I'm here

Springtime in Southland. These are some photos LT and I have taken so far this spring. You might have to click to enlarge. Check out the adorable little girl in the center of the collage. That's my very remarkable niece.

Good Lord. It's a wonder that RBJ hasn't kicked me out for my negligence.

My 1st year of graduate school flew by, yet, when I reflect on all that I've learned and managed to accomplish, it's amazing that it all happened within the span of ten months. Life during my 1st year at Rollins could be likened to a measure-long song entirely comprised of a crazy slendro scale arpeggio of sixty four hemidemisemiquavers. With the metronome set at 208.

And that obnoxious paragraph is dedicated to j.gabriel.

So, because I've been out of blog-loop for so long, I figured I'd ease back in with another photo. Or two. Cop out, I know, but I like these photos, and it's my blog.

With a fellow Pinay public health crusader and former President Fidel V. Ramos of the Philippines...

President Ramos refrained from talking politics to the group during this very small, intimate, casual dinner at a local, Pinoy-owned Japanese steakhouse. His demeanor was so personable and easygoing that after a while, the evening felt more like a family reunion than a dinner with a Philippine President. A family reunion complete with palabok (party staple), the talkative aunties who surrounded the former President all night, and, of course, the hour-long group photo shoot at the end. While it would have been really tremendous to have heard him talk about his term and his views on the current state of the Philippines, it was quite nice to converse with him about family, travels, and the mundane.

... and now with Veronica De La Cruz.

The pretty, Pinay CNN Pipeline anchor is even more enchanting in vivo, and President Ramos was her biggest fan.

More to come. Just wanted to re-establish my existence.

Hiatus

New post in progress! I have not disappeared, although school is attempting to devour me whole. I needed to take a break from the blog for a minute, I'm sure you fellow bloggers understand. Check back real soon!

Speak now or forever hold your peace

At a school with this much prestige in the field of public health, it shocks me that the students here, at the graduate school level, still exhibit the same juvenile, insensitive behaviors that I experienced from my high school peers. I really shouldn't be surprised, considering that the perpetrators of some of the most flagrant displays of ignorance are scholars who pride themselves on their extensive education. Don't get me wrong-- I still have the utmost respect for the institution, its faculty, and the research-- however I'm greatly disappointed with the worldview of my classmates, and the way in which this glaring problem is being addressed (or rather, not addressed) in the classroom. Not that I care what they really think on a personal level, but the long-term implications scare me-- I hope the Weltanschauung of these aspiring public health professionals evolves for the better before they graduate and become educators, practitioners, and researchers.

I feel disillusioned, and I don't like it.

Let's take the most recent example. In my research methods class, the topic of the lecture was different measurements used in behavioral sciences research. The professor was talking about nominal data, which are basically categorical data versus numeric data; for example, data from questions of race/ethnicity, marital status, and gender. "Gender, for example," she said, "can be categorized in questionnaires as either Male or Female..."

She paused briefly.

"Or sometimes 'Other'."

An obvious wave of snickers ensued across the lecture hall. The professor moved on to the text topic.

First, why was there a such pervasive reaction to snicker after the professor suggested the use of "Other" in questions of gender demographics? What the hell is so funny? Is this how these people are going to mock the communities they serve when they are actually out in the field? Or are they just going to play the "unaware" and "unexposed" card forever to justify their ignorance? Because honestly, if these graduate-level students need to play that card at this stage in the game, then they need to learn a few things about the world before they decide to pursue something like public health. What exactly did these students do in undergrad anyway? Was their social experience really epitomized by their Spring Break debauchery in Cancun? I don't expect people to agree with how others live their lives, but I do expect a higher level of "tolerance" (whatever the hell that means) and maturity. Snickering about topics of sexuality in a classroom setting just seems really high school to me.

Then there's the question of why the professor didn't say anything after such an obvious and obnoxious reaction from the class? She must have thought that the consideration of an "Other" box was important enough to bring up, yet she did nothing to explain or clarify, even after it was evident that the class didn't get it. Much of her research involves gay men, so I presume that this experience compounded with her impressive credentials makes her sufficiently-equipped to handle these issues. I will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was oblivious to the class reaction.

But the reaction really was quite conspicuous.

Regardless, her dismissal of the snickers didn't stop me from approaching her about it... in a very non-confrontational manner. I was very careful about that-- you have to walk on eggshells when talking to professors, you know. I focused on the class reaction versus her non-reaction, of course. She was receptive, albeit with a tinge of defensiveness. I'm not sure that anything came out of that brief dialogue, besides her awareness that I was uncomfortable with the class dynamic. Maybe her solution is simply not to bring up the "gender" issue in future classes. Gotta love avoidance.

Why not address the the use of the word "gender" in research, while I'm at it? I won't go into the politics of transgenderism here, as I am not yet an expert on the issue, but from a methodological standpoint, I do know that the continued use of the word "gender" in demographic questionnaires is problematic. Why not use the word "sex" instead? That seems to be more fitting for the information these researchers are trying to obtain. "Gender" is a concept, a socially-constructed idea, not a fact, so unless researchers have a specific way of thoughtfully and thoroughly operationalizing the term "gender" beyond the context of sexual identity research, then it is wholly inappropriate, useless, and ultimately detrimental to use it. Gathering information on "gender" when they in fact mean "sex" can lead to great misrepresentation and false data, particularly when researchers are looking to make comparisons between the "biological" sexes.

Sexual minorities are severely understudied and, moreover, inadequately studied in health research. The U.S. tends to approach public health within a disease-focused paradigm-- we look at a disease and then study affected or "at-risk" communities, rather than looking at the characteristics and culture of a population and then examining their health issues. As a result, most health statistics of sexual minorities become hidden within the data of heteronormative health research, and therefore our unique needs are never brought to light. This type of camouflaged exclusion can be paralleled to the earlier days of health research when, unless they were the topic of the study question (usually in a pathologized manner), ethnic minorities were absent from the research samples. Findings from White-only subject data were generalized to the entire population. This could have been because researchers either a) didn't consider or regard the possibility of unique health needs of non-White peoples or b) they didn't consider or regard ethnic minorities to be important enough to study. Regardless of the reasons, the field has come to realize this problem and in recent decades there has been a paradigm shift in the way health research recognizes and addresses issues of health disparities amongst people of diverse ethnic, cultural, and socio-economic backgrounds.

Though there has been progress in the research of and health care approaches for ethnic minorities and the White majority, sexual minorities continue to have no presence as a population in health research outside of the context of STD's or in examinations of "behaviors," particularly, "sexual behaviors." It's as though we-- and our health-- are continued to be defined by our "behaviors," in spite of the recognition that our sexuality encompasses much more than our sexual activities. Also, other "health risk behaviors" that are assessed in the limited research are from a deficit-based perspective. Where is the research on our attributes? Our behavioral and cognitive coping strategies in dealing with a world that is hostile towards us? Our behaviors that exhibit our strength when having to maneuver through spaces that force us to conceal who we are? Our complex and fine-tuned social instincts that we must constantly modify in order to survive in an environment that punishes us (often by violence and death) for loving people who society has deemed as unacceptable for us to love?

Research outside of this "risk-behavioral" framework is generally excluded from the most major public health publications, like the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report (MMWR); for example, there has been a multitude of studies that has revealed that queer youth are at increased risk for attempting suicide, yet there was no mention of sexuality in an MMWR report on violence among high school students and teen suicide. The MMWR, of course, is a product of our federal government, which has a pattern of excluding research that does not resonate well with its agenda. Politically-driven research makes it impossible to know what truths are being discovered and hidden, or if what is being disseminated is actually the truth to begin with. I won't go into the manipulation of data and statistics here. There are books on that.


Another disappointment is the fact that there is no student organization in place for LGBTQ students. I absolutely do not get it. With the prevalence of queer individuals in the school and in Atlanta, there is no reason for this. I have no idea who or where the other gay students are, and it makes it challenging for me to socialize. It's not as though I can't socialize with straight people... I just can't socialize with straight people who make it difficult for me to be comfortable in their space. Their space, which is everywhere. I hate having to out myself to people, especially in situations wherein I'm in some awkward conversation about boyfriends and fiancees and why there's no point in dressing up for school because of the female majority in our classes blah blah blah gross. When I do out myself, I often get the awkward, "Oh-ok-that's cool-heh-so-yeah-I-had-no-idea-because-you-don't-look-like-a-lesbian
-and-now-I-feel-stupid-crap-now-I-have-no-idea-what-to-talk-to-you-about-
because-we-obviously-must-not-have-a-damn-thing-in-common-I-hope-you're
-not-checking-me-out-because-I'm-not-'like-that'-I'm-just-not-going-to-talk-to
-you-anymore-because-it's-too-hard-for-me-to-have-to-be-that-socially-aware-
I-prefer-my-safe-little-world-where-everyone-is-like-me-so-I-don't-have-to-
deal-with-my-inability-to-interact-with-people-who-are-different-I-can't-handle
-having-to-awkwardly-overcompensate-for-the-fact-that-I-am-a-little-weirded-out
-by-gay-people" look.

Which I'm used to, I guess.

Maybe part of the dynamic is my own projection of discomfort with the situation as well, because I'm all too familiar with this inevitable reaction by now. I think I've started to anticipate it, which likely just augments the pregnancy of the pause in such conversations as the one previously described. I do try my best to buffer the tension by being as matter-of-fact and conversational as possible... I mean, sheesh, I'm the same person you were talking to just a few minutes ago, before you discovered that I have "women friends." If I don't make it a big deal, then maybe they won't make it a big deal, right? At least on the surface.

I am perhaps being unfair to some of the people I've encountered here. While the aforementioned reaction is most common, there are some straight individuals who seem eager to have a token gay female friend. I don't like to be tokenized, but if my friendship can alter someone's ill-conceived notions of queer women (of color, I should add), then why should I complain? One woman in particular openly engaged in a Q & A about queer life, and while I made sure to acknowledge that my story and thoughts could not possibly represent those of all queer people, I was able to dispel some of the misconceptions and assumptions with which she'd grown up in her fairly conservative culture. As the conversation progressed, she became much more direct and frank, which I appreciated. It's much easier to address direct questions than to decipher through layers of minced words.

So. After weeks and weeks of deliberation, the classroom incident described above provided the ultimate push for me to finally send out an email to the entire student body about my interest in forming a student organization for LGBTQ students. I guess there had been some sort of "allied health" organization in the past, comprising LGBTQ medical school, nursing school, and public health students, but for some reason it did not survive. This is perplexing to me. Was there not enough interest? Committment? If I were to help reorganize a group, will it face the same fate? Anyway, I have received a good amount of feedback from interested students over the past couple of weeks. I had lunch with one respondent who shared many of my observations and concerns about the current social climate at our school. She, as well as most of the others who expressed interest in this organization, was just as shocked as I was that there was no such organization in place already. Thankfully, she seems to be just as eager as I am to establish this group as quickly as possible, so all the bureaucratic folderol doesn't seem as daunting now that I have someone to help. My academic advisor suggested that I extend the invitation to faculty and staff, so today I sent out another email to them. We'll see what happens.

Do I really want to be the queer poster-child of the school? No. My life is not characterized by my queerness, or my Asian-ness, or my femininity, or my ADD tendencies, or my inner wannabe-musicianship, or my 1st-born-child-of-immigrant-parents-ness, or my blog. My being is multi-faceted, and my only hesitation with being the one to start this group is that my social (and academic?) experience at this school will be defined by this endeavor. It takes commitment and time and devotion. At the end of the day, how much do I really care? I need to ask myself this whenever I cringe at some stupid comment made in class. Do I care enough to have to challenge these comments on a regular basis? Do I care enough to spend my limited free time on such an organization? Am I even the right person to be taking on such a responsibility?

Honestly, I miss the days of old when it wasn't so much damn work to be myself, uninhibitedly. When I didn't have to explain myself to my friends. When giving a shit wasn't so disheartening. When I didn't have to constantly keep a vigilant eye for the sake of self-preservation and sanity. I'm not trying to victimize myself here, because I am certainly no victim. I'm just tired of feeling stifled and not doing anything about it. So I'm doing something.

I hope it's the right thing to do.

gym rat

..... Not quite. I did finally join a gym, though. Now that I'm forking out the bucks to be healthy, I'll be forced to go. I'll also be more compelled to consistently eat more healthy foods so that all the work and money I put into my gym endeavors don't go to waste! Everything is sore right now, but I feel so much better now that I've taken that initial step. I have progressed from the Contemplation Stage and am now in Action. Let's see if I can make it to the Maintenance Stage.

I did ask my girlfriend to bring home a slice of pumpkin cheesecake from the party she attended tonight, though. Oops.

From the 19th Floor to the basement

I'm working at the LGBT Life Office right now, which is comfortably housed in the basement level of the student center. One of my duties at the LGBT Life Office is to represent the Office and to chair the public relations activities for the AIDS Memorial Quilt Project at Emory for World AIDS Day. I've been networking with other university-level PR people, as well as the media. So, on December 1st, Emory will host the largest-- if not only-- display of the AIDS Quilt on World AIDS Day. [photo: AIDS Memorial Quilt on the National Mall.] This year marks the 25th anniversary since the first case of AIDS was confirmed in the U.S., and the 20th anniversary since HIV (as we now know it) was publicly established as the cause of AIDS. As Emory is one of the leading institutions in AIDS research, it is fitting that it is hosting such an event... I hope that the students will awaken from their apathy for a day and show their support. I am aiming to have it publicized through various media, so don't be surprised if you see me on the Atlanta-based, one and only CNN. I'll be the Asian with the base-of-neck-length bob. Oh, too vague for you? This might help:



Oh wait, that's not me.

