I have always called both of my sisters by the same name. Since they are older than I am (although, they would argue, not that much older), I address them with the traditional Filipino “ate” (pronounced AH-teh), an honorific meaning “older sister.” Growing up in the Bay Ridge neighborhood of Brooklyn, New York, we had to walk a fine line between pleasing our Filipino family and fitting in with the Italian- and Irish-American working class surrounding us. In front of our friends—who, it seemed, had been born entirely free from strange-sounding names and strict (and obsolete) traditions—I began to develop my own way of using the word. When used properly, it precedes someone’s first name—for instance, Ate Maria or Ate Rosa. I just said, “Ate.” And I either mumbled the word or said it very quickly, to save us all from the embarrassment of any association with something so obviously ethnic. As a result, my friends thought that my sisters were both named “Artie,” and I never corrected them. At home, if I experimented with addressing my sisters using only their first names, my mother would inflict the much-feared triceps pinch that left a painful sting lasting for at least a day-and-a-half. Thirty or so years later, the mere thought of my mom’s pinches still make my arms tingle.
Time passed. To add to the general confusion, Ate and Ate (Artie and Artie) both married men named Victor. (How many Victors can one family have? Apparently, one is not enough.) My husband’s name is Dave—but somehow he gets called Victor, too. In the first year we dated, my sisters (already married to their Victors) were not able to stop teasing me (“You’re going to marry a Victor, too! You’re going to marry a Victor, too! Hey—what are you doing with this Dave fella?”). After our wedding, however, the solution revealed itself. My mom (who loves her Victors) knows my husband’s name is Dave, but “Victor” is what she blurts out when she wants to get his attention. Showing true discretion, when she calls him this, Dave will answer. Dave simply became another “Victor,” and completed the threesome known in our family as the Triangle Team.
When one of the Arties was turning forty years old, we rented a beach house with a pool and celebrated with endless barbequed meats and water volleyball games. It was the boys versus the girls, naturally. The Victors (including the honorary one) decided that their best defense against us wives was to form a triangle on their side of the pool, which was usually the deep end. The Triangle Team was born. T-shirts and plaques have been made in honor of the Team. The Team has planned and executed more than a few boozy nights out, and continues to plot volleyball re-matches (during the initial event, the women smacked down the men, twenty-three games to one). The Team has a secret handshake and far too many inside jokes—usually at the expense of one of the Arties or me. The Team’s latest exploit was joining the Polar Bear Club.
Every New Year’s Day, the Polar Bear Club in Brooklyn, New York, goes for a swim at Coney Island. This year, the Club was joined by the Team. The adventure was the brainchild of Victor Number Two during one of their boozy boys’ nights out; immediately, the Triangle Team unanimously agreed that joining the Polar Bear Club was a fantastic idea. Victor Number Two is a compliance officer for a major investment bank—doing something this illogical (and probably illegal) goes against his rational, conservative nature. But since he will never commit a crime, or jump out of an airplane, or climb Mt. Everest, Victor Number Two figured that this would be his only way to get in a cheap thrill. Victor Number One lives near Coney Island, and didn’t really have anything better to do that day; being the easygoing man that he is, he figured, “Why not?” And “Victor” (Dave) is an adrenaline junky who recently finished his first (and hopefully last) Ironman Triathlon—so jumping into the ocean in the middle of winter makes complete sense to him.
