Balikbayan Part Five: Yaya
“Yaya” 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.
Yaya [ya-ya]
noun
A woman who is hired primarily as a nanny, but is also oftentimes responsible for other household chores
The sky was still dark, the vastness of blue interrupted only by a small sliver of orange in the horizon. The stillness of the air was disrupted by the sounds of stirring roosters, the roll of suitcases on marble tiles in my aunt's living room, and the soft whispers of my mom double checking our luggage. I was sitting in the dining room fiddling with my camera's viewfinder, wondering if I should start packing it when Sally walks into the room to help bring our bags to the car.
"Sally, can I get a picture of us before we go?" I asked quickly. She looked startled for a second, but nodded in agreement.
"Hold on," she answered before walking out the backdoor.
I stood around the dining room table anxiously waiting for her to come back. Within minutes, most of our luggage had been moved to the car and soon enough, I would need to follow suit and leave my aunt's house for the airport. I followed Sally out afraid that she had forgotten about the picture. Before I could get far, I saw her standing right outside the door with watery eyes.
"Is it okay if we don't do it, Chip?" she asked me, using the nickname my family had given when I was little.
Growing up, it was common practice in the Philippines to have yayas— women hired to help raise children and assist with the occasional house chores. Sally was my very first yaya. She was the first one in a long line of women to help my mother and grandmother raise me. We hired Sally temporarily to help with the added housework during our stay at my aunt's house and to help look after my three nieces. I hadn't seen Sally in decades and I was caught off guard when I saw that she could still get so emotional at the thought of me leaving. With my mom working abroad and my grandmother needing to split her focus to our entire extended family, I grew up attached to my yayas to the point where I grew possessive of them. I found comfort in the attention and care that they gave me. It wasn't until I was around six years old when I realized how much these women were sacrificing just to be able to do their jobs.
Around this time, my yaya was a stout woman with caramel skin and a short bob named Delia. Everyday, she would wake up at the crack of dawn, make my brother and I breakfast, lay out our school uniforms, and help us get ready. When we got home from school, she would prepare merienda, a light afternoon meal, and help us with our nightly routine. She worked for us for the longest time and I grew very attached to her, which was only made clear when her daughter, who was a few years younger than me, stayed with us for a week. I teased her daughter endlessly when she stayed with us. I was jealous whenever Delia paid attention to her. I was so used to having her undivided attention that I couldn't handle seeing her taking care of someone else. I would poke fun at her daughter and tried to make it seem like her mom cared more for me than she did with her. It wasn't until I saw the look in her eyes the day she had to leave that I realized how cruel I was. They were full of the same restrained sadness that filled my eyes whenever we dropped my mom off at the airport when she had to leave for Saudi Arabia.
Like most women who took jobs as yayas, Delia lived in a more rural area, a few hours bus ride away from Bacolod, the city where I grew up. It was easy to forget that she had her own family she had to leave behind to take care of my brother and I. She had to take care of someone else's children in order to provide for her own. Much to my sadness, Delia eventually left us, but I couldn't get myself to be angry knowing she was doing so to be with her family. It was always hard on me whenever one of our yayas decided to leave us. It wasn't until I saw Sally crying in front of me that I realized it was just as hard on them.
I walked up to Sally and gave her a hug. I remained quiet, but I wanted to thank her, and Delia, and the other women who were my yaya for a time. Yes, I was raised by my mother, my grandmother, and my aunts, but there was also a handful of other women who looked after me not just because it was their job, but because they genuinely cared about me.
"C'mon, Sally. So you'll have a picture of him now that he's older," my aunt interrupted us.
Sally and I slowly walked back into the dining room before my aunt took a quick picture of us. I gave her one last hug before I left and told her that I hoped I would see her again soon.
"Bye, Chip," she waved as I walked towards the car.
