My grandma’s short term memory hasn’t been very good lately. Though, she does remember a lot of other things.  My grandma would take a nap, wake-up and then ask about breakfast. She would also ask the same question, over and over. She forgets my fluency in kapangpangan isn’t that great, so she’ll ramble on to me in her native tounge. I’ll grasp some, but have to ask her to repeat or translate. In spite of her short term memory dwindling, my grandma still remembers some of the silly things I did as a child.

I was about 3 years old when they moved here from the Philippines. When they came here, they lived with my parents, me and my brother in California. I was a fiesty little child. From what I have been told and what I recall, I was a brat. The transition must not have been that great for me, because one day I had a minor altercation with my grandma. This altercation could have stemmed from a culture clash, but I am not sure. I remember what happened, but I don’t recall why. To this day, my grandma still tells this story. She may have forgotten a million other things, but she still tells this story.

Our home in California in was a little two-story townhome, in this agricultural town, on the east side. It wasn’t a nice part of town and was mostly populated by immigrants. Our backyard had a little slab of cement, covered in plastic grass. Our windows had bars on every window. I have had dreams of my childhood home.

One day, I hardly recall the details, aside from the actual event. I was in the house and my grandma was in the backyard. I slid that glass door to a slamming shut and locked it. Me, in my defiant, 3 year old voice, yelled at my grandma,”GO BACK TO YOUR AIRPLANE!”

This story has been told and re-told for years. It still cracks me up to hear my grandma tell the story. This event foreshadows the relationship between me and my grandma over the years. We’d butt heads, but I’d get over it. I love my grandma.