Major's Moded Story (MMS) of the Day: Listen, Boy

...who the hell do you think you are?

So I was hang'n out with the Ilocanos at 3rd St Promenade this past weekend, and I didn't think anything of this next story until Grace and Glenda were crack'n up at the table. In fact, I'm sure you won't find this funny, unless you're Ilocano of some sort.

For those who have known me since childhood, knows that: 1.) I don't hang out with childhood friends anymore; and 2.) I've spent a majority of my 30-year adult life telling just about every Filipino I encounter that my family breaks the mold when it comes to having a Tita Baby and Tito Boy (i.e., that we don't have any in our family).

(I know... that latter is more exciting than the former, which is why I'll elaborate more on the topic.)

It never fails, I would say 95% of the Filipinos I've meet over the years have talked either succinctly or elaborated in detail about their particular family member(s) who, for whatever reason, want to nickname themselves Baby or Boy. I'm kind of unsure of the origin of the nickname, nor do I care; but one thing is for certain, it came from the Philippines.

For those who don't know what I'm talking about, Babies and Boys are usually those aunts and uncles who spent their 20s and 30s partying it up at night... kinda like the Scene. (x_X) Now, they're usually in their 40s and 50s and never married or they happened to marry wealthy and they became the "Auntie FUNcy" of the group.

I guess I should get to the point of my story.

[Listening to Daydreaming by Jill Scott]

During some time in the later part of June and early July, my dad and I had to attend a funeral for a cousin that recently passed away from pneumonia (may God rest his soul). If I had to describe my dad's side of the family, I'd say that side is very... stoic, probably because of the whole military "thing".

My dad, Jessie, and I arrive at the wake and we stood behind 2 of my uncles --uncle Condring, phonetically pronounced /KOON-dring/ (short for Conrado, I'm sure); and uncle George, the oldest of 7 sons and 2 daughters (and on his 7th wife, as I later found out).

Side note: My mom's side of the family see each other every week. In fact, I'm in a fantasy basketball league with 'dem fools this season; however, my dad's side doesn't see each other much. I'm not sure why. The only time we see each other is if someone passes or if someone get's married. The last time I saw this side of the family was summer of 2000 when my uncle Rudy took us water skiing.

Again... I digress.

As we stood behind my 2 uncles, my dad tells me he's pretty sure his brothers won't recognize him because he hasn't seen them in years. I think they won't recognize him because dad lost all that weight from the colon cancer early last year.

Nonetheless, as my dad taps Condring on the shoulder and says, "Hi Koon." (I dare not pedagogically correct my dad with the derogatory Korean term... he was stationed there.)

Just as my dad suspected, uncle Condring turns, stares, and begins to question, in the politest Ilocano manner, who we are. "Excuse, Sir, do we know you?"

My dad laughs as any militant dad would. Condring turns to George and asks him in Ilocano if he knew who we were. George, pushing 95 years of age, has a hard time seeing us since he can only see 3 feet in front of him (sorta like Kev 1.0 when he smokes out at the Ridge). Realizing George can't see or hear any of this, Condring asks my dad if we were friends with the family. (This is the best family reunion, yet.)

My dad reaches over and puts his hand on my back and introduces me, "This is my youngest son, Major."

An elderly woman gingerly leaps from her seat and says, "I know you! I used to babysit you." It's the biological mother of my cousin Patrick (the one who passed) --her name eludes me at the moment. "You used to come over the house. I used to babysit you."

The next 30 seconds changed my life... FOREVER.

My aunt then looks at Uncle Koon and says, "This is Major, the son of Jesus."

Now, as some of you read this, you're probably pronouncing that last name I threw out there like some Go-Go Boy from Latinboyz.com --aysoos, as in aysoosmariusep. Well, my friend, one can only wish she did. No, she said Jesus... pronounced "Christ our Living Savior".

"This is Jesus, your brother." she says to uncle Koon.

My heart races... "I thought your name is Jessie" I say to my dad.

George notices the excitement unfolding in front of him and inaudibly starts yelling in Ilocano. "Tucka, Tucka, Tucka, Tucka, Tucka..." (that's my best Ilocano impression).

Uncle Koon, then turns to George and explains, "This is Jesus. You know, Boy. This Boy!"

"WAIT WAIT WAIT!" Again, I look at my dad and ask, "You're BOY?!? YOU'RE TITO BOY?"

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I have to explain myself as I'm getting HIGH BLOOD as I type this. For those who didn't get any part of the story above, a 30-year old veil of lies has been lifted from my eyes. Not only did I just learn what my dad's real name is; I have been telling people for 30 years we don't have a Tito Boy in our family, when in reality, my dad, Jesus, has been the Tito Boy the whole time. This is probably the most extravagant Major's Moded Story of all time... OF ALL TIME!!!

I dedicate this MMS to Patrick Julian, loving father, son, brother, uncle, and husband. Miss you!