The following Saturday, Inchoy and I were seated in Tita Rosa’s garden at a tiny table on tiny chairs, this a result of Cousin Carmi’s granddaughter’s birthday party. Miggie was turning seven. The theme of her party, because children’s birthday parties in our circle needed themes, was “Old Manila,” and to this end a kalesa had been acquired, which had been taking children on rides around the neighborhood. As it was now time for lunch, the driver was sitting in the cart, parked on the nearby driveway, eating his food off a plastic plate with his hands. The horse, in a festive harness, seemed unimpressed, his head bowed low, one back hoof cocked in a defeated way. He too was eating lunch, some sort of grain that he chewed dispassionately as a great of amount of gritty drool accumulated at the edges of his mouth. Around the other tiny tables were little children in uncomfortable clothing, napkins tucked into their collars, being attended by their uniformed yayas, who coaxed food into their wards’ mouths. One boy, hands idle at his sides, opened his mouth for a spoonful of lasagna, then chewed despondently, much like the horse. I wondered if the act of feeding himself would have dispelled some of his boredom, made him a little more animated, although less immaculate in his attire.

Inchoy was taking in the spectacle with his usual disdainful acceptance. All the expense for this party could no doubt have been put to better use, but if Inchoy had only stayed friends with those of acceptable moral standing, he would have been a very lonely man.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.

Inchoy laughed wryly. “Your family puts on a good show.”

“That they do, but this is when I remind you that although they are family, and I love them, I come from a different world. This is their thing, their people. I’m just a well-liked family member who is allowed to hang out. And gets to eat for free.” I picked up a chicken drummer and waved it at him.

Inchoy pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, delivering a disbelieving look.

“Inchoy,” I said. “I am not a Konyo.”

“Why, because you’re not Castilla?”

“Exactly. I’m American. This Old World society thing, I don’t belong to it.”

“You’re not off the hook, Ting. You American mestizos are complicated.”

“In what way?”

“Well, for one thing, you come in many different varieties, but people try to put you all in the same category, which causes confusion. But you are the result of the Spanish-American War. You are an Old American mestiza.”