Enough: Journey of Ancestry, Identity & Faith

By Lloiden Garza

About the Book

In 2005, while visiting Philippines to attend a wedding. Lloiden has a bizarre dream about a man with a complexion that matched hers-a man she was certain was her father. The dream disturbed her and made her wonder why she would dream about another man being her father.

The very next day, a re

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lloiden Garza Media
• Release date: Feb 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986892672

Book preview

Hush Hush

Do you know who your father is?

My cousin Sally’s question blew up my world like the fireworks my family had come to the beach to see. It was the Fourth of July, 1991, and I would be turning thirteen in a few months. I quickly answered her puzzling question.

Ed, of course. Why do you ask?

A chilly wind blew across my shoulders. The white sand, seagulls, and barking seals of Seaside Beach seemed to fade away. My family had driven down the iconic Highway 1 from our San Jose home to spend the holiday with my aunt. We’d already polished off the traditional Filipino meal, or meryenda, as Aunt Perl called it in our native Tagalog dialect. My maternal family is from the province of Bataan in the Philippines, and my mother immigrated to the United States in 1983.

Sally’s soft voice pulled me back to the moment. I heard my mom talking about you. The serious look on her face made me even more uneasy. I heard Ed is not your dad.

Huh? What did you say? I was completely stunned by her words. Maybe I’d heard her wrong, I decided.

Then she said it again, slowly. I heard Ed is not your dad. Why do you think you have two different last names?

She was right. My name tag at church read Lloiden Eje. That’s the name I had always used at church and in the Philippines. It was the only last name I’d had, up until our move to California. It was only after I started school in San Jose that I was given a new last name and referred to as Lloiden Gaza.

Sally went on, I heard that your real dad is not Ed. I heard that your real dad is Jack, Jack Gaza. Then she looked at me straight in the eye and made me promise not to say anything. She said she did not want to get into trouble for telling me.

I felt a sudden rush of emotions. I tried to look normal and hold back my tears. I wanted to scream, but instead I stood there with a blank look on my face. Could this really be happening? I had never heard of Jack Gaza before. I wanted to run to Mom and ask her about this, but I feared Sally would be mad.

I spent the rest of the day in silence, trying to act normal. I’d waited so long for this day, for time to play on the beach, watch the fireworks, and hang out with Sally. But all that was ruined. Physically, I was there. But mentally and emotionally, I was somewhere else. I wanted to go home and hide. I thought about Ed. I was very close to him. Even though I only got to see him a few months out of the year, he was kind and affectionate and always happy to see me.

Just a few hours earlier, I had been watching 90210 with Sally at her house without a care in the world, excited to head to the beach. Now I replayed Sally’s words over and over in my head in disbelief. Had Mom lied to me? Had Sally? Had she wanted to hurt me? If so, why? What had I done to her?

Then my thoughts drifted in another direction. How would I ask Mom? How could I bring this up without saying Sally told me? Should I wait until everyone was in the room? Ask my mom alone?

And what if it was true? Then what? What if it was a lie? I would get in trouble for bringing it up. What if I asked and they punished Sally for telling me and she hates me?

Many thoughts and faces of fear met me that night. But I had to wait, and so I did.

Our Drive Home

We finally got home the following day after from spending the holiday weekend with Sally. Home, a green, four-bedroom ranch-style house with white wrought-iron bars bolted on its windows on Arroyo De Oro Drive. We lived on the east side of San Jose, a city on the southern shore of the San Francisco Bay known for its booming high technology. Years later, it would become known as Silicon Valley. At the time, it was known as a melting pot for different cultures and ethnicities. I had moved there with my family when I was about five years old.

Our household, like many Filipino households, was multigenerational. We had three generations living together: my little sister Genevieve and me, my mom and her unmarried brothers, and Mom’s parents. Genevieve was born after we moved to United States.

I was known as the energetic and outgoing child, talkative and unruly at times. My grandparents enjoyed bringing me places. Our home was always filled with people, most of them adults, and the conversations in my house were mainly for the adults: family and friends. I was expected to remain quiet. The family usually got along when grandmother Luring was there. But when they did argue, it was terrible. Like a dramatic scene from a soap opera with lots of yelling and crying. As a child, I often felt as though I had to take sides. I was loyal to Mom, and she quickly made me her ally. It was confusing at times, especially when I was put in the middle. There were other times that I got blamed for something that I didn’t do.

