tell us a story.

Sure, Stella, just a sec, okay? 

Luna. Hey Luna moonbeam, 

have you brushed your teeth?

I did, Mama. 

You always say cleanliness is next to godliness,

and my teeth are next to godliness.

Mmm. Minty godliness. 

Okay, no more comics. 

Lights down. Let’s get tucked in.

Aw! Just one more p—

Luna.

Fiiine.

Thank you. 

Mama, a story? Please?

First let’s make sure 

you have everything you need 

for your field trip tomorrow.

Daddy already signed 

the permission slip last week. 

I just need to bring a sack lunch.

Remember to put on plenty of sunscreen

and wear your hat the whole time.

Ugh, I hate sticky sunscreen! 

Won’t I just get super brown and look like you?

Absolutely not. You’re pale like Daddy, and

he gets freckles just going up the driveway for the mail.

Without sunscreen, you’ll get crispy like lechón! 

Maamaa! Don’t bite my arm! 

Then wear sunscreen!

Okay already! Now a story! 

Story! Story! Story! Story! Story!

All right, all right! Sheesh! 

What story do you want to hear, my hearts? 

Shall I tell you the one about 

the moon, the sun, and the star?

Or shall I tell you the one about 

the poet, her brother, and her sister?

No, Mama. Tell us your story.

Every story I tell you is my story, anak. 

Tonight, I will tell you

Mayari’s heavenly family story,

the story of outsiders 

who had to work four times harder

than everyone else to inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.

It is very like my family’s story, our own mythology. 

So tonight, I will also tell you

my Aguila family story,

the story of immigrants

who had to work four times harder

than everyone else to dream the American dream.

When I hear Mayari’s story, it is like listening to my own,

like reading a story that anyone who looks like me 

knows by heart. Mayari and I share a name—

Wait. Mama, your name is Elsie, not Mayari.

Just as my story is not exactly like Mayari’s story,

my name is not exactly like Mayari’s name,

but we share our one true name: Buan.

I don’t get it. That’s your middle name, not your real name.

Oh, my heart, what’s real is not always what’s true.

Buan made it her life’s work to reflect light;

I think it must be my life’s work to reflect love.

You see, a great love is like a light

that shines through in loves that come after.

It is reflected in the great love

between me and my sister,

between the two of you,

between all sisters.

And my first story begins with that great love,

between Mayari and her sister, Tala.

I will tell you their story as Mayari would tell it, 

from the beginning of everything. 

Little Star

When my sister, Tala, was born, 

my heart found its other half.

“My baby,” I said, reaching for her hand 

and gently rocking her cradle.

“Could you sing my lullaby to her, sinag? Mayari?” 

asked my mother, who was cleaning after dinner. 

We were all drowsy, getting ready for bedtime.

I sang to my baby the lullaby that Nanay had been 

singing to me forever.

Kislap, kislap bituin

Ano bang ‘yong gawain

Sa ibabaw ng mundo

Parang hiyas na bato

Kislap, kislap bituin

Ano bang ‘yong gawain

Tala has been my dearest love for lifetimes. 

I have loved others, reached for other lights in the 

darkness, but none compare to my little star.  

Tala . . .TA-laaah

my sweetest

my brightest

my heart

my song

the bridge between our big brother and me,

between day and night, between light and dark. 

Between worlds

there twinkles a little star.

Tala . . .TA-laaah

A Simple Kind of Life

My days took shape around making Tala’s eyes sparkle,

making her wonder at the magic of stones and leaves.

It was my job to keep Tala happy 

while my family worked 

and I was so good at it, her whole face shone 

when she smiled.

She sang before she talked; danced before she walked.

We grew in those fields together, 

sun-kissed and content.

Every morning at dawn, 

our family would go out to the fields:

Tatay carrying his bolo over his shoulder,

Nanay carrying Tala liwanag, our starshine,

Kuya Apolaki, our eldest, carrying our lunch basket.

All I carried were the flowers I picked, 

the stones and feathers I gathered,

the songs in my heart,

all of it for Tala.

Kuya would lay out our banig 

under the shade of a langka tree.

Nanay would place Tala on it, 

smile at her and kiss her head.

Tatay would ruffle my hair and 

tickle Tala until she giggled,

then the three of them would walk off 

into the rows of crops nearby.

I taught Tala the name of 

every plant around our little house

the way Nanay taught me and Kuya. 

Nanay sang the world to life for us, 

starting with a song describing our bahay kubo—

our palm hut—surrounded by Earth’s bounty.

Bahay kubo, kahit munti

ang halaman doon ay sari-sari

Singkamas at talong, sigarilyas at mani

Sitaw, bataw, patani

Kundol, patola, upo’t kalabasa

At saka meron pang labanos mustasa

Sibuyas, kamatis, bawang at luya

Sa paligid-ligid nito’y panay na linga

When the sun was highest in the sky,

Tatay, Nanay, and Kuya would come back to our banig

with fresh fruit to go with our lunch.

Nanay would take Tala onto her lap 

to snuggle and nurse.

Tatay would lay out our meal leftovers 

wrapped in banana leaves.

Kuya and I would eat our lunch quickly 

so we could play.

Sometimes we would stay close to the...