All the Coconuts on the Island

Dear Nana,

I want so badly for my daughter to know you. You were the toughest and most resourceful woman I have known. You gave birth to my mother while the Japanese were bombing Manila in 1942. Hours later, you, your husband and your newborn were evacuated to an island to wait out the rest of the War.

You took one look around at the situation and had the prescience to realize that the food situation would be dire in the near future. Your husband thought you were crazy, but knew you were not someone with whom one disagreed lightly. The two of you collected all of the coconuts on the island. The food ran out on the island. You left the island richer than when you arrived.

Flash forward two decades and your only daughter gave birth to me. You left your native homeland to come and care for me. How lucky I was to have my Nana. The neighborhood kids adored you. Your big jar of coins always had enough to provide a gaggle of us with ice cream when the Good Humor truck's jingle rounded the lane. Sometimes the bags of pennies you used as weights for exercising were emptied if the group was particularly large on a given day.

After my parents divorced, and my white father somehow got custody (I learned later that he was trying to have my mother deported), you rented a basement room across the street and became a housekeeper. You who had been a teacher in a fully staffed house in the Philippines was now cleaning homes to keep an eye on me and my brother.

When you were interviewed for U.S. citizenship, you shared that the man asked you if you were now or had ever been a prostitute. I guess it was a form question. You slapped him across the face, yet somehow still passed the test.

Later, you married a widower in the neighborhood. You shared a love of card games with Grandpa Hoekstra, traveled the United States with him, and had us over for Sunday dinners. After he had passed, you once asked me, "Do you know why I married Grandpa Hoekstra?" I was driving you to a doctor's appointment at the time. "No, Nana, why?" With a deep dimpled smile, you replied, "For sex and sex only." I almost crashed the car. I don't think you meant it, but you sure had a mischievous streak.

One of your favorite things was to ask people to guess your age. You were quite beautiful and, in fact, had won a beauty pageant in the Philippines. People were astounded at the smoothness of your skin. "Asians don't raisin," we sometimes joked. I think it was the twinkle in your eyes that threw people off, as well as the deep dimples that framing your smiling mouth.

Your letters are treasures of mine. They were sent to me when I was away at college and I saved every one of them. You wrote like you talked. My roommates enjoyed hearing me read them aloud and we frequently laughed together at your suggestions and phrasing. I had the letters bound in a book and gave them to my daughter so that she could get a taste of your wit and charm. Most of the letters included a few dollars and the note, "Not for beer or cigarettes!"

You very much wanted me to become a doctor. Because I fainted at the sight of blood, you settled for my becoming a lawyer. Upon my graduation, you sent me pencils embossed with "Attorney Maria Leonard" on them. I was too embarrassed to use them, but appreciated your pride in me.

Brain cancer took a good part of you from me before you left this earth. You could no longer speak English after the surgery, but one of the assisted living nurses spoke your village's dialect and could communicate with you. You still had a drawer of bingo winnings in your room that you let my children choose from at each visit. And you enjoyed it when my son rode upon your lap as we wheeled you down the hall and into the garden at the nursing home.

Your death left a hole in my heart that still aches. You were unapologetically you. You did what had to be done. As my marriage began to fail, I searched for my own coconuts to ready for the challenging time that lay ahead. Just like you.