Mourning My Tita (During A Pandemic)

Mixed Asian Media - June 9, 2021

By Daniela Paraguya Sow

I stood on my front lawn at 1 AM with a glass of red wine and openly sobbed. On this serene, warm August night, everything in me was unraveling, and to my relief, no one was awake to hear.

I had just found out through Facebook’s Instant Messenger that my aunt in the Philippines had passed away. One of my uncles had just messaged me that Tita (this name is also short for Henrietta) had suffered a stroke, and now he had to figure out how to get to Manila to take care of her body and retrieve her death certificate. During this COVID-19 era, the new regulations have made travel and funeral arrangements difficult  —  and the Philippines had just experienced their second lockdown.

I felt strange. Definitely major shock. Some helplessness. Grief?

Can you grieve over someone you haven’t known very well or haven’t seen in many years?

Maybe I was mourning my Tita, and more. Was I mourning the loss of my culture and family ties, too?

I chugged my merlot, barely tasting it, and looked up at the stars, which seemed to be watching and listening. I prayed out loud to God  —  and to my mom, who was up there somewhere, too. “Take care of Tita,” I whispered. A good, hard-working woman, now flown to the heavens.

The last time I had seen Tita was when my mom, younger brother, and I had stayed in Manila at the Philippine Plaza Hotel. I was 14. Though I didn’t remember her very well, she and I had emailed on occasion, especially after my mom lost the battle to breast cancer. It was because of Tita that I learned my real heritage; I had always told people that I’m Filipina and Romanian, but Tita made me realize my ancestry was so much richer and complex. From a carefully crafted document she wrote back in 2012, I learned that not only am I Cebuano, Bolohano, and Waray (more specific ethnic groups within the main Filipino group), but also am Chinese and Spanish.

My definition and understanding of self would unravel much more beyond these names. I realized  —  in order to fully respond to my aunt’s passing, and my uncles and cousins who were in mourning — I needed to go beyond ethnicity and the “what am I?” question. I was having that revelatory Simba moment, the one where his father rolls away with the clouds, thundering, “Remember who you are...”

“How much will her funeral and other expenses cost?” I asked my uncle over a video call.

He told me the amount in pesos. He explained how he didn’t know yet how to go about planning a proper memorial service, though the cremation would happen later in the week.

Our phone connection would sometimes glitch, but even so, I could see the sadness and uncertainty in his eyes. He adjusted his cap and looked away, blinking back tears. I could hear the roosters’ piercing crows behind him and see the lush leaves looming  —  such a striking green  —  as well as part of a tin roof jutting out from a simple home. I yearned to hug him.

We talked more about Tita, her passing away, and what was needed next. He broke down in tears on the video call. I cried with him. Together, it felt good to let go and mourn. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t corresponded in so many years or that an ocean flowed between us. The chasm felt healed in an instant. All of this felt so strange, but it also felt like home.

After I spoke to my two other uncles on video calls, I did some math, spoke to my husband and father about the funeral costs and other expenses, and arranged a wire transfer  —  my first one to the Philippines. This is what my mom would have done. I should have been doing this all along, I chastised myself.

Without my mom around anymore, I was the only “bridge” connecting back to relatives in the Philippines. Why hadn’t I made more of an effort? How could I have neglected my duties, as an immigrant’s daughter? Why hadn’t my mother asked me to follow up, to continue what she had been doing, sending money and balikbayan boxes home? I checked myself. No, this wasn’t about entitlement issues or any “savior” complex for me. It wasn't about feeling sorry for others less fortunate, which is too easy of a trap for any Westerner or second-generation Filipino American. This whole matter, for me, was about preservation of ancestry and the people living on this earth, right now  —  and properly saying good-bye to the deceased.

What stirred my deepest yearnings and questions: re-reading my aunt’s report, this document chronicling the incredible efforts my mom made to care for the family  —  both in America and back in her homeland. Even her original beginnings, immigrating to the U.S., did not go without effort and sacrifice. Tita clearly did what she could to support my mother’s American dream  —  giving up her personal savings to ensure all documents could be processed, throwing a despedida (departure) party for her, and more.

Reading my aunt’s words  —  even in her personal email updates to me, dated in 2018 and 2019  —  has given me comfort.

Talking with my uncles has also given me comfort. “You have Manang’s eyes,” my uncle told me on a recent video call. He was remembering my mother. My heart swelled in a mix of both sadness and joy.

The other day, he was in isolation in a hotel in Dipolog, which is in the province of Zamboanga del Norte. He is traveling with Tita’s white and gray urn to Siocon. He must quarantine there for fourteen days; then he can proceed to plan a proper memorial service in the same cemetery where my grandparents and one of my other uncles are buried.

Across the ocean and time zones, I am here, also Facebook messaging Tita’s bible study friends and pastor, keeping them updated on all memorial service plans. I marvel at the power of social media, how crucial it is during a pandemic, sharing memories and finding ways to honor our loved one. Her friends message their condolences but also secret ingredients that Tita used in her recipes. Updates on her cats. When they last saw or spoke with her. It’s humbling, the ways in which they bring her to life so beautifully, though they don’t really know me.

My uncle sends me video clips of his current quarantine in Siocon. His masked face, double-protected with the transparent face shield. My aunt’s ashes with him. We don’t know when, but somehow we will commemorate her life, and I will reflect on ways I might build an even stronger bridge with family  —  with or without current travel regulations. It is what my mother and Tita would have wanted.

Daniela Sow is an Assistant Professor of English at Grossmont College. She received her Bachelor’s degree in Literature with a minor in Women Studies from University of California, Santa Barbara; her Master’s of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing (Poetry) from San Diego State University; and her Post-secondary Reading and Learning Certificate from California State University, Fullerton. As a spoken word artist, she has competed on Team Ventura in the National Poetry Slam. Her poetry has been published in San Diego Poetry Annual, A Cappella Zoo, and Encompassing Seas, and most recently, Overachiever Magazine. Follow her on Twitter: @daniela_sow.