I am serious about getting this event covered (or at least touched upon) on CNN, though. If it's on CNN, the rest will follow. Maybe I can get Veronica De La Cruz (pictured above-- holla to the Pinays makin' it happen) to support the cause. I will lure her in with offers of homecooked longsilog. Who could resist such charm and hospitality?

Seriously, come one, come all. Introduce yourselves if you do show up. Don't be creepy stalkers.

The camera will be avoided at all costs, though. In spite of my track record of occasionally finding a way to the stage, I am terrified of situations that call for me to speak publicly (again, the shyness) -- these include (but are not limited to) class presentations (with which I'm completely indundated this semester *!@&#^#*%$), interviews of any kind, anything that requires extemporaneous speaking in front of an unfamiliar audience (or a familiar audience, for that matter), announcements, emceeing, spelling bees, etc. I think it's different with musical or theatrical performance because I feel like I have more control over the exchange when I'm performing. The objective on stage is different, as is the power dynamic between the spectators and myself. The only tangible interaction during a musical or theatrical performance is the applause (and laughter, if it's a musical or comedic play... that would be horrible if there were laughter during a music gig). In the performance space, I am not required to justify my actions-- in fact, I can do whatever the hell I want. I can assume another persona. I can be Queen Aggravain. I can be Rizzo. I can be a wannabe diva. I can be the distant, private artist who closes her eyes when she sings because she's in her own creative world, then disappears off the stage with that shroud of mystery, never to be seen again until her next gig. Or I can just be the dork that I am.

Ok, back to work. Thought I'd check into the blogosphere for a minute before I could hear my brother's objurgations.

This is a post about plungers. No, really.

Nothin' like an ominous midterm lurking around the corner to finally inspire a blog post out of me. Why study when I can spend my time working on a post? Blogging is just as valuable to my academic experience as hitting the books-- I'm exercising my creative muscles, I'm writing, I'm engaging myself in inner-dialogue, I'm reflecting on and critically analyzing the profundity of quotidian experiences. For example, today I spent a significant amount of time wondering why I chose to wait until the absolute direst need arose before I purchased a plunger for the new abode. I reflected on all the opportunities I had to acquire a plunger within the past three months of my residence in the A, and there was one pervasive theme in those experiences that prevented me from taking the plunge (no pun intended) and forking out the big bucks: I didn't want an ugly plunger. That's right. I took aesthetic into heavy consideration. The plunger is a staple in every bathroom, and though absolutely indispensable, their role is far from glamorous. Why can't such a vital part of any lavatory be visually appealing, in spite of the unpleasant nature of its function? Why must the plunger be the eyesore of the bathroom? Can't we do better than a wooden stick with a brick-colored rubber cup? Doesn't the plunger deserve better than that, considering the service it provides?! It need not be thrust naked to the world in utter humiliation; it should have the privacy of its own home within some kind of container! I shan't chide the users of naked plungers for the unsanitary practice of keeping such-- contaminated-- items out in the open, facilitating the spread and propagation of viruses, bacteria, protozoa, prions and other potentially noxious microbes. So many considerations to make when assessing a prospective plunger. Thus my hesitation to make an impulsive decision when making a selection.

Thus my inability to fix the clog immediately.

Thus the toilet remaining clogged for a good day.

Thus the motivation to reassess my priorities.

Thus the conclusion that this self-evaluation is necessary in my maturation process.




Thus me choosing to post about this seemingly trivial but actually significant moment of my day. In lieu of showing up for my appointment with my Epidemiology textbook.

Finding Nemo

The following short post was initially going to be put up last week, but, in light of unfortunate circumstances, its publishing was delayed. *sigh* I miss the puppies.

.............................

I think I need to change my career path and pursue my childhood dream of being a marine biologist.



Pirhannas look even more menacing in vivo. They motionlessly floated there, wide-eyed, waiting to ambush anything fleshy that came their way. Their unrelenting, maniacal gaze seriously led me to believe that they were about to jump out of the tank and devour me whole. *shudders*


The Georgia Aquarium: astig.

My Dearest Dexter,

I will always remember the mid-May day you came into my life. You were so small-- sleeping next to your brother, hidden beneath a jacket in the grass. What a wonderful surprise you were! I loved you immediately. Even in your senior years, you remained a puppy at heart... your excited energy and playfulness never diminished even as you became physically weaker. Thank you so much for making our lives happier and richer for eleven and a half years, and for loving me unconditionally even when I'd ignore your pleas to toss you a tennis ball in the middle of the night. I know that you needed to go tonight, and although it's tearing me to pieces, I understand and just want you to be happy and without pain. I miss you, I will remember you, and I will always always love you.











P.S. Don't worry about Parker. He will be well taken care of.

When there's a will, there's a way

It's not that I don't have anything to say, it's that sometimes I just can't think of anything I want to say. My mind is so cluttered with unresolved this-and-thats and I can't quiet the chaos enough to be able to sit and write something coherent for the world to see. Well, not exactly the world... more like the limited blogging audience that hasn't given up on me yet. I never said I was a "blogger," per se. I don't like to label myself. I do not adhere to blogonormative standards. I'm the blogosphere pariah.

My brother has threatened to remove the link to my blog from his page if I don't get my act together and blog with more consistency. Yes, folks, it's come to that. Is an intervention in order here? The Transtheoretical Model & Stages of Change (TM) explains how one decides to take action/inaction, and how that decision is actually translated into action/inaction. Here are the different stages of this process, as delineated by TM, and how this can be applied to my blogging behaviors:

• Stage 1: Precontemplation - I am completely unaware/in denial that the frequency with which I blog is actually a problem. I have no intention of modifying this behavior within the next 6 mos. Not even on the radar.
  
• Stage 2: Contemplation - I am starting to suspect that my blogging patterns are unhealthy. My friends and family have been expressing their concern about my behavior; my relationships are suffering because of it. I intend to take action sometime in the next 6 mos.
• Stage 3: Preparation - I am fully aware that my blogging behavior is risky. I earnestly intend to do something about the situation within the next 30 days, and have, in fact, begun to take some steps in this direction.
• Stage 4: Action - I've been blogging more regularly for less than 6 mos. It is still a conscious effort for me to do so, but publishing a post is starting to become part of my daily/weekly routine.
• Stage 5: Maintenance - I have blogged regularly (3-5 times a week for at least 30-40 minutes) for more than 6 mos. It has become second nature to me, and has been fully incorporated into my life.

I would say that I am somewhere between Stage 1 and Stage 2. The great thing about stage theories is that intervention programs can be tailored to the individual's need, according to where they are in the process. My brother has expressed the tremendous personal pain that my behaviors have caused. His intervention strategy is a bit coercive. We can only wait to see how effective it is, and maybe he can modify the program if his approach doesn't show any results.

*12.48 am, September 23rd - She still has not published this post. -j.gabriel

He had commandeered my computer. Apparently coercion did not suffice and he intends on using brute force.

He has been here for a week-long visit, his first time in the A. I hope he's having a good time so far... he had been in the Philippines all summer and I'd been anticipating our reunion for quite some time. I feel badly because I'm still relatively new to the city myself and have been so busy that I haven't had a chance to check out the-- other-- nightlife spots. "Other" meaning non-queer. It was a great opportunity for me to finally seek out other mixed spaces with more chill, loungy vibes-- most of the other places I'd been to so far have been dance clubs. J.Gabriel and I found this particular spot, Apache Cafe, which was a chill bar/restaurant/performance space that welcomed a diverse spectrum of people. The band was passable-- a nice three piece horn section, a good keyboardist and bassist. The vocalists, lead MC/singer(?) and drummer were not impressive. My brother and I concurred that the band would be much better off without any singers and someone else on the kit, someone more like... my brother, haha! He doesn't talk much about his musicianship on his blog, but just so you all know, he's got some chops. If he only would stick to it diligently, he could make a very nice secondary career in music. I do not say "secondary" to imply any deficiency of talent, but I know that he is too pragmatic and selfless to pursue such a career full-time. Anyway, in spite of the mediocre music ensemble, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. Apache was a space where my brother and I could both feel comfortable. Actually, we had never gimik-ed together (apart from numerous concerts) and it was an interesting challenge trying to find a place where both of us could really hang out and enjoy the atmosphere. I'll be honest-- the co-ed bar/club mating ritual sometimes makes me uncomfortable. I don't understand how some women flirt by downplaying their intelligence and sense of humor. Like, why laugh at his dumb joke? You know it's not that funny. I can tell that your laugh isn't genuine. Plus, since my outward appearance doesn't necessarily scream that I'm gay, men occasionally assume that I'm game for the whole routine. When the fact that I have a girlfriend surfaces, I get things like, "Maybe you haven't found the right guy" or "Do you and your girlfriend ever have threesomes?" or "You don't look gay" or "Naw, you're not really gay" or "Did some guy break your heart or something?" All of these things really have been said to me. I'm tired of having to react/not react to it.

I'm not saying that all straight venues necessarily foster such bizarre behaviors and power dynamics. It's just that I have to navigate through heteronormative, hegemonic social rules every day, and the night is my time to really be myself, uninhibitedly. During these hours, I prefer to not have to perform in order to socialize in peace.

Hmmm. I should also add that the nightlife is slightly different for those of us in long-term, committed relationships. If you're not shopping for meat, the market just ain't the same.

I won't go into the debauchery that was Thursday night. Well. For me anyway. I'm not a drinker, let's just put it that way. When a blue moon happens to-- um, happen?-- and I do imbibe, it is painfully obvious to anyone within a five mile radius. It's not that we even caused drunken mischief... in fact, it was a very low-key evening at home that just happened to involve some beer and an interesting soundtrack. My face was beet red after the first three minutes, and within half an hour, the living room floor looked and felt like a Therapedic mattress.

Well. Of course it would take some schoolwork in need of attention for me to blog. Procrastination can be a powerful motivator, who knew? On that note, I have some biostatistics problem sets due within 48 hours. I'll try to be back before another month passes. Ingats, everyone.

MA, ME, PA, VA, GA, and the ER

I know, it's been a while. I've been in transit, though, so I have an excuse this time! I finally left my post on Floor 19, packed up the apartment and loaded the truck, and said goodbye to NoHo. I've always been wistful and nostalgic when closing chapters in my life, but this time I can't say I've looked back. The town has definitely served its purpose. I'm leaving just in time because I was really starting to outgrow the area and its increasingly transparent, phony progressiveness.... in the South, at least bigots can look me in the eye and deliberately spew racist slurs to my face! Yeee hawww! Hey, I appreciate honesty, I really do. I can be honest right back, too.

I will miss New England, though. Autumn is just around the corner, my favorite season in the Northeast. I took the photo on the right at Atkins Farms near Amherst, MA, last fall. I love the smell of the autumn air, a melange of woodsmoke, wet leaves, apples, and the impending cold rain. I also associate the fall with brand new school supplies.




Anyway, after finally vacating the apartment, Toya and I drove eight hours to Northern Maine to spend time with my parents for a few days. It's always nice to visit home. I'm consistently amazed at how plentiful the food seems to be at my parents' house! Not just any food, good homecooked food. Even though I slept in my old room, I felt like a guest; my personal effects from adolescence are no longer on the walls-- in fact, the room has completely transformed since I moved from home almost a decade ago. Still, I felt safe in that space. I always feel safe when I'm in that house. I guess that's why I still call it "home," regardless of how many years have passed or how far I've moved away. Of course, this has little to do with the house itself, and mostly to do with the fact that my parents continue to make it a home for me and my siblings.

After a couple of very brief, relaxing days there, we then drove all the way down to Georgia with some stops along the way. (There was a karaoke contest somewhere in there. Yeah. Moving on.) The drive through Pennsylvania and Virginia was actually rather nice; I hadn't realized that these were such pretty parts of the country-- sorry PA'ers and VA'ers, I underestimated the beauty of your states! There were quite a few hours of picturesque, rolling landscapes along the way. Here is a glimpse of some of the beautiful scenery from the Shenandoah Valley that I encountered on the long road-trip to my new life in the South:



And then there was this snapshot of the green, lush Virginia mountains, blanketed with corn fields and dotted with cows. Check out the silhouette of the abandoned barn and lone silo against the fiery sunset:



D8<. I guess Blogger isn't feelin' the photos from my imaginary camera. Thank you, Sony DSC-P100, for deserting me at such a critical transition of my life.

Something interesting I observed while driving through West Virginia and Virginia (I didn't take this photo):


I noticed random erections of groups of three crosses along the roadside and countryside-- two tall, whitish crosses flanking a taller golden cross. Each cluster looked exactly the same, except, of course, they were in various unpredictable locations... some on the sides of mountains, some in fields, others right alongside the highway. Having had a few years of Catholic schooling in my distant past, I recognized the reference to Calvary and I found these cross clusters to be both intriguing and slightly creepy. I hadn't noticed these on previous road trips to the South, but this had been the first time I'd taken this particular route. I must have seen at least ten of these clusters.

I just mindlessly Googled "three crosses" in an attempt to find photos of these mysterious homages, and I was quite surprised to come across this website from which I grabbed the photo above. Lo and behold, these were not so random-- these clusters were the work of Christian Crosses, Inc. A single man had a vision that it was his life's mission to erect these crosses and spent 3 million dollars for this project. He has since passed on, but others have continued his work by raising money to build these cross clusters that now reach almost two thousand in number across the globe, including some in the Philippines. I wonder if my brother has come across any of them in his extensive journeys over there this summer.

