Jason Tanamor - Love, Dance & Egg Rolls

Love,
Dance
&
Egg Rolls

Love,
Dance
&
Egg Rolls

Jason Tanamor

Ooligan Press | Portland, OR

Love, Dance & Egg Rolls

2022 Jason Tanamor

ISBN13: 978-1-947845-34-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ooligan Press

Portland State University

Post Office Box 751, Portland, Oregon 97207

503-725-9748

ooligan@ooliganpress.pdx.edu

http://ooligan.pdx.edu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Tanamor, Jason, 1975- author.

Title: Love, dance & egg rolls / Jason Tanamor.

Other titles: Love, dance and egg rolls

Description: Portland, Oregon : Ooligan Press, [2022] | Audience: Ages

13-18. | Audience: Grades 10-12. | Summary: As the only minority in

school, sixteen-year-old Jamie grapples with honoring his Filipino

heritage while still trying to fit in, but as racial tensions increase,

he sometimes wonders if it would be easier to forget his birthright

altogether instead of trying to embrace it.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021052637 (print) | LCCN 2021052638 (ebook) | ISBN

9781947845343 (paperback) | ISBN 9781947845350 (ebook)

Subjects: CYAC: Family life--Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. |

SchoolsFiction. | PrejudicesFiction. | DanceFiction. |

FestivalsFiction. | Filipino-AmericansFiction. | LCGFT: Novels.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T374 Lo 2022 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.T374 (ebook) |

DDC [Fic]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021052637

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021052638

Cover design by Phoebe Whittington

Interior design by Riley Robert

References to website URLs were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Ooligan Press is responsible for URLs that have changed or expired since the manuscript was prepared.

Printed in the United States of America

For Bonnie. The girl.

Id seen this episode at least a dozen times. Reruns of The Big Bang Theory , a show comprised of an ensemble cast of weirdos, had been blaring on the television for an entire week straight. The show was one of my favorites, and I couldnt believe that TV Land was airing episodes back-to-back-to-back.

Sometimes, Id watch TV Land with my father, whod usually fiddle with his karaoke microphone like it was a classic car he was trying to repair. He never really paid attention. At least, I didnt think he did. He didnt laugh at the right moments, and he never seemed to realize when the program broke for commercial. I didnt mind. It was one of the few times I spent with my family.

Tonight, though, I was watching alone in my bedroom before hanging out with my two friends, Walter and Dennis.

My mother, per usual, was sitting in the kitchen prepping food for the family. My grandmother usually joined her, humming to herself or laughing at what was playing on the television.

Id always loved sitcoms. They helped me escape my own life. Mainly because, as I sat watching the seemingly perfect families on the screentypical American families who fit into societyI couldnt help but think about my own family and wonder why we couldnt be normal like the ones portrayed on television.

My father was by no means Dr. Jason Seaver from Growing Pains or Mike Brady, and my mother wasnt Lorelai Gilmore or even Samantha from Bewitched. We were a multi-generational, bilingual, Filipino family. Something youd never see on television.

After the current episode concluded, before I could get wrapped up in yet another one where Sheldon makes a fool of himself, a knock came at my bedroom door.

I stood to investigate. On my way to the door, I passed various photographs of me dancing in previous Folk Festivals, the one thing that made me truly happy inside. Scattered between images of recent festivals was a photo of me tilting sideways on the stage last year, as well as pictures from when I was younger, either framed or in plastic inserts so they wouldnt bend or tear. One with my dancing troupe posing for the camera. Another with audience members. Propscoconut shells, a barong shirtfrom dance routines were splayed throughout my room.

Another knock came, breaking my concentration. Instantly, a note slid under the door, stopping just short of my feet. My fathers muffled voice said, Its from Auntie Marisol. I could hear footsteps disappearing down the staircase.

Auntie Marisol?

The intro to the next episode began, the catchy Barenaked Ladies theme song ringing throughout my bedroom. Before I could get entranced by the gangs next dilemma, I turned off the television.

Anxious, I tore through the contents of the note, staring with raised eyebrows, examining each word as the note shook in my hand. My eyes, red with tears, were frozen open as the news sent a jolt of lightning through my heart. My chin trembled in sadness. It was hard to believe that such a small note had completely rocked my worldit was so little, yet so terrifying.

My phone buzzed. Walter.

The homecoming dance was approaching, and although I knew how important the dance was for most kids at school (trust me, Walter said it was the most important event ever), I now had something much, much bigger on my mind. Something that Id cherished for half my life, something that had been circled on the calendar for nearly a year now. Something that, unfortunately, was ending.

I sighed, my head downturned and my face puffy. All the life exited my body and my soul. No wonder my father had instantly run off. It was almost as if he knew how I would react, and he wanted me to be alone before he got caught in the aftereffects.

Now, I was stalling, slowly composing myself enough to comprehend the news. The information on the note was plain and simple. No images, no fancy fonts, no slogans, nothing. It was, by far, the most generic piece of bad news I had ever seen.

Please read in its entirety, the memo began. We would like to thank you for your participation in the annual Folk Festival. It is because of participants like you that this has been a successful event for so long. Sadly, due to the lack of funding, this years Folk Festival will be the last ever.

A tradition, one that had run longer than my lifetime, was endingin two weeks. There would be no more sampling of food from different countries, no more learning about other cultures, no more admiring the different forms of traditional dress, and worst of all, there would be no more dancing.

We take this news very seriously and wish to convey our disappointment in this decision. The Filipino-American Association, along with the many other associations that make up this event, would like to thank you for your contributions to the Folk Festival.

My eyes burned. How could this happen? I thought. My hand rose to cover my mouth and then slid down my chest. I felt numb. My thoughts were at a standstill, and I grew unexpectedly cold. We just practiced all last week at Rogers house. Why didnt she say anything then?

I scanned the memo over and over, hoping that it would somehow change into something good. But rereading it only sparked anger to rise inside me instead. Pursing my lips, I crumpled the piece of paper in my fist, squeezing the life from it with my bare hand. How could they cancel this event? I said to myself. What in the world were the organizers thinking?