Visit our Shop to Subscribe or Donate Sign up to our mailing list

The Dance of Home

Let me tell you about myself—so that you may come to know me, and the songs, sounds, and dances that I know.

First, the sounds of home.

At five o’clock, the morning symphony begins as the roosters up and down the street begin to crow. The dogs join in, not wanting to be outdone. Soon, all manner of creatures rouse the day awake. Then comes the rumble of tricycles, ferrying students to the street, with the screeching of brakes and the squealing of tires.

A group of smiling women seated in a blue tricycle, a common mode of transportation in the Philippines, parked on a residential street with houses and palm trees in the background.

A group of smiling women seated in a blue tricycle, a common mode of transportation in the Philippines, highlights the communal and vibrant lifestyle of both rural and urban Philippine neighbourhoods. Photo credit: Marilynn Quigley

By 6 o’clock, the vendors make their entrance.“Puto! Ibus!” they cry, selling rice cakes, white and purple, cushioned in banana leaves and ready for the breakfast table. Not long after comes the hot pan de sal man, on bicycle, selling golden buns, best eaten with butter and dipped in thick, dark chocolate.

A table with a green basket containing Filipino rice delicacies wrapped in banana and palm leaves, alongside a plate of white rice cakes individually wrapped in plastic.

Filipino rice delicacies. From left to right: a plate of 'Puto' wrapped in plastic, and 'Ibus' wrapped in banana and palm leaves. Photo credit: Marilynn Quigley

At 10 a.m., housewives—too busy or perhaps too unbothered to go to the market—wait for the vegetable vendor and the fish seller to arrive. My grandmother knows them both by name.

All day, the street bustles with activity—high school girls in uniform giggling over their latest crushes, housewives gossiping over fences, car and taxi drivers fighting over the right of way.

As evening falls, the balut vendors take over—balut being boiled eggs with the chick inside, sought after by the men for improved performance and potency. Before long, barbecue pits appear at doorways and street corners. Men, young and old, sit on benches drinking cheap gin and coconut toddy, snacking on sweet pork and grilled intestines. They exchange stories that grow more exaggerated with each telling, their voices rising louder and louder as the night progresses. Their wives and mothers call after them, marking the time or yelling at them to “Find work already!” A policeman might make an appearance—summoned by an irate neighbour or simply to join the group.

A street vendor grilling various skewered meats over a charcoal grill at night, with smoke rising from the grill. The vendor wears a black shirt, light shorts, a maroon cap, and is using a handheld fan to control the heat.

A street food vendor grills skewered meats over a smoky charcoal grill, showcasing the vibrant flavors of local nighttime cuisine. Photo credit: Marilynn Quigley

Everywhere, there is the sound of people being together: people laughing, people singing, people eating, people praying over their dead, and the occasional sounds of “Pong!” and “Chow!” amid the clack of tiles from mahjong tables.

In my own home, my grandmother’s porch fills with aunts, uncles and cousins, telling stories—tales told and retold of births and deaths, ghosts and infidelities, fortunes made and fortunes lost—as the evening draws to a close and the lights begin to dim.

And then there were the special days—the festivals and the family celebrations— when my grandmother’s house overflowed with people. The street outside would be packed with all manner of vehicles, and the garden transformed into a reception hall with tables and chairs. The centrepiece would be a roast pig, in all its hot and crackling glory, an apple nestled between its teeth. A whole contingent of children, and the occasional adult, would line up, anxiously waiting to begin breaking off a piece of its crisp, golden skin.

Relatives, young and old, would fill the house. There was food, laughter, and noise—so much noise—happy noise, family noise.

The Silence of Arrival

The first thing that struck me about Victoria, B.C. when I arrived was the silence. The silence of the streets, of the trees, of the sea. The silence of buildings, tall and dark, with shuttered windows.

During my first month in Victoria, I was walking outside my building when an older woman fell on the pavement a few feet away from me. I knelt to help her and called 911. When the ambulance arrived, I asked the paramedic if I could have the woman’s name so I could check on her later. The paramedic said, “No,” because of confidentiality rules, and then drove away.