If I were to see one of these cross clusters in the Philippines, I suppose it wouldn't seem as eerie to me. The Philippines is so hugely, devoutly Catholic that it is not a rarity to see random shrines to the Virgin Mary, the Stations of the Cross built into the facade of a mountain, illuminated crosses, etc. In fact, in most other countries around the world, religion is so infused in people's daily lives that these displays of devotion to their god becomes a part of the culture. I mean, some of the biggest tourist attractions in Europe are the cathedrals and artwork inspired by God. Why, then, does it feel so inappropriate and downright spooky here in the States? It can't just be because of the history of Christian hatred and oppression towards others here... that has happened all over the world. Is it because our cultural and historical context are those of relgious freedom and separation of church and state? Is it because Americans of my generation don't like to talk about God because we're so afraid to offend people? Is it because nowadays, it's just not "P.C." to publicly worship?

Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one with the problem. Maybe it's just that I've grown to assume that these Super Christians hate people like me and what I stand for. I mean, I appreciate the devotion this man and his followers have had to their faith (though I do not know if this is the most productive way to demonstrate the teachings of Christ. I could think of some excellent, Christ-approved ways to use 3 million dollars. Who am I to judge, though?) However, I can't help but see through these "symbols of love," as they've also been used as symbols of hate towards those whom these self-proclaimed messengers deem as sinners. Including Jews. Muslims. Brown people. Homosexuals. People who don't like Nascar. It really depends on the weather. "Love" and "hate" are pretty much interchangeable, forget the fine line.

So I've been in Atlanta for six days now. My fourth day here was spent in the emergency room. Swollen lymph nodes, mysterious discomfort and inflammation behind my ear. I watched some Rachel Ray and "That's so Raven" during my long wait ... watching television was actually a treat since my cable won't be set up for another month or so. I know some food show purists can't stand Rachel Ray and her "shortcuts" (e.g. using store-bought flour instead of grinding wheat that she just harvested from her backyard), but I personally think she's fantastic and hosts a perfectly realistic show. I mean, who really makes every little ingredient from scratch? We all use prepackaged greens every now and then. Some are blessed with the luxury of time and means to cultivate our own vegetable gardens, but for those of us who still have to work/go to school/raise kids/what-have-you, Rachel makes it possible for us to be culinary masters, too! And the food is slammin', which is what really matters in the end.

And maybe it was the painkillers that were given to me, but I thought Raven had some entertaining moments too. I laughed quite a few times.

So anyway, the emergency room personnel took quite a bit of my blood for some cultures, and then I sat for a few hours with a catheter in my arm as I received a bolus of antibiotics, just in case I had some kind of bacterial infection. I was finally discharged with a prescription for more antibiotics and instructions to return if my condition did not improve within 48-72 hours. Etiology and/or diagnosis still unknown. 48 hours have passed since I was in the E.R. and although the swelling of my lymph nodes has gone down a bit, the pain has increased quite a bit. Since I'll be paying off this emergency room visit for the rest of my natural life, I will probably try to ride this out and wait until I can get an appointment at a clinic to pursue the matter, as I will not be able to handle any more E.R. charges.

I'm currently living amongst boxes and suitcases. Unloading the truck (which arrived two days after our arrival) in the heat was exhausting, so Toya and I have been taking our time with the actual unpacking. Since we decided against bringing most of our old furniture, we don't have very many places to store things right now anyway. Or very many places to sit, for that matter.

My left ear and neck feel like they're on fire right now.

Because this post was not particularly engaging or insightful, I'd like to close out with some old photos I took, of which the subjects have little or nothing to do with anything I've talked about.

.....

Ok, so my logic regarding posting random photos is a bit suspect, but just go with it.


[above photo: Thai-inspired-yet-ultimately-Dad-style tilapia.] Mmmmm. Nothing but bones left less than ten minutes after this photo was taken. We devoured the fish like ravenous vultures. I salivate at the mere memory! My birthday is approaching, as is my father's, and I've been trying to lovingly guilt-trip my Dad into coming down to the A to visit. With some luck and a huge miracle (he absolutely, positively fears flying), we'll celebrate our birthdays together here. If so, I would hope for the above dish to be our birthday dinner. If my new apartment were to smell like this is on the skillet!


[above photo: Anti-Bush Georgian pick-up truck, photo taken last spring at Little Five Points.] I love Atlanta! This certainly wouldn't have been seen in Vidalia, Georgia. Their onions are yummy though!


[above photo: Late night Indian food binge, sans utensils, plates, or a table.] While visiting my brother at Bates College earlier this year, we attempted a picnic of very saucy Indian food on the floor of his dorm room. Yes, those are grains of basmati rice on his rug.



[photo: Gangsta muppets] Alright, I didn't take this photo. I didn't even edit it. I don't remember how, where, or why I acquired this pic, so I can't take credit for this one, but I remember laughing my a** off when I saw it so I figured it to be post-worthy. Elmo says, "Tickle this."

And finally, I was serenaded by a choir the entire drive down to Georgia. The singers:



Bijuh.



Boo.

And the lead singer of the trio:


Hobbes.

Makin' moves

Two days left before I relinquish all access privileges to the 19th floor in exchange for a new life in Atlanta. Not a bad trade in my estimation.

I'll admit that in spite of my extremely excited state, I am a bit nervous. One only needs to read this to recall that the demands of student life are so vastly different from the daily workforce grind. By and large, this will be a most welcome transition; I'm eager to finally put a cohesive context to the various areas of study and work experience I've amassed throughout the past decade. Besides, being the dork that I am, I like the academic milieu. Though my ADD tendencies make it challenging for me to keep up with all the varied requirements of time and focused attention, I prefer these to the monotony of crunching numbers all day. Of course, my boredom with my jobs probably has a lot to do with the fact that I was never really mentally or emotionally invested in my work. Hopefully my schooling will give me the leverage to access opportunities that are better fits for my interests and attention span.

I haven't really started packing in earnest... some half-assed boxes here and there. This is partially because the commute to and from work kills any kind of motivation to do anything once the day is over... but it's mostly because I'm a procrastinator at the core, and when something overwhelms me, I tend to just shut down and mentally escape to my own world of impossible daydreams/nightdreams. I could spend a good fifteen minutes staring off into space, delineating (and actually visualizing a bulleted list-- not joking) how I would share and spend each dollar of my winnings if I were to hit a 70 million dollar jackpot of the Powerball lottery. It gets to the point where I'm so caught up with my imagination that I momentarily forget the reality of my sad financial situation.

Alright, well I should probably at least assemble some of the empty boxes stacked against the wall beside me. I can't promise that my next post will be any time soon, but then again, the three of you know how I am with blogging anyway. Things are especially crazy right now though. Check back in a week or so!

Thirsty Thursday

It's already July! What is going on? Where did June go? Man, summers don't float by leisurely like they used to. It doesn't help that the weather in the Northeast hasn't been its usual tourist-magnet self, although I don't think the rain has deterred the tourists; I'm still generally stuck in traffic filled with non-New England license plates. Not that I mind the tourists. If I didn't live in New England, I'd probably be vacationing here in the summer, too.

Except for this summer. The cloudy, wet days are getting a little depressing.

They say it's going to be partly sunny tomorrow. Is it just me, or does the big green monster look like it's getting awfully close? Beware of the disgruntled little Pinay, she doesn't play nice. She robbed Waldo for his sweater.





I am in the process of taking inventory of my apartment furnishings. It's difficult to decide what things I think are worth taking with me when I move, and which things will be forsaken. I am somewhat of a sentimental person, and although I do not consider myself to be materialistic, I have been known to attach personal associations to select worldly possessions. OCD hoarding leanings, perhaps? Or maybe it's just the pack-rat tendencies I've inherited from ancestors who had close to nothing in material fortune. Hey, it's not a bad thing to want to save what you have, to not be wasteful. We waste too much in the first-world, which is actually quite sad.

I can't believe I'm finally moving out of the Northeast. As much as I try to resist being overly idealistic, I can't help but have high hopes for my new life and fresh start. The next few weeks will be curr-AYZEE, as we have to be out of our apartment by July 31st. Plus, the contest just makes things more complicated, logistically, considering the final round-- in New Hampshire-- is on August 4th.

Uh, I mean, what contest?

Why, the one in New Hampshire of course.

Slightly out of the way of the drive South. It will be an interesting experience to drive the fifteen hours or so with meowing kitties in tow. I'm getting anxious about getting everything done in time. I'm busting my a** at work right now; up to my neck in projects, I end up staying late every night, coming home too exhausted to be productive. I've moved several times, but for some reason I forget just how enormous an undertaking it is.

Time for bed.

Summer solstice

Ok, here's another one that's been sitting in the "Draft" box for weeks. Sorry so late.

-----------------------

It's officially summer, and what better way to celebrate than with another meme. I know, two back to back... is this improper blogging etiquette? Well. Propriety was never my metiér. Besides, Ji-in called upon all summer birthday celebrators to participate in these "10 simple pleasures" meme, and it is not in my nature to ignore the call of duty.



1. Summer daylight hours.
2. Summer birthdays.
3. Summer afternoon naps.
4. Summer places, like the beach.
5. Summer days, driftin' away, but ah-- oh those summer niiights!
6. Summer social, outdoor assemblies that revolve around food, e.g. picnics and barbeques.
7. Summer flora.
8. Summer noises of nature, like those of crickets, morning doves, bullfrogs, and loons.
9. Summer skin tone.
10. Summer Pride celebrations!


Speaking of which, I haven't been to NYC Pride since my first time, six years ago. Not so great associations with that, so I'm hoping to create some better ones. I have been deliberating about whether or not it's a good idea (fiscally) to go, but honestly, I need to be around gay people. Different kinds of gay people, not just the homogeneous community of upper-middle class lesbians parading their adopted Benetton babies around the streets of Smalltown, MA. Sometimes I feel like I'm suffocating at my job; I'm weary of all the damn Brokeback jokes and other cracks about queer people in general. I was recently at a pretentious marketing social and one of the straight, white male bankers with a crooked tie and sparkling white teeth decided to break the ice with some of the cute girls from our company by describing his apparently harrowing experience of walking into a club one night, not knowing it was "Ghetto Gay Night." The theme of the evening at the club was not officially called "Ghetto Gay Night," by the way; that epithet was a homegrown original. One of the girls responded, "Ghetto Gay Night... isn't that, like, a contradiction?"

Wow. On so many levels.

Firstly, nice macking technique. That pick-up conversation would get me into bed in seconds. And he was not even my type.

Secondly, something about this gent's swagger and $3,000 BriteSmile made it difficult for me to believe that he's ever been anywhere near a ghetto. Further, from the way he was describing his night of terror, it didn't sound like he chose the company of gays very often. So, how he could recognize a true "Ghetto Gay" from his suburban Connecticut frame of reference must have been quite a feat. Maybe he should start watching something besides MTV Jams all day. Like, the... news.... um, wait.

As far as the "contradiction" of ghetto and gay-- well, it's interesting that she would find dissonance in the juxtaposition of those two concepts. I wasn't sure if she was doubtful of such a possibility because she thought that people in ghettos could not be homosexual, or, more likely, if she was referring to the rampant homophobia in hip-hop culture. I would have loved to have seen her explore that some more, but she changed the topic. She seemed disdainful of his opening lines, at the very least. It would be nice, however, to see straight "allies" act as such, even in the absence of their queer friends and family.

Maybe I'll see some of you at Pride. We probably won't recognize each other, but know that I'm really glad that you made it out there, too. Happy summer!

Twice tagged

Pari and Gabe and both tagged me with this meme (though I think that Gabe got tagged by Kuya Don, who got tagged by Pari also). It is a bit more challenging than others I've seen, since there is no real template off of which to write.

Once you've been tagged, you have to write a blog with 8 facts/things/habits about yourself, saying who tagged you. In the end you need to choose the 6 people to be tagged and list their names. No tag backs.

It's so general and unguided, but I'll do my best. Some of these might not be new to those who know me personally (siblings, for instance), but to the rest of the world, here is some information that you may/may not want to know.

1. My least favorite part about making lumpia is having to julienne the carrots and the Chinese sausage. Though I've repeatedly watched instructional how-to-julienne videos, the process has yet to become any easier. I absolutely dread the task.... but the final product is completely worth it.



2. I have a soft spot for animals, e.g. seeing road-kill (all too common up here) elicits a severe depressive episode that could easily last a few hours. I've entertained the idea of pursuing veterinary medicine, but the reality of euthanasia as part of the occupation completely kills any fleeting consideration of a career in that field. I fully understand the necessity of "humane killing" in some cases, but I know I could not personally handle being in charge of the task. Besides, my feline domestic companions would hate me if I came home with the scent of different animals all over me.


Cats and I tend to get along, by the way. It's not too difficult for me to win the affection of even the most stand-offish of cats. I have a "connection" with them, they trust me. I think it's because when they look at me, they see something familiar, something that reminds them... of themselves....




3. Um, yeah, about that.... I was in a cult for a while. I only left because the strict diet of mice and cream began to disagree with my sensitive stomach. I'm not particularly proud of that phase of my life-- who wants to brag about litter-box SkiLLz? The cover-up story is this: In high school, I was once in a theatrical production called "Everyonezacat," a clever children's play that also reached literary aficionados because of the references to cats from many different classic works. The plot was rather simplistic and clichéd, but the content was impressive and the costumes were award-winning. By the way, the other Asiatic kitty seated below me, to your right, is my sister. EVERYONEZACAT! Dun-na-na-na-na! If you know it, sing it. Don't pretend like you don't.


4. I'm not a fan of my feet. The toes don't look consistent with one another-- it's as though each of them came from a different foot or something. Some toenails are rectangular, some are rounded, some are trapezoidal. I find it unsettling. Also, my feet are relatively small (relative to the average "American" feet) and it is a far too arduous task for me to find shoes in my size.







On second thought, I'm just not a fan of feet in general.












5. The most comfortable pair of shoes I own are my cowboy boots. Sure I have good sneakers, but even those make my feet hot sometimes. Plus, the laces come undone, or I tie them too tight, etc. My boots, on the other hand, are easy-on-easy-off. They're versatile. Fashionable. Durable. Sturdy. Pointy. Brown. A perfect size 5.5. And they were on sale.



6. Karaoke contest? What karaoke contest?



7. I have gluttonous dreams about Peking Duck House Restaurant on Mott St. in Chinatown, NYC. Has anyone out there ever been? Can you please feel me on this? Even the hoisin sauce has a unique quality about it that makes it more delectable than its competition elsewhere. The polygamous marriage of the tawny, crispy, savory duck; the mouth-watering, sweet and tangy hoisin sauce; the moist, starchy pancake; and the perfectly julienned cucumbers and scallions is paradise to the palette. (Oh, and whatever, cucumbers and scallions are waaaay easier to julienne than carrots and sausage! Hmph!) The
service at Peking Duck House leaves much to be desired, but one doesn't go in there and wait in line for hours for the service. [photo: me and the sibs passed out at my old apartment.]

I don't particularly enjoy watching the chef carve the duck in front of the table, though. I'm one of those hypocritical animal-lovers who tries to be vegetarian most of the time, but can't resist carniverous temptation. I've been known to have leather shoes, too. *hangs head in shame*


And finally.....


8.




I have no idea who reads this blog, so I'm not quite sure who to tag. Please feel free to tag yourselves, and let me know who you are. I would tag Faith, just because everyone needs a little shock in his/her day, but I know she won't oblige. Manang Mataji is still working on my last tag. Luke! Paul! Obi-Chan! Nia! Well, Nia doesn't have a blog yet, but I know it's in the works. Alright y'all, get to it.

Ouch.

Thoughts must really have power. I was slicing an onion yesterday, and all of a sudden, a vivid vision of the knife incising my finger matierialized in my head. I paused, shuddered at the gruesome scene, and dismissed the thought. No less than two seconds later, the knife slipped and tore into the flesh of my left index finger, just as I'd seen it in my fleeting premonition. If my camera was working, I'd insert a picture of my bleeding gash here, but no such luck. When I get a new camera, I promise lots of gory pics! Anyway, I saturated the wound with hydrogen peroxide and triple antibiotic ointment, dressed it up with a flexible fabric bandaid, and continued to marinate what turned out to be the most delicious daing na bangus-- tiyan lang (marinated milkfish fillet, abdominal section only, preferably boneless).



I would have loved to have had some taba na talangka (seasoned crab "fat" paté of sorts; I think it's kind of like lobster tomalley but a bubillion times more savory-- seriously, do the math), or some itlog na maalat (salted eggs), or even some buro (fermented rice and fish paste) to complement the bangus. Since New England is painfully devoid of any decent Filipino food stores or general Asian grocers that may carry the above mentioned items, I had to make do with some diced tomatoes and patis. At least I can find patis (fish sauce) with relative ease.

Yes, Filipinos like fish and other seafood products. This is what happens when your homeland is an archipelago.

In spite of the healing powers of such a delectable meal, my finger is still throbbing eighteen hours later. Now if only my clairvoyance could work in my favor. I'm envisioning all the things in my apartment just neatly packed up in boxes and transporting themselves into the U-Haul. I'm also imagining a few extra zeroes before the decimal point in my bank account figures. Subsequently, I will visualize an easy, painless severance of my relationship with the company for which I work.

*closes eyes*

*strains, pops a few blood vessels*

*opens eyes*

....

No boxes in sight. No U-Haul. No extra zeroes. So far, not so good. I suppose that means I have to go to work tomorrow, huh? On that note, I should change the bandage on my finger and hit the hay. L8eR GaTorZ!!

... Wow. I'm sorry about that. I am an Asian blogger and all, but that is really no excuse.

congratulations

This past weekend, I was able to witness my youngest sibling graduate from college. To me, Gabe will always be my baby brother, of whom I'm extremely proud. Congratulations, Tots, on your hard-earned and well-deserved success. You have many humbling and exhilarating adventures ahead of you!

Congratulations are also in order to my parents, who have just finished putting their last child through school. I am sure I can safely speak for my siblings as well when I say that we cannot amply express our appreciativeness of their selfless sacrifice and boundless support and encouragement.

The weather could not have been more perfect in Lewiston, Maine, for this event. Though it was certainly a joyous affair, there was a twinge of sadness and nostalgia for me, too. A good part of my childhood was spent just down the street from Bates College, before our family moved north. Now that Gabe has graduated, there is really no reason for us to return to Lewiston... so in essence, this weekend was also a goodbye to that part of our lives. Of course, the fact that Gabe is leaving the nest is also a signifier of our family's transition into a new phase; our nuclear family is now without kids (though I still feel very much like one). Retirement is often a subject of conversation with my parents. My contemporaries are getting married and starting families of their own. In six months, my family will be dispersed throughout the country, and visiting my parents will be just that-- visiting. Whether or not I'm ready to accept the fact that we're all getting older isn't going to stop it from happening at the extremely rapid rate it is doing so. That's life, though; it is a little sad to know that we are all moving on in different directions, but it is exciting to see how our lives are progressing and our relationships with one another are evolving. Beyond the parent-child-sibiling dynamic, we're getting to know one another as individual people, which, I must say, can be a really interesting and surprising experience.



Again, congratulations to everyone-- class of 2006, 5-year reunion'ers/class of 2001 Smithies (Sorry I missed y'all! I hope it was a blast), parents... and anyone else who has accomplished something you wanted to accomplish! Seriously. Overcoming hurdles, however big or small, is not something to take for granted. I hope we all use our success to enable others to access the same fortune in this sad-state-of-a-world.

By the way, um, whoa?! I can't believe it's already the end of May... I'm going to be out of this apartment in two months. It's difficult for me to conceive, honestly. Is time flying for anyone else out there?

weekend forecast: mostly housework with a high chance of afternoon slumber

9am and there is no sign of the sun. If not for my computer clock, I would have guessed it was past dusk; looking out the window from my work desk, I can barely make out the gray, hazy skyline. It's been raining for two weeks, and the prospects don't look good for the upcoming weekend. I don't mind, though; it's the perfect excuse for me to stay put and tend to my domicile. My cats will be happy with all the attention they're going to get. Every time I leave for work in the morning, they sit at the door and look up at me with wide, bright yellow eyes as I walk out. You know, those big Disney quality animal eyes that always look like they're welling up with a single, fat teardrop. I wish they'd quit with the guilt trip already! Someone needs to make the dough, and they sure as heck aren't volunteering. What leeches. They don't do dishes, they can't answer the phone, nothing. They can't even clean up after their own hairballs.

I do love the rain, though. Perfect napping weather, and I do love my siestas! I don't understand why Americans can't implement that schedule. I'd be so much more productive in the afternoon if I could just squeeze in some z's for an hour after lunch. My mother used to enforce a daily afternoon nap when I was a kid, and I hated it. I wanted to run around outside all day, and I thought that sleeping was a waste of time. My parents would tell me that sleeping helped with the growth process, and later during my studies I learned that growth hormones are most active during slumber. Well then, with all those naps I took, why am I barely over 5' tall? I took those naps! I drank my milk! I ate three (at the very least) square meals a day! But wait, my siblings were on the same nap regimen, and they definitely tower over me.

More to come after work. How's the weather where you are? Are your weekend plans weather-appropriate? I really do want to know, so feel free to comment.

19th floor blues

Ok, I'm going to be the ultimate hypocrite; after my entire post on prudent blogging, I'm about to do some light job dissing.

Yesterday was Monday, and it was relatively good to me. This company, still in its overzealous, puerile stages, kept me quite busy trying to sort out the financial mess into which I walked when I decided to take the job. Though I spent a good part of the day quite frustrated with the lack of responsiveness from my "superiors," I was occupied enough to make the day go by rather quickly.

Today was a different story. I was literally at a standstill all day because I could not continue with my projects without further collaboration with the managers, all of whom were too busy and dismissive today. I'm starting to think that these deadlines shouldn't matter to me as much as they do, since nobody else seems concerned-- but I know that the minute the hypothetical repercussions become a grim, financial reality, fingers will be pointed in my general direction. The docile new girl who didn't speak up enough. Except that the flesh on my knuckles have completely eroded away and are exposing bone from my relentless knocking on closed/open doors. My voice is but a raspy whisper from all the messages I've left on various voicemailboxes. My fingers have now developed this arthritic rigidity from sending the same emails twenty times a day for the past three weeks.

....

Hyberbolic disgruntlement notwithstanding, I really have been pushing this project and I hate being swept aside. Maybe it's an ego thing. I've always been quite intolerant of disrespectful authority figures, and I do realize that my definition of "disrespectful" behavior is a broad one. There are, of course, the more flagrant offenses like overt harrassment and public humiliation; but there are also the nebulous wrongdoings that I find vexing. For instance, unjustly reprimanding me for not seeing me at my station and buried in my work at 8.30am... not because I wasn't there, but because the castigator was in the elevator on her way down nineteen floors to have breakfast with a co-worker at the time I was allegedly not at my desk. More objectionable than actually being scolded was the manner in which the scolding was done-- the condescending hand on the shoulder, the wide-eyed nodding and exaggerated slow speech as she chastised, as though she was talking to an alien child, made me more irritated than a three-foot long papercut in a bucket of patis and vinegar na sinamak. Firstly, please don't touch me. Secondly, I do understand some English in spite of my exotic looks, so you can speak at a normal tempo. Thirdly, perhaps the reason you didn't see me at my desk was because you were downstairs having your coffee and croissant sandwich. We've since moved on and I am no longer sour about it, but I definitely approached her about the incident later and expressed my resentment.

I know, I just sound like I'm b**ching about work. I really need to get over it, because that's life, and until I can be a self-employed queen bee I'm inevitably going to have to deal with undesirable situations with authorities. Who doesn't have to deal with bureaucratic b.s.? I just hope that these experiences will make me a better leader if/when the time comes. I would hate to be the subject of this kind of frustration for my employees.

Maybe this corporate, business setting is not for me. Sitting through sales meetings about the exorbitant amounts of money people make is much different from the fiscal meetings at my last job, where we talked about the tight budgeting and financing of job placement programs for our physically and mentally disabled clients. I'm not climbing on a moral high-horse or anything, I'm just acknowledging the vast disparity in the ways people in each of these environments view their work. Sure, I'm broke and I need money just as much as the next person, but I honestly feel empty at my current job; I feel so removed from the cause. However, I know that, ultimately, this company is providing a very necessary service to people. Perhaps my issue lies with the way people who work here are gloating about getting fat off of the service they provide. I feel like I can't have a conversation about work that doesn't revolve around money, which is weird to me. My parents made a comfortable living, but they never made money the focus in life; they constantly emphasized the importance of generosity, and we never forgot the humble roots from which we came. Though my previous work also had its own shortcomings, I felt more invested in the mission overall... I don't even get to meet the clients here, and most of the business is done by telephone. Honestly, I miss my daily exchange with Alan. Corporate culture is the complete antithesis of human services in its objective and worldview.

... Ok, I realize that's a gross and perhaps unfair generalization to make, especially since my experience with the corporate world-- and this company, for that matter-- is limited thusfar. I need to try to work on being less impulsive with my judgments. I used to think I was simply intuitive, but the older I get, the more I think that I'm just too quick to react to things. I'm a rather passionate person, which can obviously be both really good and really bad.

More ramblings to come in the near future, hopefully cheerier! How is everyone's week going? Spring is officially here. I want to take photos of the beautiful surroundings, but my digital camera is broken. The LCD screen is completely black, except for the menus and other texts. I think that the shutter just won't open. It's a Sony DSC-P100. Any suggestions out there?

Nocturne

Ok, this was written nearly a week ago, but it never made it to the "Publish Post" phase. Sorry for the delay.

I have to be at work in four and a half hours, with a 45min. commute, in Monday morning rush hour traffic. Why do I do this to myself? No seriously, why. I know I'll be grumbling in this barely-lucid haze all day. It's going to be one of those quintessential Mondays, and it's going to be all my fault. I'm so tired, but I just can't get to sleep ... my circadian rhythm just doesn't flow with the diurnal beat.

Well, this past weekend was a wonderfully uneventful one. It started on Thursday night at a great Brad Mehldau Trio concert at one of my favorite performance venues, the Iron Horse; it had been a while since I'd been to a really good jazz show, particularly in this smallish, intimate space. The performance epitomized why I love sound of the trio jazz ensemble so much. There is something about the piano, bass, and drums instrumentation that just feels balanced and organic. It was a great show. Inspired, Toya and I went to the downtown music store on Saturday to play around on the various instruments. While trying out the different digital pianos, I picked up a book of Chopin Waltzes that someone had left on a music stand. As I reminisced about my first introduction to Chopin's work, I opened the book and my fingers tried to clunk out whatever memories they had left of the pieces they had mastered in younger years. Annnnd I couldn't get past the first few measures of anything. I could feel my heart literally sinking... my fingers used to be so much nimbler when I was thirteen. Back then, I preferred the company of stacks of musical scores to that of my mall-cruising peers. Back then, I was entirely devoted to The Dream. With classical music, I favored pieces from the Romantic era and the Impressionist movement, fitting for the dramatic, emotional growing pains of prepubescence/early adolescence in a place where I never felt like I quite belonged. The works of such great French composers as Ravel and Debussy, and, of course, the French-convert Chopin would be a nightly soundtrack; during daylight hours, I could be found at the piano bench, my hands coaxing the cherrywood Baldwin spinette to decipher the wistful, melancholy stories embedded in the hieroglyphics of black dots and lines. How well these stories were translated, I do not know. All I know is that I loved the stories, and I loved trying to tell them. [photo: paying my respects to Fredric Chopin at Pere Lachaise cemetery, Paris, 1996.]

