Amah Juanita by Roselle Lim

Roselle Lim was born in the Philippines and immigrated to Canada as a child. She lived in north Scarborough in a diverse, Asian neighbourhood.

She found her love of writing by listening to her lola (paternal grandmother’s) stories about Filipino folktales. Growing up in a household where Chinese superstition mingled with Filipino Catholicism, she devoured books about mythology, which shaped the fantasies in her novels. 

We asked Roselle if she was willing to write a piece about her grandmother for us and we’re delighted to share it here with our readers!

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A steady clicking of the box fan accompanied the static pop of the kitchen radio. In a red plastic tub, my grandmother, Amah Juanita, massaged smashed garlic cloves onto chicken drumsticks and wings. Crushed peppercorns and bay leaves rounded out the spices of my grandmother’s soy-based marinade. After browning the chicken in a cast iron wok, she put everything into a stew with potatoes and hard-boiled eggs. I watched with anticipation, for Amah’s adobo chicken served over jasmine rice was one of my favorite meals growing up.

I spent many blissful afternoons with Amah, watching her work her magic in the kitchen as she brandished her cleaver and sprinkled pungent spices into her dishes. At the wet market, she pointed to all the different types of shiny fishes and molluscs explaining what each was and how they could be prepared. Our reflection glinted in their iridescent eyes and gleaming scales as we walked hand in hand: my grandmother and me.

I ate up her cooking like I ate up her stories.

Despite being a devout Roman Catholic, Amah had a story to explain everything: folktales ran in her blood. In our townhouse in the Philippines, while sitting at her feet, she was my storyteller who carried me to worlds unseen.

She delighted in the tales of the creepy aswang: otherworldly women who split their bodies in two. They left their bottom half under a tree while the top flew across the skies at night in search of fresh human organs. Terrified, I refused to sleep with my feet exposed outside the blankets for fear that one of these creatures would snatch me by my toes. Then there were the tales of the guardian spirit of a mountain, Maria Makiling, and her kindness to the villagers. I longed to meet this beautiful fairy and ask her to divulge all her secrets. Amah revealed there were other fairytales outside of the western ones like Cinderella or Snow White and Rose Red, which I had seen in American movies and  television. Her tales were a part of our culture—a part of us.

We left my grandparents when we immigrated. I worried this new country would have no tales: no aswang and no Maria Makiling and none of Amah’s other stories. As a child in a foreign land, I couldn’t imagine the myths it possessed.

Canada was different. Like a stiff, new coat, it took a while to feel comfortable. I made new friends, grappled with fluency in English, and learned a new language, French. But, I couldn’t stop thinking of my grandmother across the ocean. I missed her with my whole being. She used to write me letters on thin translucent onion skin paper. Though I treasured her written words, it wasn’t the same as hugging her.

Amah’s absence had not dimmed my appetite for stories. Hungry, I ventured into libraries in search of new ones: first to explore mythology, and then children’s fantasy novels like Roald Dahl. I discovered many worlds, friends, and a thirst for reading. I missed my grandmother, but I devoured these tales. Inspired, I began to write my own ideas in secret. I lacked the confidence in myself and my words to allow others to know my fables.

When my parents told us my grandparents were moving to Canada, I was thrilled. At the airport, I ran into her arms. Every afternoon after school, I raced home to see what she was cooking. One of my favorite treats were her version of french fries. Amah hand cut yellow potatoes into thick slivers, taking care to leave some of the skin on. She would fry them and sprinkle sugar, instead of salt, over the plate. The golden fries glimmered in the light from the sugar crystals.

The harsh cold winters affected my grandparents: the colder it got, the slower they became. They never ventured outside when ice covered the walkways. My grandfather grew more miserable with every passing winter. I wasn’t surprised when they decided to move back to the Philippines.

Like the day she arrived, I hugged Amah at the airport as my tears stained her navy blue dress. A decade passed before I hugged her again. When she became ill, we all went back to see her one last time. Weak and bedridden, she was a shadow of the vigorous grandmother I had grown up with. With our remaining time, we told tales together. And when she spoke, I heard all her stories anew.

Amah passed a decade ago. I think of her often when I write. A part of her lives on in my novels. She believed in me and the power of my stories. Words, spoken or written, have life: they breath, they spread, and they inspire.

Mahal kita, Amah. Hindi kita magkalimutan..

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Roselle Lim is a Filipino-Chinese writer who came to Canada from the Phillipines as a young teen and learned English by watching wrestling shows on television. She has a degree in Humanities and History from York University.

Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/rosellewriter

Find out more about Roselle on her website https://www.rosellelim.com/

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Tags: featured, women writers

Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing