Balikbayan Part Four: Vacuum Lady
“Vacuum Lady” was originally part of the Balikbayan series, a collection of short stories from my childhood, which eventually inspired the full-length play of the same title. Self-published in 2017 after a trip to the Philippines, I refrained from editing this piece because I wanted to keep the thoughts and feelings I had as a 23-year old to remain as they were— without judgement and censure from the person I am today. I wanted to share these stories again, because as I was re-reading them, they felt like prologues to the inevitable journey I find myself in now.
Nanay [na-nay]
noun
Mom
My older brother, Michael, chased me around the front yard and followed me as high up the mango tree as my four-year old limbs could take me. Our screams of delight created a soft duet with the afternoon cicadas. The tree stood in the middle of our driveway, equidistant from the main door to our house and the gate that stood at the front of our property. Whenever I look back on my memories growing up in Bacolod, this tree is usually in the peripheral. When I got a little older, my family eventually installed a roof that ran from our house all the way down the driveway to keep the rain off our cars. My cousins and I used to get on the roof by climbing the mango tree and we’d sit up there with snacks we’d bought from the sari-sari store, indifferent to the heat emanating off the metal sheet onto our skin as we talked about anything and everything.
But at this time, the roof hadn’t been installed yet and it was only my brother and I perched on the tree’s branches, the sweet yet sour smell of mangoes filling our noses as we tried to catch our breaths. Our Lola smoked her afternoon tobacco in the living room when suddenly, we heard the door bell ring. Our Lola had given us strict instructions time and time again not to open the gate under any circumstances, so we waited for one of our yayas to run out and see who it was. I couldn’t really hear the exchange from high up on the tree, but I watched curiously as our yaya spoke with someone on the other side of the gate. Next thing I knew, she stepped back and swung it open, and a beautiful woman in a black suit dress stepped through the small opening. Despite the dark color of her suit, it paled in comparison to the raven hair complimenting her ivory skin. Past her skirt, however, I was alarmed to see beige legs. Stockings, my mind supplied quickly. I only recognized them from the time my brother and I dug through our aunt’s drawers and pulled the curious article of clothing over our heads.
“What did you do to my stockings?!” she yelled when she caught us.
This woman was wearing stockings. She pulled a small suitcase behind her, stood on the driveway, looked up at the tree, and smiled at us. She stood there for a few moments— expectantly. I gave my brother a confused look, which he returned with a quick shrug. The woman’s smile faltered and she walked into the house. Who is she? I asked myself quickly. Countless possibilities ran through my mind, but one answer kept popping up again and again. She must be one of those vacuum ladies.
In the late 90’s, finely dressed women would often go house to house to sell all kinds of products— there were women who sold SO-EN bras and panties, women who sold Avon soaps and lotions, and then there were the vacuum ladies. These women were the only ones who dressed in suits and dragged heavy suitcases (stocked with vacuum parts) around the neighborhood despite the hot weather. They would go into your homes and do live demonstrations of their products. One time, a vacuum lady came to our house with a new model, one of those vacuum cleaners that looked like a race car, and did a demonstration using the rug in our living room to a crowd of my cousins and I— ages ranging from four to ten— while our grandmother ran off to the kitchen to boss around our yayas some more. We were all dazzled as this strange woman threw dirt on our rug just to suck it up again and switched the vacuum heads with an impressive sleight of hand. It’s odd to think now that this woman continued her demonstration despite knowing that she wasn’t making a sale.
“I use a broom,” my grandmother insisted before she left the room, blowing out a puff of smoke and replacing the roll of tobacco on her lips. But I guess the more time she wasted performing for us children, the less time she spent running around in the heat.
She has to be a vacuum lady, I thought as I eyed the woman’s suitcase before she disappeared into the house. Before I could think any more of the mysterious vacuum lady, my brother hopped off the tree and called on me to keep playing. We were lost in our own world for a while before we heard our Lola call our names from inside the house. Knowing better than to keep her waiting, we rushed into the living room where she sat with the vacuum lady.
“Give her a hug!” our grandmother ordered. Confused, I shook my head. Before I could ask any questions our older sister, Valerie, walked into the room and hugged the stranger. They must have liked her demonstration. After a few moments, my sister sat between Michael and I on the long couch.
“Who is she?” I whispered to my sister.
“That’s mom!” she answered with a chuckle.
This is the first memory I have of my mom. Growing up, she worked as a nurse in Saudi Arabia. She would work abroad for months at a time and then return to the Philippines for the remainder of the year. She had come home and I didn’t recognize her.
It’s weird how memories work. Although I was old enough to be considered past toddler age, I can’t think of an earlier memory of my mother besides this one. It’s funny to think that this is the moment I started regarding my mom as my mom. Before this, she was a complete stranger to me— someone who was trying to sell my grandmother a cleaning appliance we didn’t need.
I remember my older sister pushing me forward and falling into my mom’s arms. My grandmother, my sister, and my brother were all regarding us with a smile, but all I could focus on was the suitcase sitting by mom’s foot, on the same rug that the race car vacuum had cleaned up. If it’s not vacuum parts, then what’s inside them? As it turns out, my mom had better things in her suitcase. She had chocolates and presents.