As my love for music evolved, I began to explore the likes of John Coltrane, Sonny Rollins, and Miles Davis. I grew quite attracted to the earthy, syncopated, rhythms and visceral cadences of bebop and cool jazz. The restless sentiment from which the music emerged resonated with my agitation with the stagnance of the narrow, rural Northern Maine Weltanschauung. It was around this time that I started to become repulsed by the exclusive, Eurocentric aesthetic standards of the classical genre. I spent less time at the piano in exchange for more time with my tenor saxophone; its raw, throaty sound was not so much pretty as it was powerful, like the voice of a raspy, seasoned jazz vocalist. The primal, hard swing filled the senses and energized the spirit. I loved playing in combos and jazz ensembles, and I liked the more intimate, yet interactive nature of the music. Moreover, it allowed for unrepressed creativity, as the true spirit of jazz music lies within the improvisational space. Though there is some freedom in the interpretation of classical pieces, the focus is on the composer; with jazz and its derivatives, the stage truly belongs to the performers. The canonical melodies of Beethoven and Chopin took a back seat to the sounds of Keith Jarrett. [photo: a gig in 2005.]

Sometimes, however, nothing can be more befitting than a mournful Nocturne, like the one that is now playing softly behind the clicks of my typing. Appropriate, as it is 4.10am. Everyone else is deep in slumber-- even my cat is snoring.

4.11am. Still pitch black outside, though I hear a few birds singing their first arias of the day. Is the night over already? My favorite time is approaching: the few minutes right before first light, where everything takes on this slate-blue hue as the night fights for every last second of her reign. Of course, she has to inevitably relinquish her throne and the rat race resumes, the sun shining its spotlight on everyone, pressuring us to put on yet another spectacular performance for the world. The spotlight is so bright that you can't look at its source without going blind. So egotistical, unable to take its leave at twilight without a gaudy, magnificent exit. The light of the moon is, on the other hand, the polar opposite in nature; even the lonliest soul can gaze at the moon all night and find comfort in it's bluish light. When the day approaches, the moon simply fades into the brightening sky, quietly, modestly. But it is the celestial night skies that have inspired some of the greatest imaginations of all time. It is this night the sky that humbles our egos by putting our significance into real-- yet intangible-- perspective. The day is much too unforgiving and critical, whereas the night embraces you for who/what you are, dark secrets and all. The night allows your imagination to run free, unabashedly. Even the ocean seems more uninhibited and powerful after dusk.

.......

Um. I sound like a vampire... bwaahahahahhaha! One hundred! One hundred minutes until my alarm clocks screams its obnoxious scream to wake me up! Ninety-nine! Ninety-nine minutes until I fumble around for the snooze button in the middle of precious REM! Ninety-eight! Ninety-eight minutes before the show!

Ahhhh. Delerium at sunrise. I think it's time for a brief PTFO meeting. Have a good Monday, everyone.

Preparation

If there is one void in my life that I am clueless as to how to fill, it is that of the spiritual. I do not know at what point I became so cynical and detached. My mother has been on a spiritual quest for as long as I can remember, and she recently invited me to join her at the Kripalu Institute during the final weekend of her week-long meditation retreat. As a child and adolescent, I always rejected my mother's attempts to share her pilgrimmage with me; now, I find myself seeking and cherishing such an opportunity. I love the scientific process and have relished my studies in it, and, ironically, the further I delve, the more I'm convinced that there has to be some divine architect. I am not an apostle to any particular creed, but I am certain that there are connections between all things in the universe that can only be explained in a language far more sublime than the scope of even the most complex theorems.

Thought I'd prepare for the weekend at the Kripalu Institute with some spiritual guidance from the newly-discovered "Blogthings."

I tried to change a few answers here and there on the Blogthings' questionnaires for alternate outcomes, but these results consistently came up. I guess I can't con my way out of these. Oh well, maybe I'm just one-dimensional. Not sure how I feel about the rose-colored glasses, though. How about black, thick-framed, oblong ones? You know the ones I'm talking about. A few of you may even adorn your own faces with the same pair. At first the frame's academic and pretentiously distancing (read: nerdy) aesthetic appealed to me because I thought that, perhaps, they made me look "mysterious;" ultimately, the frames only exacerbated the awkward, vision-impaired dorkiness that makes me, well, me. Nothing is mysterious about having to push eyeglasses up my virtually bridge-less, Asian nozzle every 30 seconds just so I can see beyond five feet ahead of me. Then there are contact lenses. Once in a while, I use them to minimize the nerdiness of having to wear glasses, but by mid-afternoon, my face contorts all sorts of strange and unsightly ways, as I try to blink way the feeling of sand scouring away at my reddening eyeballs.

I reiterate what I said in a previous post: I am who I am.

You Are a Dreaming Soul

Your vivid emotions and imagination takes you away from this world, so much so that you tend to live in your head most of the time. You have great dreams and ambitions that could be the envy of all... But for you, following through with your dreams is a bit difficult. You are charming, endearing, and people tend to love you. Forgiving and tolerant, you see the world through rose colored glasses. Underneath it all, you have a ton of passion that you hide from others. Always hopeful, you tend to expect positive outcomes in your life. Souls you are most compatible with: Newborn Soul, Prophet Soul, and Traveler Soul.

You are a Self-Discoverer

You're not religious, but you've created your own kind of spirituality. Introspective and thoughtful, you tend to look inward for the divine. You are distrusting of all forms of organized religion. You especially dislike religious gurus and leaders, who you feel are charlatans.

What's Your Religious Philosophy?

Gotta work on the follow-through with the dreams thing. I'll keep you posted on that.

Out, and About

I have been so intimidated by the blank "New Post" field that I've ignored its presence completely. As a recovering serial blog-killer, I have been trying to mend my ways, but some months are better than others. Sometimes I slip into processing-lethargy and fail to conjure up the will power to overcome the often daunting task of starting a new post. Incidentally, these rough months are the most jam-packed with potential material. It is during these times that my machinery automatically switches to auto-pilot, and I hardly even notice the time passing. Afterwards, my recollection of the trip is but a bunch of snapshots.

And yes, I'm alluding to the eventfulness of the days between February 13th and today, over four weeks later. I'd love to share every gory detail with you, but I have to be careful with what I divulge at this time. I mean, it's nothing too confidential that should stir any suspicion . . . the cat will eventually be let out of the bag, it's just a matter of appropriate timing. Trust me, I don't necessarily want to be cryptic. I know this all seems rather maarti, and I realize that no one wants to read such melodramatic explanations for not being able to offer any explanations.

I'll stop this jibberish now.

But check this.

I recently read a front-page headliner article in the newspaper regarding the negative consequences of revealing "too much" on online social spaces like MySpace, Friendster, Facebook, and even the web log. One young fellow was expelled from his right-wing Christian boarding school because some administrator caught wind of his Friendster site, which allegedly showcased photos of him in drag, and boasted a self-description that exposed his gay-ness (gaiety?). Since his behavior was not "consistent with the rules of the covenant," the school thought it appropriate to kick him out. The article then proceeded to list other delinquents-- those who got fired for sharing unfavorable opinions about their respective companies on their blogs, more expulsions due to incriminating photos of drunken spectacles on the Facebook, even some arrests because of careless, grandiloquent anecdotes of drug binges on MySpace. The list took up half a newspaper page.

I have mixed feelings about this. As I am but a neophyte of the blog, I am somewhat overly cautious with the contents of my personal webspace. I'm aware that as soon as I click that little "Publish" icon, anything I had the balls to write is accessible for the world to read, with perhaps critical or scrutinizing eyes. I hastily re-re-re-reproofread the published post, and to my inevitable chagrin, I stumble upon a gross grammatical goof; even worse, some flagrant use of the same word more than once or twice in a single sentence! Or how about reading something that just sounds either really stupid or really pretentious. Even more hasty than my clumsy attempt at re-re-re-reproofreading is the subsequent frantic clicks of the mouse to find and edit the original post, hoping no one has yet read and/or caught the syntactical slaughterings in the past five minutes. Of course, I realize I don't catch everything. Nor am I even aware of some of my blunders. I am the queen of run-on sentences, you know. Oh, come on. Don't roll your eyes and dismiss this as yet another manifestation of my quirky neuroses. Some of you OCD bloggers are really feeling me on this, you just don't want to admit it. That's ok, go on ahead. Continue to convince the world that all the brilliant gems weaved throughout your perfect mosaic of online chronicles are the first-pressed result of your mental fancies. Extra-virgin bloggetry, the finest in the world.

I digress.

Beyond issues of writing mechanics, I am aware that whatever content I post online can and will be used against me should an occassion call. It is an inherent risk that I suspect is part of the exhilaration of blogging. It's the secret exhibitionists in us, the thrill of possibly getting caught and throwing caution to the wind for the sake of passion. But, as with all fetish-like things, it is wise to use some discretion. Isn't it common sense that some things just need not be disclosed? Getting arrested for the online video clip of you and your buddies taking bong hits in front of your indoor herb garden is something that just doesn't need to happen. Even talking smack about project manager at your cushy corporate job is riding the fine line between freedom of speech and utter stupidity. (Unless, of course, you unconsciously want to get fired because you don't have the guts to quit and you need some kind of external impetus to leave. That's an entirely different psychological process into which I'll delve some other time.)

However . . . something is unsettling about the fact that online activity can make one a target of real, life-influencing discrimination. I'm specifically referring to the boy who was expelled from school for being "out" online. I mean, granted, it's not exactly an invasion of privacy, as it would have been had they searched his room for "proof." I suppose private schools can do whatever they want, including kicking a student out for his online sins. Unless "sexual orientation" is explicitly included in the list of "safe" categories in an organization's anti-discrimination policy, then it is perfectly legal to discriminate against someone for being queer. When I worked for the Human Rights Campaign, I helped to disseminate information about Exxon/Mobil's history (and present-day practice) of legally discriminating against gays. I've had to work for a few organizations whose anti-discrimination policies didn't include sexual-orientation. Have I yet felt that I had to closet myself, for fear of potentially getting fired? No. But it doesn't mean that I'm cool with the possibility. I've never considered actively closeting myself ever again after I finally came out to my family, especially to my cousins in the Philippines. I was so excited to rekindle our childhood bonds when I went to visit last year, but I was a bit nervous about sharing that part of my personal life with them; I really had no idea how they would react to my non-traditional perspective. I was so relieved by my cousins' acceptance and supportiveness-- not because I simply remained in their favor, but because we could uninhibitedly continue to cultivate our and enrich our kinship with the diversity of our life experiences. The bottom line is, I am who I am. I refuse to cower to anyone because of my "lifestyle" (whatever that really means-- it's just life, it's not really a "style"). Do I feel the need to advertise it at all times in order to feel grounded in my identity? No, I don't. Nor do I feel the compulsion to explain myself for the sake of others' need to compartmentalize the human experience in order to be able to be comfortable. But I'm not trying to hide it, either.


Is this completely naive of me? I can't deny that I've been in a very few situations wherein I actually felt threatened. But I felt that way for being Asian in Northern Maine, too. And for being a Yankee in the South. And for being a woman, well, everywhere. For the sake of self-preservation-- be it physical, mental, emotional, or financial-- where do I draw the line? Will there ever be a point where it would be in my absolute best interest to step back into that closet a little? If and when it gets to that point, will I refuse to go back in there, in spite of the odds? How far back in the closet would I have to hide, and would I be willing to go that far? Something a lot better than Narnia would have to be on the other side! Where and how would I start the re-closeting process? By deleting this blog, for instance, as it is public, blackmail-able material? I can't say I'd be willing to do it. I'm an idealist in a pragmatist's clothing (though I honestly don't think my costume is convincing most of the time).

And you know, about that "don't ask, don't tell." Don't tell what? You mean don't tell stories about my recent trip to Houston with my girlfriend (of almost five years) when the girls talk about their spring getaways with their super-cute boyfriends? Or did you mean don't contribute at all? But that's not exactly team spirit. You must mean that you want me to contribute, but censor (read: lie). She's not my partner, she's my "roommate." Easier to swallow. That's teammwork for you-- compromising my comfort for the sake of the comfort of everyone else.

Excuse my sarcasm. After all, I "chose" this "lifestyle." I "chose" to be queer because the challenge of dealing with bullsh** racism was losing its novelty and I needed to shake it up a bit, keep myself on my toes. It's that race to the bottom thing you know. We minorities just love to create excuses to be victims, right? When in reality, times have changed, there's no such thing as racism or homophobia. Heck! Your second-closest friend at Yale was Asian, and you like G-Unit, you watch Will & Grace, and you even aced a class on urban economics your senior year. You've got all the tokens you need to get on the Liberal/Hater Express.