A few days passed, and I couldn’t wait much longer for answers to my questions. But I was troubled about how to ask. Galang, or respect, is the heart of Filipino culture. The culture also has strict unspoken rules about how to talk with family members, especially with older adults. Adults are considered superior and are the ones who have authority. They are perceived as being correct and their faults glossed over. A child does not question an elder, and it’s a duty to not talk back or voice one’s opinion. In the culture, it’s important that one behaves with such respect and not hiya or shame oneself or the family.

Mom was in the dining room, where the adults sat, chatting at the long rectangular glass table near the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. I walked into the dining room, determined to demand answers from her. But once I was there, I just stood in silence, staring at Mom. She glanced at me, then continued her conversation with my grandmother. At a loss for words, I retreated to my room.

My room was the front bedroom, which allowed me to peek and see who was at the door when someone rang the doorbell. Across from my room was the bathroom, and down the hallway was my grandparents’ room. I angrily sat down on my bed and felt the water roll under me. Mom had given me a waterbed similar to hers, but mine was smaller. I sat back up and attempted to gather my thoughts. I had to go back to Mom. I had to know if this was true. Staring at the black-trimmed closet frame border that I had painted months before, I decided to march back to the dining room and confront Mom, even though I was not any good at confronting anyone, especially Mom. Once I got there, my knees felt wobbly. I was full of mixed emotions. I was angry, nervous, and scared. I stood in silence, looking at the familiar faces of Mom and Grandmother, trying to find the right words to speak and the courage to say them. Finally, I blurted out my question. Mom, who is my real dad?

Silence followed, and I felt all eyes staring at me.

Is it Ed or Jack? My lips trembled. The room went silent. Their mouths dropped. Clearly, they had no idea that I knew. I stood there awkwardly, staring at Mom, waiting for her to say something. The silence in the room grew uncomfortable, and I found myself staring at my mom’s lips, as if waiting for them to move.

Finally, Mom said, Ed is not your dad. Your dad’s Jack, Jack Gaza. Her voice was as cold as the ice in her tea, and she stared me down with a familiar you’re in big trouble look. I HATE YOU! I screamed wildly within, but nothing came out of my mouth. I headed back to my room and slammed the door behind me.

In the blink of an eye, my world had shattered. A huge part of my identity was ripped away from me, like if a book was torn in two, then half was thrown away. My identity had been built on the foundation of being Ed’s daughter, the granddaughter of a respected minister. I’d heard so many stories over the years about how I was so much like the Eje family. How I had inherited many great qualities from them. But I was not Ed’s biological child, I did not share his blood. It was all a lie.

I was bursting with questions. Who else knew? Now what? Did Ed know that I wasn’t his daughter? Would he still be there for me? Would he still love me? Would I ever see him again?

My thoughts turned to Jack Gaza. Who was he? Where was he? Why hadn’t he been around? And why was this happening to me?

No one followed me back to my room. No one came to talk with me, to comfort me and tell me that it was going to be okay. I was alone in a house full of people. I felt like I was breaking inside. I was flooded with a surge of pain and a pulsing in my chest. My heart was torn to shreds. I felt like fragmented pieces of one body.

Who’s My Daddy

I felt different, and my friends noticed the change.

Months passed, but Mom and I never mentioned that day. No one brought it up. They acted as if it had never happened. I wanted them to bring it up, to ask how I was doing. But nothing.

At times, I would stare at Mom, yelling at her in my mind. The intense anger caused chills up and down my spine, and my eyes would well up. But before the tears of anger could fall, I would walk away so that no one would see me cry. As time went by, the tears came less and were replaced with a cold emptiness.

The desire to ask Mom about Jack once again began to build up inside me. There must have been over a hundred times I asked her in my mind. But I couldn’t get the words out. Eventually, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and one day at home in our kitchen, I blurted out, Mom, who is Jack? Where is he? I want to speak to him; I want to see him! Mom said Jack lived in the Philippines, in a city called Hermosa, thirty minutes from our hometown of Orani.

I begged Mom to reach out to Jack. After an intense moment during which I asked about Jack, and she agreed, she finally made the call. Mom called her sister Lucy, who still lived in the Philippines, and asked her to deliver a message to Jack. Lucy agreed.

