By Jennifer Carrasco

During the year we lived in a big house on Taft Avenue in Manila, I gave birth to my son Carlos and I learned a lot about communal living with 13 people.

My best friend Norma and her partner Ben lived in one bedroom, our other friend Mancia Garchitorena lived in another bedroom, and our house girls Vacion, Charing, and my yaya Ophelia and a couple of cousins from Bicol Province slept on mats in the living room. Ric and I got the master bedroom.

We ate in shifts at our round dining table, and there was always someone ready for poker, conversation, or a guitar session. We sang a lot. We didn't have a TV.

Norma and I were pregnant at the same time, and both of us were teachers at JUSMAG, a joint US military command school on Espana Avenue. Every morning we'd chug out to school with Norma's Volkswagen in Manila's ghastly traffic, and chug back home in the afternoon. Our route depended on whether Manila was flooded or not. 

Manila was always flooded during rainy season–wide swaths of water across the highways.

Because of the floods, we carried 2 empty coffee cans in the back seat, and Filipino drivers gawked at two very pregnant white women, long hippie dresses hiked up while we bailed out our Volkswagen. Volkswagens can float for 28 seconds. Norma and I pushed that feature to the limit.

When we got home, we either cocooned in our air conditioned rooms on the second floor, or my husband Ric would plug the drain in our walled concrete "yard", and turn on the hose. Then Norma and I would come out in our scantiest outfits to lie on our backs, big bellied beached whales in 8 inches of water.

Mrs Javier, our landlady, lived next door, and she took every opportunity to inform me of the terrors of motherhood.

She predicted the smothering of baby Carlos if I reclined while nursing him. I had a Caesarian section, so Mrs. Javier enlightened me with stories of friends who had Caesarians and their stomachs just opened up "while they were watching the evening news." 

When the subject of whether Carlos should be circumcised, as was customary in Filipino culture, Mrs Javier swore that her 13 year old son's voice became deeper and he "became a man" immediately after his circumcision. Therefore we should wait until Carlos was entering his teens.
Ric said probably the kid's voice went 100 decibels higher. We listened and nodded. Carlos was circumcised on the day he was born. 

My son Carlos was born on July 11, and Norma delivered twins on August 10. That upped the numbers of people in our house to 13. When one baby cried, we fed all of them and changed all their nappies. 

Carlos bellowed the first 3 weeks of his life, and none of us got any sleep. Finally, my 4'10" darling mother– in–law came in from her Pasay neighborhood with a solution. She dabbed a bit of oil of wintergreen on Carlos's forehead, the palms of his hands, his stomach and the soles of his little feet. His crying stopped immediately.

Worried, I called his pediatrician, and asked her if she thought it was OK. The Doctora just laughed and said "If it helps little Carlos and makes grandmother happy, it's fine."

Jennifer Carrasco is a longtime West Seattle resident and internationally recognized muralist whose work combines historical depth, mythic storytelling, and botanical elegance. With decades of experience painting large-scale trompe l’oeil and chinoiserie murals for clients ranging from Tommy Bahama to private collectors, she brings a distinctive Northwest voice to decorative arts. Her artistic journey has taken her from Peace Corps service and teaching in the Philippines to NEA residencies across the globe, and long ago she chose to make West Seattle her home.