I'm sleepy. But I had to break the month-long silence. Sorry for slacking. You should see how my diary feels . . . I haven't touched its pages in months. Actually, that's not true. I definitely pasted some courtside Houston Rockets game ticket stubs in there. Yao Ming is my boy! Caught this photo while he was playing some serious defense.


The following series of photos is of the last few minutes of the last quarter. I should note that the Pacers had the lead the entire game up until this point.







38 pts. for Yao. Sweet. Good job, Rockets. To everyone else, goodnight.

Works in Progress

1. Acclimatizing to the corporate environment (oh yeah, I landed a new job folks!).
2. Breaking in my cowboy boots.
3. Planning the summer and the months thereafter.
4. Three books simultaneously: The Life of Pi, The Tipping Point, Modern Tagalog.
5. Learning how to navigate Sony Soundforge in hopes of realizing a good possibility of getting into the studio.
6. Shaking off the Oscar bullsh**. "Crash?" What? Nice that the Asians were all crazy, shady, bad drivers, or confused and dirty illegal immigrants. Except for the insurance agent who was the bearer of bad news. We Asians are bad, bad luck. By the way, has anyone seen the remake of "Freaky Friday?" I used to love the Jodie Foster original. Asian readers, watch the remake and wile out please. Disney should have kept it safe and vanilla, rather than branching out and feeding young America such flagrant, noxious, racist insensitivity and ignorance. They weren't even going for subtlety here. "It must be some Chinese voodoo thing," the protagonists conclude when trying to figure out how their minds and bodies mysteriously switched places. The only thing that can explain such a weird phenomenon must be the cryptic fortune in the fortune cookie from the night prior at the Chinese restaurant. Chinese. Voodoo-thing. Nice appropriately inane juxtaposition of the mystical Orient and the freakish, supernatural event. I mean, how else could a feuding mother and daughter switch bodies for a day? Why, a sprinkle of Oriental magic, of course! Again, nice. Rosalind Chao. How could you? Why would you? Are times really that tough for Asian Hollywood? I felt more sad than offended, quite honestly. In spite of Jamie Lee Curtis' enjoyable performance, the remake dampened my pleasant childhood associations with the original.
7. Processing my recent Houston trip saga.
8. Finding the time to watch "Hustle and Flow," which has been borrowed from Blockbuster for the past month.
9. Fine-tuning my-- methods-- of assertiveness.
10. Finishing the real blog entry I started almost two weeks ago... I will post tonight! Might be slightly redundant. Sorry.

What's in *YOUR* fortune cookie?

Don't we all need a little metaphysical stimulation now and then? Something to make us consider the "big picture?" Sometimes, rather than leafing through volumes of philosophical texts, I turn to the often subtle wisdom of everyday conversation to remind myself that profound ponderings are all around me, right at comfortably bent arm's reach. You'll never know what kinds epiphanies could come your way whilst you stand by the xerox machine. In regards to a sudden change in the Friday lunch routine at the office, one woman mused that there were perhaps physiological reasons as to why we desired something other than the usual delivery from the local Chinese restaurant:

"Oh, we're not ordering Chinese today for lunch? Why, are everyone's eyes starting to turn too slanted?" ~ Caucasian coworker at my full-time job at not-for-profit human services organization; February 10, 2006


What was almost just as earth-shattering was the erudition of the supervisor when I offered this pearl to him. Thankfully, the only other employee of color was there also, as he wanted to process other similar celestial experiences with us. The response reinstilled this hope-- this faith in humanity that I lost somewhere during my travels over the years; it sent chills down my back:

[In a well-intentioned, earnest, sincere voice] "Well, I wouldn't take it too personally. I mean, you're not even Chinese." ~ Caucasian supervisor; February 13, 2006

It was like a breath of fresh, icy, brain-freezing, hypothermia-inducing, sinus-impaling, suburban New England, February air. [Inhales deeply. Coughs up black lung.]

I'm "IT."

I've been tagged, officially, by JGVT.

"The first player of this game starts with the topic 'Five Weird Habits of Yourself,' and people who get tagged need to write an entry about their five weird habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next five people to be tagged and link to their web journals. Don't forget to leave a comment in their blog or journal that says 'You are tagged' (assuming they take comments) and tell them to read yours."

I like Ji-in's alteration in "Twice the Rice," though: "Top Five Weird Things Other Asians Have Said to Me." Mostly because it would be too difficult a task to choose the top five of my multitude of "weird habits." Personally, I prefer to refer to said habits as "quirks," or "beauty-marks in my character." So anyway, let's talk about those Asiatic weirdos, shall we?

5. You're Oriental but you don't eat with chopsticks?! I find that using a deeply-concaved spoon in the right hand and an-at-least-four-pronged-fork in the left hand is a much much more efficient way of eating rice and the accompanying ulam (beef, pork, fish, chicken, eggs, vegetables, basically anything that goes with rice) in one big subu (bite sized/mouthful portion) -- versus the chopsticks way of having to put a few morsels of rice in your mouth first and then going back for the ulam . Then again, maybe I'm just not a proficient chopsticks-user. But spoon and fork is the way to go, I've converted quite a few people already. Such ease! Such utility! The only other method that can beat that kind of facility is going kamayan, or eating with with just hands. So yes, your observation that I generally do not prefer to eat with chopsticks is accurate. However, I do not identify as "Oriental," so perhaps this is all moot.

4. Filipinos are the Mexicans/Blacks of Asia. Said by a variety of Asian friends. These are not bad associations by any means, but I'm wondering what exactly you're trying to say. What kind of appropriation is going on here? And what does that... make... you?

3. Why do you want to be out on the beach? You're going to become dark. Said by my aunt in the Philippines when I told her that I couldn't wait to hit the sands of the beach featured below:



Ok, let's tackle the first part of her probe. Why would I want to be out on the beach? Refer to photo above if necessary. Still no hunch? I'll give you another hint. Let's try another angle:


No idea as to why I would want to hit this beach. Not even an inkling? Hmm. The temperature of the tourquoise water is so perfect that it's like being in the womb. It's as though I'm going home. I am going home. We all came from this ocean. In fact, I am a fish. Honestly, my skin is scaly, thanks to the New England winter air.

Then, of course, there is the latter half of her commentary. I'm "going to become dark." I could climb on my trusty soapbox and deconstruct the classist, Eurocentric aesthetic ideal and its globally pervasive perversion, but I'll stay on the ground for now. In short, I don't know what's up with the pandemic, pathological complex about deeper skin tones. It's SOOOOO so so so gross to me that I was bombarded with skin-lightening ads when I was in the Motherland, and that every celebrity was fair-skinned and mestiza. What is wrong with brown, folks? Hello, I'm meant to be darker! To my knowledge, native people from the equatorial parts of the world are rarely [naturally] blonde and blue-eyed with ivory skin. It would be very unhealthy to live in such lands with perpetual, direct sunlight without the appriopriate melanin levels. Frankly, these winter, sunless months make me look jaundiced with a tinge of green. Mmm, jaundice. That's hot. D8.

2. You grew this way [arms stretching horizontally so as to illustrate my lateral growth] but not this way [arms now stretching vertically so as to illustrate my vertical stuntedness]. Ok, nowhere in the "Tagging" rules did it say that the comments had to be about Asians or issues surrounding Asians. This particular gem was said to me by an uncle when he saw me upon one of my arrivals to the Philippines. And he's Asian, so this counts. It's weird because... well... it's just weird. I didn't say it wasn't true. I just said that it was weird. For him to say. To my then-adolescent, pimply-faced, self-conscious, awkward self. I mean, it was the first thing he said. It was just, well, weird. To me anyway. I felt weird. It was weird.

and finally, the #1 weirdest thing said to me by an Asian.......

1. I suck at math. What?! What a WEIRD thing for an Asian to say! Weird weird weird. I mean, come on. Oh wait, I said that?? Um, sh**.

So concludes the first half of the tagging game. On to the last leg with the following 'meme.'

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says.
"consequently, the task of locating and identifying all the world's fauna"

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can. What do you touch first?
The doorknob to the door we never use.

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
American Idol. It was just on. I happened to glance in the television's direction. No really! Really. Heh. Simon, what a jerk but so right-on.

4. WITHOUT LOOKING, guess what the time is.
2:01 am

5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
1.54 am, but it feels like 2:01 am!!

6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Toya telling me that it's two in the morning.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
When I got out of the car. I was heading towards the apartment door.

8. Before you came to this website, what did you look at?
My hangnail.

9. What are you wearing?
A teal tank top and blue plaid p.j. bottoms.

10. Did you dream last night?
Yes. M is coming back to haunt me.

11. When did you last laugh?
An hour or so ago, on the phone with my brother.

12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Hahaha, a balsam Christmas wreath (I'm still in denial that Christmas is over, ok?), a Philippine flag. A post-it note (no further comment). A Hello Kitty wallclock.

13. Seen anything weird lately?
I waxed my eyebrows a few hours ago, which always makes my face look very, very weird for a good half hour afterwards.

14. What is the word most often used in your vocabulary?
"Wait..."

15. What is the last film you saw?
Beautiful Boxer. Loved it.

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
A recording studio.

17. Tell me something about you that I don't know.
Well, who is "I" here? It really depends. I'll try to think of something general. Let's see. When I was a tot, I had a crush on the Asian kid from "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom." Actually, I think I wanted to be him.

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics?
I gotta go with my bro here. Eliminate the disparity in the power and quality of life between the First World and the Third World.

19. Do you like to dance?
Oh do I!

20. Do you like to sing?
Yes, yes I do.

21. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Gabriela Amaya.

22. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Alexander Miles.

23. Would you ever consider living abroad?
It should be mandated. I think that GWB should lead the trend and go live Arayat for a year.

THE END.

The following are now "IT": Kuya Don, Manang Mataji, Erika N. and/or Erika V., Faith, and Kimber. I know Faith will find the whole concept not only silly but too labor-intensive, and K. Don won't even visit his darn blog for another few years. Kim, too, might find this silly but I know she can appreciate silly. As I did, feel free to modify the "Top Five Weird Things" as desired. As long as it's weird, it doesn't matter what it is. Weird is good. Don't pressure yourself to do the second questionnaire if it's too much self-introspection for the day.

I know where you are. There should be more you's, though.

No love from my people in the Philippines. But, I treasure the seventeen of you that braved the perilous soils of my online drivel! To the one in India, you are alright with me. To JGVT, do you see? Do you SEE.

I'm a quitter

I'm ashamed of myself. It took a second public display of verbal abuse for me to leave that job. Not only should I have left the first time M made me cry in front of the whole restaurant, but I shouldn't have even considered working for her again in the first place.

The first time I worked for her, she had joked, "If I wanted to look like you, I'd have to tape my eyes like this." Proceeded to illustrate the said "this" by pulling the sides of her eyes laterally towards her ears, making the hackneyed slanted-eye reference to the Asiatic face that I've seen only a fulfillion times throughout my life.

But no, no. For some reason I just attributed her extremely distasteful remarks to her lack of education. Along with all the other slanderous things she would say about anyone else, particularly the Jewish and people of color. I even excused her erratic and explosive temperament as a personal idiosyncrasies, the type of disagreeable personality that I had to learn to deal with in the real world anyway. She almost humiliated me for something that was her fault in front of the packed diner. Good thing I stopped her before she could accomplish such a feat; I just gathered my belongings and walked out, slamming the door behind me. I was the only server in the establishment. Haha. She doesn't even know her own menu. Good luck.

I don't know why I worked for her for so long, besides the fact that I really needed the part-time job to supplement my meager full-time salary. When I reflect on my attitude while I was at Smith, I know that I never would have tolerated such atrocities had this happened to me back then. What has changed since? What is it about the real-world that has made me so damn complacent? Is it the financial desperation? Perhaps it's because the consequences are different; in college, I had the space and peer-support to participate in sit-ins, brown-outs, marches, and any other manifestation of civil disobedience. What were the repercussions? Best-case scenario, some headlines, maybe a nice front-page photo of my good side in the college paper, and social change on campus. Worst-case scenario, missing class because of a walk-out and the subsequent stuffed mailbox full of placating letters from the administration attempting to pacify the angry students. Nowadays, such behavior could result in me losing my job. I'm not so much concerned about the "losing my job" part per se, but the much weightier ramifications of the "losing my income" part. Because I got big plans, big moves, big plays to make, pare! As much as I hate the concept of money, I need the dough. Regardless of your idealism, you need that paper to move on to the next phase.

And that's what it's really about. The future. I rationalize these undesirable situations by telling myself that all of this is only temporary, there are brighter days ahead. Honestly, though, how much can one take? Where do I draw the line? I'm not really the confrontational type, at least not publicly... but then again, I'm not exactly subtle when something rubs me the wrong way. I whip out the fall-back silent treatment, or the ever laconic, "Ex-cuse me?" I expect that to be effective enough, but I guess passive-aggressiveness isn't quite "in vogue" these days. Crap. So all this resentment just festers and festers, and then when the right button gets pushed, the blitzkrieg of fury is unleashed. The offender is stunned for a second, thinking, "Whoa, I've been so damn offensive all this time and the docile Asian girl said nothing. What the heck is wrong with her today?" So then I'm left pissed all the while being dismissed as manic. So healthy, so productive. I suppose I need to work on my stratagem, choose the right battles. Or maybe choose them sooner. Make a swift and successful attack, claim victory, leaving nothing but a field of fallen egos. And still have my job when all is said and done. Or maybe I just need to be self-employed, so when my boss pisses me off, I can battle with myself until I quit or fire myself. Neither of which either of us could afford to do. We'd be stuck together. See? It would be a beautiful thing.