A few days later, Lucy traveled to Jack’s family home in Hermosa. She told Jack about what had happened and requested that he call me. Jack agreed and went back with Lucy to Orani to call me since he didn’t have a phone at his house.

At our home in San Jose, we had one phone, which hung on the wall next to the refrigerator. Its long yellow cord allowed us to sit at the dining table to talk. I wasn’t usually allowed to use it, and on the rare occasions when I did use it to call my friends, I had to ask permission, and everyone could hear our conversations.

The day Jack called, my whole family was sitting in the living room watching TV, and Mom answered the phone. By her words, I could tell she was talking to her cousin, Aunt Josie, but then she handed me the phone and told me it was Jack. Suddenly, the entire house went quiet. As I took the phone and brought it to my ear, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words.

Jack said hello, his voice gentle. Scrambling for words, I said hello back.

Is this Jack? I asked sheepishly.

Yes, Jack responded.

"Are you my father? I asked.

Yes, he replied in a soft voice.

My lips trembled as I proceeded to ask if he knew about me. His answer surprised me: he said he did know about me.

I want to meet you, I told Jack.

Jack answered with a short Yes.

The call had frequent silences and awkward pauses, perhaps because Tagalog, not English, was his first language. I was happy to speak with him, all the same. I had so many questions, but because I was so tongue-tied, I didn’t ask them. We hung up. The conversation was short, but it felt as though it had gone on forever.

The room remained silent after I hung up, and the tension was thick in the air. Our TV was usually on, but someone must have turned it off during the call. It seemed as if everyone in our house had listened in on my conversation, yet no one spoke. What I couldn’t have known then was that I was at the beginning of a long road of unraveling family secrets that had been locked up for decades, a road that would take me on an unbelievable journey to the truth.

Chapter Two

Family Footprints

Mom is the youngest of five children: Perl, Lucy, Eddie, Art, and Marlene. Perl is thirteen years senior to Mom and Art, who is closest in age to Mom, is six years her senior.

She was raised in the comfortable upper middle-class neighborhoods of Orani, Bataan. Bataan is a small province in Luzon Island, about four hours from Manila. In the Philippines, Orani was known for its beaches. Internationally, Bataan was known for the Bataan Death March that happened during World War II. In 1941, soon after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Japanese forces invaded the Philippines. In 1942, thousands of American and Filipino soldiers surrendered to the Japanese military and were forced to march more than 60 miles in the scorching heat through the Filipino jungle. Thousands of soldiers died during this harrowing journey.

Many of Mom’s relatives also lived in Orani, Bataan. Mom’s mother, Luring, was from Orani going many generations back. Like mom, she was the youngest of her siblings. She was well-dressed, proper, and had a kind smile. Petite at barely five foot tall, she spoke in a sweet, soft voice most of the time. When someone did get her mad, her demeanor would change, and that soft voice became a machine gun firing a nonstop round of scolding’s. She had a tender heart and was the glue that kept her family together. Luring was also a hardworking business owner who started her career as a seamstress, then expanded her business into furniture and groceries. By the time she was forty years old, she ran several successful businesses in Orani Plaza Square.

Mom’s dad, Ananias, was a calm and measured man. He was clean cut and had a quiet confidence about him. He was a humble, genuinely devout man with a no-nonsense attitude. He was well-known in the town, not only for his position as a police chief, but also as a respected war hero. Ananias was First Lieutenant in the 6th Ranger Infantry Battalion Unit in the Army of the United States, East Central Luzon Guerilla Area. He had been part of the death march and an Original Avenger. Because of his position, it was common for him to spend time around political figures and other people in positions of power.

Mom attended the same school as her siblings, Jose Rizal Institute (JRI), although some years after they graduated. JRI was just a few steps away from her family home, which was located on a small alley on Parang Parang Street off the National highway.

Mom was considered the most beautiful sister for her soft, light complexion, long, dark hair, and almond shaped eyes. She was just under five feet tall and slender, with subtle curves that many young men couldn’t help but notice.

She was stylishly dressed, and many of her clothes and purses came from Europe. She wore nice shoes and matching jewelry that her mom had customized just for her. She was adventurous, and she enjoyed playing sports and public engagements. Mom had even been nominated to be the town’s princess, and she enjoyed the attention.