A barrio Thanksgiving

Angela Guiao
MSMU Class of 2021

(11/2019) Thanksgiving was never my favorite holiday. My parents immigrated to the United States from the Philippines during the Clinton administration. It was easier to get into the country then, and they were lucky enough for the opportunity to better their lives. Thanksgiving never made much sense to them. Now that I come to think about it, my parents always worked on Thanksgiving. I never experienced a Thanksgiving feast complete with a giant turkey, stuffing, and mashed vegetables. At least, never in my own home. Whenever we were invited to celebrate Thanksgiving at another home, the food was usually traditionally Filipino. That means roasted chicken replaced the turkey and there was ube, which is made from purple yams, to replace the mashed potatoes.

Growing up Filipino always made me feel ever-so-slightly out of place. I was born and raised in America. Born in D.C., and grew up around the suburbs (Silver Spring). I never related to the history of America, and the only time I ever heard about the people from my home country was when I learned about the Philippine war. But, according to my mother, the Philippines does celebrate their own version of Thanksgiving. They learned about the holiday after they were colonized by America in 1989. While the majority of Filipinos most likely are not aware of the holiday here in America, they are aware that the Americans have a holiday devoted to giving thanks. As a result, the Filipinos decided to celebrate their gratefulness as well during the anniversaries of their home town.

So, I am going to give you a little taste of a Filipino Thanksgiving. In the Philippines, my family originates from the province of Laguna. Laguna is located about three hours from Manila, the country’s capital. In Laguna, there is a municipality called Santa Maria. And that is where my family is from. Santa Maria is located at the upper tip of Laguna. So if you imagine Laguna to be a crescent moon, we are located at the uppermost tip of that moon. Now, the anniversary of our particular area of Santa Maria is in August, which is why my family usually tries to visit the Philippines during this month.

The celebration of a local town’s anniversary is called a barrio fiesta. During this time, the families who live within that barrio host extravagant dinners and decorate their homes and streets in celebration. Every night, at the local market, where people can buy freshly meat, fish and vegetables, a sort of fair is created. There the locals will come together and play games of bingo, or ride on the mini Ferris wheel. The site will also be littered with different food vendors who sell Filipino delicacies such as fish balls and pig intestines. If you were to visit the fair at night, on the way back home you would pass by several inuman sessions. This is basically a gathering of friends and family at their own personal homes where they drink all night and sing the karaoke. And let me tell you. Filipinos love their karaoke.

The barrio fiesta usually lasts a few days, and oftentimes in the bigger cities, people from all over the country come to visit. Also, being that the Philippines is a catholic country, there are usually visits to church and offerings made to the barrio’s patron saint. Now, this is a big deal in the Philippines, so big that my mother tries to visit every year for the sole purpose of attending the fiesta. It is almost as big of a deal as Christmas, but that’s another story.

The purpose of the barrio fiesta derives from the American understanding of giving thanks for the harvest. This is literally and figuratively. The patron saint of each barrio is given offerings to show ones gratefulness for the blessings they received that year. But also, in many parts of the Philippines, including Santa Maria, the population is made up of farmers. Santa Maria is the rice granary of the Philippines, meaning that a majority of the rice comes from our municipality. So as you could imagine, walking down the dirt street of Santa Maria, you would have one side of you lined with tall, concrete houses, and the other side an expanse of flat farming land.

There would occasionally be a random fruit tree filled with guyabanos or mangoes, and in my experience, a monkey hanging from the door of a tiny street-side convenience store. The smell of dirt is pungent as the roar of diesel motorcycles screech past you, but you can also hear the constant buzzing of the bugs that hide in the long grass in the fields. When I come home from a trip to the Philippines, I often remember what I am grateful for. I may not have the pleasure of sitting around a table with my family and exchanging food with them, but I am grateful for the chance to meet the strangers that my parents grew up with.

Whenever, I wish that I could attend a Thanksgiving dinner, I try to remember the times when I was in the Philippines. I think about the constant noise that comes from the chatter, the laughs, the singing, and the aroma from the frying and grilling of meat. I think about music, and how much Filipinos love music and playing their music insanely loud. I think about alcohol and fresh fruits, homemade dishes that I never heard of or thought I would eat. I think about the stray dogs that nip at your feet while you eat and the satisfied sounds of their chewing when someone throws them some food. I remember the faces of people I do not know who come up and greet me happy fiesta, and the screams of the poor lady who won 100 pesos in a game.

The fiesta is the time where it doesn’t matter where you come from. It doesn’t matter whether you are rich or you are poor. It is a time of celebration for where you are from. The mayor sits next to the garbage man at a game of bingo, and the members of the local government office drinks with the farmers. And basketball. Filipinos love basketball. And during the barrio fiesta, the teams are made of such a mixture of classes, of people. I am grateful for that. I am grateful for where I am from. Our Thanksgiving may not be traditional, but it embodies everything that I love.

Read other articles by Angela Tongohan