M has since tried to call me. By the way, perhaps I should clarify that M didn't scream at me because I was a bad waitress. Oh no no no, on the contrary. If I can toot my own horn for a sec, I'm a damn good server. Like a pro, I can don the Vaseline smile and still have complete control over the pace of the meal, and make you feel like a million bucks in spite of the spinach in your teeth and the mustard you just dribbled on your crisp, white-collared shirt. Yes, yes. In fact, I rather like the thrill of having to quickly organize my time and meet the million mini-deadlines during my shift. It's like a show, and I have the lead role. Convince my audience into thinking that I really don't mind making a million trips to the kitchen for items they could have requested the last time they summoned me to the table. Your five kids just decided to rip their heavily-condimented food into little pieces and fling them at each other for the whole meal, how cute! Yes, they are adorable. I certainly do not mind cleaning up the walls and seats and table top and table underside and floors now sticky with maple syrup. By the way, that is pure Vermont Grade A Medium-Amber maple syrup with which you've sweetened your chairs. Oh we only do the real thing up in this joint. I'm simultaneously waiting on six other four-six top tables and a counter of seven, all occupied and hungry and going through caffeine withdrawal as we speak! But sure, I'll get you the water you want, along with your coffee and three cans of Diet Coke you've already ordered.

I'm actually rather anal about organization and efficiency at my full-time job, too. If any of you know me (and if you are one of the three readers of which I'm aware, you definitely know me), you'll surely see the irony in this, because I'm perhaps the most disorganized and scattered person in the world. I wish these "transferable skills" transferred themselves into my studying regimen (if you could even call it a regimen, more like "intention"-- hey, it's the thought man, it's the thought) while I was in school. Or even in my present daily life. I walk into rooms with a life-fulfilling mission, a mission that somehow eludes me the minute I get through the door. This happens to the average person, you know, once in a while.


This is a daily--hourly-- thing with me. It's been this way my whole life (though in recent years it's been slightly exacerbated by... other... distractions. Elucidation is unnecessary.) You have no idea how frustrating this is.

Where was I going with this? Focus, girl, focus.

So M tried to call since the incident, but I have no intention of calling her back. It's over. Maybe she wanted to apologize, who knows. I don't need that job. I need to find other work, though-- my full-time non-profit work seriously means "non-profit" for anyone involved. I kind of want to waitress again, arghghghgh! I want to waitress in a nice fine-dining restaurant where there are bussers and wine involved. I love presenting and serving wine to people. Wine-drinkers can tip pretty nicely after a few pinot noirs.

Last random rant before I take my leave.

What's going on with these grad schools? I'm getting so antsy waiting for the envelope. Preferably the big Manila envelope, maybe in a Priority Mail (rip-off) flat rate. You can keep the letter-sized one. But really, any envelope would do at this point because I just want to KNOW what the jump off is going to be in September. I mean seriously, how long does it take to figure out whether or not you want me? I'm qualified, dammit! Or I can learn to be! When there's a will, there's a way, and the will is there right now. I want to send them a note.

My Eyes Are Green, 'Cause I Eat A Lot of Vegetables

Ok, so I really wanted to support Jamie Foxx by watching his musical special on NBC tonight. Supposedly, there was this huge conspiracy with Jamie not having Caucasian guests and NBC trying to sabotage the pilot because of his refusal to just throw in some white folks for ratings. Some M.O.'s included scheduling it during American Idol, starting rumors that they were pushing it to 9PM but not really doing so etc. To make a long story longer, I vowed to take part in the mass advocacy for his show by watching the pilot.

Um.

I didn't realize that it was basically a tribute to himself/promotion of his debut album.

Stevie Wonder was among the first of the guest performances, and as I watched this living legend school everyone on artistic genius and innovation, I got annoyed with the whole idea of the show. Granted there were some great musical moments, but the theatrical re-enactments of his life were too narcissistic and self-important for my taste. I respect Jamie Foxx's career and his talent, but it's rather soon to be paying homage to himself. He's crossed over the thin line and is officially overexposed. Moreover, humility is what makes the difference between "accomplished" and "legendary."

...and, as much as I really can't stand American Idol, I happened to catch a bit of it tonight and was blown away by one of the contestants from San Francisco. Based on the performances from there, it seems that SF has a very musical atmosphere. Maybe I should be setting my sights out West instead of the Dirty!

Really though, my heart keeps being tugged by the pull of New York City. Land of opportunity, access, glitz and glamor, rent gouging, unemployment, unaffordable means to maintain a car. I've always felt that in order to make the transition into the City as painless as possible, I would have to devise a infallible game plan that included a lucrative career venture and a solid financial strategy. Not to mention ****load of luck. Easy enough, right? Any true Virgo, Type-A, dutiful first-born Asian daughter would handle the challenge with fervor and chart a foolproof blueprint to conquer the illustrious City of New York. In fact, she's probably already forged an impressive arsenal of munitions in preparations for this much-awaited showdown: stellar transcripts, shelves stacked with trophies amassed from the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, fifteen gold medals earned at the International Mathematics Olympiad, ten platinum albums, vaults with newspaper clippings featuring her philanthropic missions throughout the world-- tea-stained with age, as the earliest articles date as far back as her kindergarten years when she single-handedly found a cure for delusions of grandeur!-- and, of course, a killer wardrobe.

But, alas...that armory does not belong to this Virgo, Type-A, dutiful first-born Asian daughter. No stellar transcript, no Van Cliburn trophies, no math medals, no Billboard charts. And the killer wardrobe? Yeah, if death by hypothermia from the holes in my socks counts. I am but a baffled, bumbling (though well-intentioned!) twenty-something caught in between the modest, dutiful Pragmatism and the ever enticing, selfish Dream. You know what dream I'm talking about. Both so appealing in their own, different ways. It's a neverending struggle! If any of you chanced upon my very first blogging stint, this dilemma must be redundant to you. I'm currently on my way to Pragmatism, as I have been my whole life, but there's always been something pulling me in the other direction and hindering my ability to make any quick progress. It's that relentless magnetism that comes from the Dream. Just as I think I've regained my momentum, the tide comes and sweeps me back. Like the random, short-lived musical projects into which I'd invested blood, sweat, and tears. Or the once-in-a-blue-moon amazing concert for which I'd saved some rolled coins to see. Or albums like Blue Train. But who am I to have such grand dreams? I haven't even put in an ounce of what it takes to be worthy of these dreams. I've been using the "dream" excuse to justify my peripatetic impulses, and though I've had some invaluable experiences along the way, I still feel far from my goal. And my goal is merely to define my goal, in tangible and procurable terms. Is it too much to ask to be able to say "I love what I do," with unwavering confidence? Am I being too impatient? I think my problem is that I want to do everything, and I'm a [selective] perfectionist. Which means if I want to perfect my craft, I need to give 100%. It is obviously impossible to give 100% to every whimsical fascination.

Maybe I should evaluate my own situation before I judge Jamie Foxx for being so damn ambitious. Maybe I'm just plain old envious.

I really did think the dramatic vignettes were over-the-top, though.

Speaking of dramatic:

it felt like thunder

the rolling, rumbling kind
the kind that pacifies the minds of the restless
the kind that rejuvenates the spirit of the stifled
the kind that promises rain to the dreamer

i stood there paralyzed
(only momentarily though)
with indecision:

wait for the heavens to stop teasing
let the sky fall (i was desperately thirsty)

or

run for cover,
run for dear life,
run from the possibility of
losing myself
ultimately drowning

i wasn't quick enough in making my decision
you kissed me anyway
and the sky came down in sheets

unshielded and unable
to see clearly
i was lost
a bit frightened

and i hoped never
to find my way back
again

I don't remember when exactly this was written. I'm transferring files from my old computer to my new one and I came across this Notepad file inconspicuously placed within a thousand other documents that pertained to school. I'm really not the type to write poems or anything, so this is a rare, mysterious find. It's interesting how we dissociate ourselves from, well, ourselves. All the time. One persona emerges and predominates, while others lay low unless provoked. We keep them all under control somehow, though, and when it's appropriate, other sides of us emerge. Crazy how close we all are to being, well, "crazy." I'm getting tired of the game face though-- you know, the one you don at work, school, most public places, etc. It's getting boring. I need to keep it fresh, mix it up a bit. On that note, I gotta bounce and finish yet another personal statement. Dang, every school has a different question! Mission Cut-And-Paste aborted.

From Flake to Avalanche

I'm at work.

I can't focus on anything I'm doing here right now. My mind is elsewhere, completely. I'm consumed by the cold confinement of my anxiety over my life's nebulous fate. This monstrous snowball emerged from a tiny speck of glistening ambition, ambiguous as it was, years ago, in 2002. When I decided to go back to school and take a few science classes as a post-bac. The slope was still relatively flat at this point, so I had to give it a little push, mold it a bit with my hands. There was much resistance from the ground beneath its then-smallish form; I was in Savannah, GA (a completely different country from the soils of New England), replenishing the bottomless baskets for breadsticks at the Olive Garden, just to survive. The push came in the form of a resurrection of diligence and academic motivation that had been dormant since, well, high school.

Now, it’s the first month in 2006. The snowball has taken on a life of its own, and devoured me whole; the momentum just kept growing and I lost complete control of it. It is a living, breathing animal with free will, moving quickly and purposefully, with me in its growing belly. After I send it out in the mail, its first stop will be Atlanta, GA. Future stops will be determined after this weekend. Before any of that can happen, I need to finish my statement of purpose.


Actually, here's what I have so far, any feedback is welcome:






… D8

Sweet. It’s due this weekend. And I’m blogging instead. Everything else is done, assembled in such a way that the Admissions Committee will either a) cream when they see the neatly packaged and labeled envelopes or b) cower in fright because all the envelopes within envelopes within envelopes make me look OCD in the most severely pathological way.

I have no idea how many of you there are. I suspect that I have about four readers, of whom two are male. Dad and Gabe, you will never know the agony that is menstruation. Not even with the volumes of scientific and medical knowledge you have archived in your minds will you ever fully comprehend what the menstrual cycle truly entails. If I weren't blogging right now, I'd be in the fetal position. And the only reason I am able to sit somewhat upright is because of the 8th wonder of the world:

Bathroom Passes Not Applicable

Yeah ok, so the following post was one that I clearly started before Christmas. Sorry for the delay folks.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I am so delirious right now. This morning Toya and I left for Logan Airport at around 4AM, but we had been up since 10.30PM last night. It's been so crazy with my two jobs and her demanding schedule that we didn't get a chance to get everything done that we had wanted to before the Holidays... aaand we're still not done. We stayed up all night trying to work at it, made a significant dent. Anyway, now she's off to the Midwest for a week and I'm alone for the first time in a long time. Although I'm kind of looking forward to the time to collect myself without any distractions, I do miss her already. She's the only person who can stand me! Man I'm tired. Don't count on this making any sense. Everything is really hazy, and it's quite an uncomfortable effort to keep my eyes open.

I actually got to work early today because I rolled back into town at about 7.15AM. Within fifteen minutes of my arrival, I saw Alan sitting in the reception area with that trademark mischievous grin of his. Who knew what he was thinking about, but whatever it was amused him greatly. Alan is one of our clients whose job is to collect the trash from the various offices in the building every morning. I wouldn't doubt it if he has a variety of DSM-IV disorders, but I know that he is most certainly schizophrenic. He has to be at least 6' 2". We exchanged morning greetings and I went about my business. It wasn't long before the young, chatty social workers for whom he was waiting (I'll call them J and S) showed up, giggling as they walked in the door. The giggling ceased abruptly when they saw Alan sitting there.

And then it began.

"What's the grin for Alan?" J asked in a very unfriendly, almost defensive tone.

Alan started saying that he was having problems, and J told him to just do his work and keep his mouth closed. He said in a booming voice, "I know everyone has problems, but no one ever listens to mine." Something along the lines of "No one wants to hear your problems, Alan!" followed, and then he was ordered to start doing his work so he could leave. So, the giant fifty year-old man walked on mumbling to himself, and started his routine of going around and asking for the office refuse. You could hear him trying to start talking to the staff, and unfailingly someone would disgustedly tell him to get the trash and then get out of the office. "Just keep your mouth shut, Alan," I heard down the hall. Granted, Alan does test waters and he seems to get this quiet satisfaction out of pushing people's buttons. Sometimes what comes out of his mouth isn't entirely appropriate... but I am convinced he says those things just to elicit a reaction. It appears to me that he just wants some kind of attention, any attention, and he is not used to having positive interactions with people. I say this because when he comes into my office, he acts confused. He doesn't know what to say to push my buttons. Whenever he asks me (for the 1000th time) if I'm Filipino, I always just smile and answer. I ask him how his day is going, and what he has in store for him for the rest of the afternoon. At first he wouldn't really respond, but now he usually engages... albeit tentatively. But recently he's been confiding to me that he really thinks "he's getting better." The voices aren't as bad as they used to be.

J can be heard down the corridor. "Alan, you smell. Did you shower this morning? You can't keep coming in here smelling like that, Alan. You're making people sick. Don't say anything Alan, I am tired of your excuses. Just do your work and leave."

I don't understand why it is okay for Alan's personal hygiene to be a subject of public discussion and scrutiny. He is a grown man. Can you imagine someone talking to your fathers or uncles or brothers that way in the middle of an office building? Because Alan is someone's kid, maybe someone's brother, likely someone's cousin. Why is it alright to humiliate him?