Tears stung my eyes—tears for this culture where confidentiality could stand in the way of kindness. The woman had told me she had no family to call. I imagined her returning to her home, alone, to a silent house, when I could have welcomed her with flowers.

And then there was the silence that met over forty job applications and follow up calls. I had a Master’s degree when I arrived in Victoria, from an American university, and over thirty years of work and teaching experience. Somehow, these had no meaning or currency here. I was no one again. I had joined a long line of migrants who had traded the songs, sounds, and warmth of their home countries for comfort–yes–in Victoria, but also for silence, invisibility, and indifference. In my journal I wrote:

 

People here could not care less about where I have been, what I have done, or where I come from. Who would care that I have visited Jahangir’s tomb in Lahore and admired the Mughal arches there? Or that I have had breakfast on many mornings beneath a castle in Turkey, looking out at the Bosphorus where Jason sailed with his Argonauts and the Golden Fleece? Or that I have seen the sun rise over Mt. Kilimanjaro? 

 

After a few months I got a temporary job with the public service. There was a silence there too—the silence of people not particularly interested in welcoming a new face—and a loneliness, the loneliness of someone who did not yet know the right words to say, the correct gestures to make, the appropriate greetings and body language to use. The only person in that office who took the time to ask about me and where I was from was a man with a thick accent—a Polish immigrant who remembered what it felt like to be a new arrival, to be invisible.

The kindness of a fellow stranger, breaking through a thick silence.

The Dance of Recognition

Six months after my arrival I attended a job fair at a downtown hotel and landed  my first full-time job—working in a hospital kitchen. For 10 hours each day, my hair tied back with a hairnet, I washed pots and pans, mopped floors, pushed and pulled tray carts twice my size, pausing only for short breaks at lunch. The work was grueling, but here, at last, came recognition—because amid the clatter of pots and pans were the sounds of Spanish, Punjabi, Tagalog, and other languages I did not know. People whistled, people sang, everyone called me by name. It was as if an entire planeload of immigrants had landed in Victoria and found themselves in this kitchen.

It felt like home.

At last a silence was finally broken; I felt the possibility of being seen.

Other hands reached out to me. At first, it was people from my home country. They spoke a language sweet to my ears, opened their homes to me, and fed me with food whose names and tastes I knew. With them, I did not have to be wary or fear making mistakes. I was on friendly ground.

In the wider world, there were the service providers: smiling waiters, chatty hairdressers. Never mind that it was part of their job description to be friendly!

A long year later, an employer took a chance on me—not demanding local experience, seeing value in my resume. Slowly, other things called to me and welcomed me: Victoria’s flowers, the trees of Beacon Hill Park, the seagulls at Ogden Point.

The whisper of opportunity.

There was hope at last. If one door could open, so could many more.

A peaceful waterfront view of Ogden Point, Victoria, B.C. Canada at dusk, featuring a walking path lined with grass, calm waters reflecting the soft light of the sky, and distant mountains in the background.

Ogden Point, Victoria B.C. Canada captured at dusk. Photo credit: Marilynn Quigley

The Music of Today

I have not yet arrived. I continue to look, to watch, to learn, to understand.

I am now familiar with several bus routes and the names of many streets in Victoria.

I have begun to understand bike lanes.

I know where to get good day-old bread at a discount, wait for “Dollar Days” at Thrifty’s, and when mangoes are on sale at the Root Cellar.

I have learned to like dogs, and I even have a cat.

I do not yet own Lululemons, but I have a car, a Costco card, walking sticks, Birkenstocks, and a Tilley hat. One day—someday—I may finally know the names of the trees and the flowers.

Perhaps then, I will be truly home.

________________________________

 

Marilynn (Meyen) Quigley’s Part 1: The Dances of a Stranger serves as the first piece of a two-part series of the immigrant experience.  In Part 2: The Dances of a Stranger (The Poem), Meyen vividly captures the vulnerability of navigating a new culture, questioning what they must change to be seen, heard, and embraced.

Read more: Part 2: The Dances of a Stranger (The Poem)