My husband is 29 years older than me. With almost three decades of age difference, it is no wonder that people look at me as the gold digger and him as the cradle snatcher. We can’t blame them. The age gap can actually make people uncomfortable. On August 29, 1986, Jeff Ruffolo was 29 years old; he was an airline executive based in California. I, on the other hand, was only nine days old, nursing from my mother’s breasts, a newcomer to Earth.
I am not surprised when people stare at us especially that Jeff is Caucasian and I’m Asian. I cannot just throw away the long list of Asian women married to American men. Undeniably, there are those who got married not because of love. For this, I get it why some people, unfortunately, think I married Jeff because he has the money, the fame, and the power.
I used to be bothered by what people think. While dating Jeff, I never allowed him to hold my hands in public. Being seen with him in the mall was an ordeal. Because for every questioning stare I get, I have to summon every ounce of self-control to refrain from walking up to the person and tell her that I’m a woman with a career and bank accounts, who was and still is able to stand on her own even before this tall, blue-eyed Caucasian entered my life.
I paid too much attention on what people thought of me. I used to tell Jeff to let me foot the bill on date nights at restaurants because I wanted people from other tables who rudely stared at us to know that I can afford to pay for dinner.
One time, I was waiting for my turn to be seated in one of the casual dining restaurants in Ayala Center Cebu when a woman approached me and asked which dating site I met Jeff. It was the day that we found out that we are having a boy-girl twin and so I was in high spirits. But she ruined the mood. Iwas about to lecture her about decency and minding her own business when the waitress told me that our table was ready. I told Jeff about the incident and boy, he was furious.
“How come your fellow Filipinos think of you that way,” he asked. I didn’t have an answer that time so I just shrugged my shoulders and told him let’s celebrate instead for our twin news.
But Jeff is right.
It does hurt to be viewed as cheap by my own kind; worse, by women themselves. I have gone through long, agonizing moments of convincing myself that I should be a better woman by understanding them, that the lives they’re living may not be comfortable that’s why they think that marriage to a foreigner will make everything better. Several times, I’ve failed to be forgiving. I have murdered several earthlings in my mind.
I’ve been asked why I don’t own a designer bag or why I wear ukay-ukay and my go-to answer has always been: “We’re saving the money for the children’s college funds.” Education and children saved me a hundred times from long explanations and nosy neighbors.
When I talk about my children calling me Nanay (Filipino term for mother) and our home culture of me speaking to them in Cebuano, I get comments such as: “Why are you teaching them Cebuano? Stick to English. English sounds more sophisticated.” I wrote a long essay to the person – actually, a classmate – and posted it in a discussion forum for my classmates and professor to read.
In one gathering in the Philippines, I overheard someone said: “I thought those kids’ father is a foreigner? Too bad they got their mother’s low nose bridge!” This statement is followed by laughter. I dropped everything and dragged my kids away from the insensitive monster.
Here in the US, a woman approached me and said: “Can you speak English? Can you say good morning? Oh, you don’t have the annoying Asian accent!” I answered her. Long speech on Southeast Asia and why Filipinos can generally speak and understand English. I walked away afterwards.
For the longest time, I’ve been angry, defensive, frustrated. It’s difficult not to be or feel any of these. But over time, I learned tolerance.
I have accepted the fact that I cannot change how and what people think. They can and will think of Jeff as the man in his 50s who discovered an exotic island souvenir during his trip in the Pacific. They can and will think of me as the gold digger 20-something who found convenience, wealth, and power by virtue of marriage to a Caucasian. I have long since resigned myself to the fact that I cannot approach each of this person and hand them copies of my resume. I am way pass that stage.
These days, I smile at people who stare when they see me holding hands with Jeff. (I did wish though that they were taught it’s rude to stare.)
These days, I laugh when I get comments such as: “You are so lucky your husband is a foreigner. Your daughter will be the next Anne Curtis.” (Those who don’t know Anne Curtis, please Google her. She’s a gorgeous half-Filipino, half-Australian lady with a terrible set of vocal chords.)
These days, I let people think I met my husband in www.asianmeetscaucasian.com. (That domain name is still free so if you’re interested, go ahead and buy it.)
I’m done being angry, defensive, and frustrated.
I’m indeed a gold digger. In this life I live with Jeff, it’s impossible not to be one. For my husband is as precious as gold. In this marriage, I’ve fallen into a state of depression a number of times. In all those times, Jeff was responsible in bringing back my energy. Like gold, he is an excellent conductor of heat and electricity. The most malleable of all elements, gold can be hammered and pressed without cracks or breaks. Jeff is just like that. He’s a strong force in my life; he listens to my views and opinions; and believe it or not, he finds my addiction to school and the academics as sexy.
Jeff is a cradle snatcher. Because when I met him, I was inexperience in the matters of the heart. Hesitant and afraid to take risks, he made me realize that it’s okay to throw away my cradle and let him transform it into a safety net; that I need not be alone anymore; that in any adversity or hardship, he will be there to catch me.
So call me a gold digger.
I won’t be offended anymore.
Not now when I have fully understood how it is to have a real cradle snatcher for a husband.