I borrowed a few of the training tapes provided for the social workers here. These tapes discussed issues of privacy, and how disabled clients-- especially mentally disabled clients-- are often reared in a world that offers them no privacy whatsoever. This is not surprising, given that these individuals are probably under constant supervision, even in situations that, for the rest of us, are private (e.g. bathing, taking a dump, etc.) When these people grow older and try to venture out into the social world independently, their awareness of social cues are different from that of the majority of us; they then make mistakes that are grossly misinterpreted. For example, the issue of touching. When individuals with mental disabilities are spoken to, it's not uncommon for caretakers to take them by the shoulders and talk to them sternly, close to their faces. This indicates to the client that what the other person has to say is important. What happens when he or she goes out into the real world on his or her own? When something important needs to be said, he takes people by the shoulders, talks to them sternly, close to their faces. No matter if it's someone close to them or a stranger in a store. Store clerk is startled, starts screaming. The client lets go, his hand grazes store clerk's breast. Suddenly client is a "molester" and is arrested and taken to jail, having no idea what he did wrong. (For the OCD grammar police out there, yes I realize I switched from plural to singular subjects, and yes I decided to omit the cumbersome "he or she" in the latter half of my illustration.)

Everybody creates moments of privacy for himself/herself. We go to the bathroom and just stand there for a while... doing nothing. We close our office doors and sit in our chairs, ignoring calls for ten minutes... to do nothing. We blog when we should be entering data. Some of us go out for a cigarette breaks. Others walk to the water cooler and take the long way back to the cubicle. Whatever it takes to clear the head, free of extraneous stimuli and the demands of the day. What happens when a client is working and goes to the bathroom once an hour? What if a client is staring off into space for five minutes? Suddenly it's called "off-task behavior," and the client is reprimanded. What business do we have monitoring the bladder activity of another human being? Moreover, who cares? If the bathroom breaks are not significantly impeding his or her work, then it shouldn't matter.

Anyway, so much for this post. I have to get back to work, but my first entry looks so lonely and pathetic that I figured I should write something else. This is my fourth attempt at blogging; I did the Xanga thing for a minute (like a good little aSiAN-- or rather, @zN), then I started my very own website on angelfire. Of course, there was my subsequent, short stint on Friendster blog. I deleted my Xanga page (though if you Google me there's still a link to it that will take you to some other @zN GrRl'Z page), I don't even remember the url of my website, and Friendster... well, the email alerts for every update were simply too maarti for me, just too much. So far I like my new home on blogspot. I wish I were more knowledgeable with html though.

I think my journal is feeling neglected now that I have another outlet for my mental ramblings. I reassure it that the two are incomparable. I am sorry, blog, but journal gets the unadulterated, unabridged, uncensored me, my handwritten free-writing whims. But don't worry, what you get from me is just as authentic. A different facet. The public representative of my mania. I keep trying to get rid of you but you keep promising you'll get better. This is your last chance to redeem yourself. *sings* Black foooont.... white paaaage! Well actually, it's more like brownish rusty page, cream-esque font. Atlantica! Oh Genia, you were so unique. I wonder where you are these days, and if I'll run into you at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike ever again. Siiiigh. I guess I should do some work.

Inheritance

He was tall. Well, I don't know for sure, but he looked pretty tall to me; then again, at the towering 3 feet or so that I was at the time, everyone seemed tall. I suppose I could ask my mother how tall he was, but I have a feeling that she will say he was indeed tall. All daughters who love their fathers as much as my mother loved hers think that their fathers are tall.

My maternal grandfather died when I was five years old, and the few, sporadic memories I have of him are those of he being ill. I remember poking around his briefcase and luggage when he came to visit us in New York, and I can still smell the distinct redolence of medicinal ointments blended with (yet distinguishable from) the smell of the Philippines. I didn't know that the musky, spicy scent was that of my island roots on the other side of the globe until after I stepped off the plane into the sweltering Philippine air for the first time six years later; when it hit me I immediately thought of my grandfather. Of all the relatives who had ever visited us from the Philippines, he was the only one who smelled like the air there, and it is a scent that I've since grown to long for.

At a young age, I always thought Grandpa was a complicated man. I would point to this item and that item in his bags and inquire about them. "Wat dat? Wat dat?" He would chuckle and say, "Osisa!", which, in my mother's regional dialect, means "one who is always asking questions." Maybe that's just a euphemism for "nosy," but I realize that I'm still quite inquisitive, sometimes too inquisitive for my own good! I get on these random kicks and I start researching a subject -- like, the migration patterns of Canada geese, for instance-- until I am satiated with knowledge. This often takes a very long time, and I might put a query on hiatus if something else distracts me... which happens a lot. I'm easily excitable and even more easily distracted.

Where was I?

Ok. When I saw Grandpa last, he was coughing a lot, and then he was taken to the hospital where my mother was completing her residency. I never saw him again after that, but I do remember a lot of commotion. It was around my birthday, and my mother was quite pregnant with my brother-to-be. I was confused, and no one would explain what was going on; I think that my parents decided that I was too young to understand. Or maybe it was because my mother was simply incapacitated with grief. Whatever the case, I never knew what happened... I wasn't even aware that he had passed on, I think I was told a few months after.

Years later, I learned the story, and the story was that he had survived the surgery. He had been afflicted with thyroid cancer, one of the least aggressive cancers with the lowest mortality rate. My mother brought him to her hospital and entrusted him to a veteran surgeon whom she admired immensely; the surgeon successfully performed the operation and Grandpa was released to the care of the resident physicians for recovery. As my grandfather was regaining consciousness, he began coughing, and one of the attending residents thought that he was choking and moved the tube that was inserted into his throat to facilitate his breathing. Disastrously, the resident inadvertently dislodged the tube, preventing any air from going into my grandfather's lungs. By the time the situation could be rectified, it was too late.


As one would expect, my mother was heartbroken and devastated that she had lost her father, but moreover, she was laden with guilt because she somehow thought that the tragedy was partially her fault. She was still mourning even after my little brother was born two and half months later, and even still when he was old enough to sit up on his own and babble incoherently from his playpen. I guess my mother was standing in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, and suddenly burst into tears as my brother sat there blurting out single-syllable noises from his fenced-in little world of soft blankets and stuffed animals.

Then, out of the blue, my brother actually said to my crying mother, "Don't worry Mama, Ganpa not an-gee at you."

Now, yes my mother was in great despair, but she is not the type to make up stories or to imagine things of this sort. As free-spirited as she is, she is also a psychiatrist with a very pragmatic perspective on matters of the psyche. Though my mother was speechless at the time, and though I found this incident rather remarkable myself when first I heard of it, I was not entirely surprised. My brother is what I believe to be an "old soul." Sometimes I wonder if my brother's insightfulness comes from previous wanderings through existence. He is and always was perceptive far beyond his years; however, in spite of being masked by his cynicism, there is still an air of unadulterated idealism about him, reminiscent of the simple yet sage-like aura he emanated when he was a child. It is entirely believable to me that if my grandfather wanted to speak to my mother from the spirit world, he would choose my then-toddler brother as a medium through whom to do so.

From what I am told, my grandfather was a very powerful man. He was an underground guerilla during the Japanese occupation in the Philippines. He continued to be a warrior for the liberation of the Filipinos by eventually becoming the superintendent of schools in my mother's home city. Grandpa was an ardent political fighter for the advancement of the Filipino people through education. He and my maternal grandmother, whose Castillian blood and family's political legacy made her powerful in her own right, made quite a pair. The old sepia family portraits of my mother's family exudes the pride of royal status, and when I have visited my mother's hometown, it is clear that my mom carries with her the social privilege-- and burden-- of being provincial royalty. Whether or not she intended to do so, she has justified her inheritance of influence and respectability; but her success with her career, her intelligence, and her gift for oration are only secondary reasons. It is her modest yet confident, magnanimous nature. It is her compassion. It is her earnest humanity. Her capriciousness and her giddy, passionate excitement about the grandness of the world, its cultures, and all things regarding spirituality make her someone who really knows what it is to not just be living, but what it means to really be alive. It rubs off on people. That is perhaps the most generous of her innumerable selfless acts.

And my mom would die for her children, without even a blink. Though she has her weaknesses, absolutely no one can deny that she is an unconditionally devoted, loving, amazing mother.

Mamang, my paternal grandmother, was really the only grandparent to whom I formed a significant emotional attachment; she outlived my other grandparents who had all passed away by the time I was in middle school. Moreover, she was my primary caretaker for a while, when my parents were constantly working as residents in NYC, and then as young doctors trying to establish themselves in a new community in Maine, and, needless to say, that was mostly white. Though Mamang knew how to speak English, she didn't do so very often. In fact, she didn't speak much period. Reticent and practical, her love was not the kind that manifested in batches of cookies, or knitted sweaters, trips to the park, or even conversations about my school day; she was a pragmatist and a disciplinarian in a very quiet kind of way. I don't remember how old she really was, but to me she seemed to always be pushing ninety. I think it's because she was so wise, and that her back was hunched over so that she always had to walk with the aid of a cane. Ten children and a life of poverty and hardship took their toll on her body, but that never deterred her from always doing something-- scrubbing something, cooking something, straightening something out, sweeping something, gathering something.

Her eyes were always watchful and observant, deep set, gentle, and comforting. She knew JoAnn (my younger sister) and I were afraid of the dark, so she would wordlessly sit in my child-sized rocking chair and just watch over us until we fell asleep.

She always smelled of Oil of Olay, now my facial moisturizer of choice for that very reason.

The last time I saw Mamang was during a trip to the Philippines when I was in high school. She had gone back to the motherland and was supposed to come back to the States so that she could have immediate access to adequate medical care, but for some reason or another she stayed in the Philippines. I remember being so angry because it seemed that she was being traded off between my father's siblings in the Philippines, as they "took turns" taking care of her. I knew she felt like a burden. I never met Papang (my paternal grandfather) since he had died before my parents were even married, but I know that Mamang loved him immensely. She started talking about how she was excited to be with him again, and that he was waiting for her. During my visit, she asked me to play the piano for her, and I was so bashful that I just wouldn't. I would tinker around and then stop, promising her that I would play for her later. My aunt whisked me away somewhere and for some reason I never saw her again on that trip ... or ever, for that matter, because she passed away soon after my visit. I talked to her on the phone just once after that trip, and she asked to talk to me only to tell me that she loved me. I knew right then that Mamang was saying goodbye.

To this day she remains this ethereal guardian of sorts who, on rare occasion, appears in my dreams. Always randomly, always when I haven't thought of her in a long while. I inevitably wake up feeling sad and wistful, but also slightly comforted by the ridiculous hope that maybe she never really completely left. Her essence also surfaces in my dad. My father is much like my grandmother in his stoicism and in his complex gaze. Laconic and ever rational, his advice rarely accounts for any emotional complications that may arise. One could say that he was denied a childhood, or at least the type of childhood that is idealized by privileged, Western cultures; his boyhood was that of hefty responsibility and duty, not simply in the philosophical sense, but one on which his and his family's subsistence depended. Poverty in the first-world is near luxury compared to that of the third-world, and that's simply the reality of it. It is understandable that attention to emotional needs were diminished by the need to survive.

The intriguing thing is that my father is profoundly expressive, albeit in a roundabout way; he channels his emotions and perhaps his suppressed childhood longings through his thorough exploration of various hobbies and interests. From gardening to photography to aquariums to birdwatching to sports-- if it's piqued his interest, he studies it and works on it until it is mastered... with an unyielding diligence that is characteristic of only those who have been through a life journey like his.

My father taught me how to play chess. He taught me my multiplication tables, and he told me how clouds and rain formed. He got me up at 5.30 AM to play some tennis before school, and then took me to the courts at 5.30 PM for another round of rallying. He never missed any of my performances or competitions, camcorder in hand. He went to bat for me when high school kids would harass me because of my ethnicity. He made it really easy to come out to him when I was in college. He makes me go to the doctor when I otherwise wouldn't (but should). He indulges my curiosities and encourages my creative dabblings (as he is a dabbler himself). My father is the youngest of his brood, and he is, in the very truest sense, a self-made man. His life story of relentless determination and remarkable intuition is a constant reminder of the ability to shape one's own destiny. By chance he was born into penury; by will, he made it in this world. It is because of him that I know I am going to make it, and that chance has little to do with it.

My father is tall.

I am not sure why I thought of my grandparents today; I think my nostalgia was sparked by a conversation I was having with my boss about parenting and grandparenting (my contribution was from a perspective of inexperience). I wonder if JoAnn remembers Grandpa and his last visit? She might. Her memory of our childhood is quite often much sharper than mine. While I was too busy asking the next question before my first one could be answered, JoAnn was the sweet, shy observer. My sister is eighteen months younger than me, and unlike a lot of first-born children who are often initially resentful of the a sibling newcomer, I was quite excited to have a live-in playmate. Although I stapled her finger, and although I often insisted that I be the protagonist and that she be the villain in all our games of pretend (e.g. I was Rainbow Brite, she had to be Murky), she still wanted to play with me. We would giggle into the night and would have talked until dawn every night if my father hadn't put his foot down by standing in our doorway, clearing his throat, and counting to three. (We never knew what happened after three, because we would always just stop the undesirable behavior.) She was my first lesson in sharing, and my first exposure to a reality didn't revolve around just me. She was my first friend.

I'm excited to see my family for Christmas. It's the Holiday Season, and as I've grown older, I've realized that it's a time that brings out the most jovial and also the most melancholy of sentiments. But I'm feeling the Yuletide spirit this year, and I can't wait for people to open their gifts. I've actually forced Gabe and Toya (my partner in crime for seven years now) to open a couple of theirs already. So sad. I'm an impatient little girl, what can I say?