Hello Mga Babaes!
I wanted to remind you guys that this upcoming Sunday is our first time we will be on our feet for our theatre rehearsal.
So far this is the logistics:
Sunday, October 4
9:30 am-12:30 pm
Place: SF State Creative Arts Bldg. room 21 (I will confirm for sure tomorrow if we can get the room it all depends on how buys rehearsals are for the shows) if not, can we use FCC?
Please wear comfortable clothes, water and journal.
Let me know if you have any questions.....Lorna
Monday, September 28, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
It was just a regular day today. Got up at the same time as usual, watched my morning television shows, and got on my daily buses with the same bus drivers. One thing that did change was my mood in music. Since I am seeing Paramore in about two weeks, I started listening more to their music. They have a new album coming out next week and one song in particular has been my anthem. It is their new single called, “Ignorance.” I have been listening to this song for a while, but it wasn’t till this day that I paid attention to the lyrics. It was because I was once again frustrated with him. Argh! I started listening to the first verse of the song and it was exactly how I felt about the situation that happened between him and me the night before. It goes a little something like this:
If i'm a bad person, you don't like me
I guess i'll make my own way
It's a circle A mean cycle
I can't excite you anymore
Where's your gavel? your jury? What's my offense this time?
You're not a judge but if you're gonna judge me
Well sentence me to another life.
Don't wanna hear your sad songs
I don't wanna feel your pain
When you swear it's all my fault
Cause you know we're not the same….
You treat me just like another stranger
Well it's nice to meet you sir
I guess i'll go I best be on my way out
I listened to this song non-stop. It makes me feel better. So I am at work, with nothing much to do. I just worked on Kristine’s Kube and organizing my desk. I printed out the guitar chords for the song so I can practice playing guitar and play a song that makes me feel good. Nothing too exciting happened. I just went on my usual daily sites. I left at 5:00pm and arrived at my apartment before 6:00pm.
I start playing the song on guitar, but I suck. I can’t figure out the strumming, which is my weakness. So I give up, like always. I haven’t played guitar in so long. I want to get back to it, but I forgot how to play all the songs I knew. I just messed around with the guitar a bit more, then went to editing the Nicaragua documentary I have been working on. My friend, Amanda who was at my apartment all day editing the three videos we needed to put together, did an amazing good! I just went through them and added b-roll that I wanted and deleted some interview I found irrelevant to what the company is looking for. I miss Nicaragua so much. I can’t believe it ‘s been over a year since my trip there. I miss the food and people. I want to go back one day.
My roommate comes home around 6:30pm, so we decide to order food from, Yum Yum Hunan! I love this Chinese restaurant because they have meatless chicken!!!! Definitely yum yum! While we were waiting for our food, my roommate gave me a little fashion show of trying to decide what she was going to wear to work since her District Manager was in town. Finally our food arrives and my tummy is happy. We watch The Simpsons, then a hilarious/sad episode of Hannah Montana, and finally on to my favorite show, One Tree Hill! Haha. I know… I love it! After all the television watching, I fixed a few more edits on the Nicaragua video. I then start looking at some concert footage saved on my external hard drive… good times indeed! I am off to bed by 11:30pm. Good night.
If i'm a bad person, you don't like me
I guess i'll make my own way
It's a circle A mean cycle
I can't excite you anymore
Where's your gavel? your jury? What's my offense this time?
You're not a judge but if you're gonna judge me
Well sentence me to another life.
Don't wanna hear your sad songs
I don't wanna feel your pain
When you swear it's all my fault
Cause you know we're not the same….
You treat me just like another stranger
Well it's nice to meet you sir
I guess i'll go I best be on my way out
I listened to this song non-stop. It makes me feel better. So I am at work, with nothing much to do. I just worked on Kristine’s Kube and organizing my desk. I printed out the guitar chords for the song so I can practice playing guitar and play a song that makes me feel good. Nothing too exciting happened. I just went on my usual daily sites. I left at 5:00pm and arrived at my apartment before 6:00pm.
I start playing the song on guitar, but I suck. I can’t figure out the strumming, which is my weakness. So I give up, like always. I haven’t played guitar in so long. I want to get back to it, but I forgot how to play all the songs I knew. I just messed around with the guitar a bit more, then went to editing the Nicaragua documentary I have been working on. My friend, Amanda who was at my apartment all day editing the three videos we needed to put together, did an amazing good! I just went through them and added b-roll that I wanted and deleted some interview I found irrelevant to what the company is looking for. I miss Nicaragua so much. I can’t believe it ‘s been over a year since my trip there. I miss the food and people. I want to go back one day.
My roommate comes home around 6:30pm, so we decide to order food from, Yum Yum Hunan! I love this Chinese restaurant because they have meatless chicken!!!! Definitely yum yum! While we were waiting for our food, my roommate gave me a little fashion show of trying to decide what she was going to wear to work since her District Manager was in town. Finally our food arrives and my tummy is happy. We watch The Simpsons, then a hilarious/sad episode of Hannah Montana, and finally on to my favorite show, One Tree Hill! Haha. I know… I love it! After all the television watching, I fixed a few more edits on the Nicaragua video. I then start looking at some concert footage saved on my external hard drive… good times indeed! I am off to bed by 11:30pm. Good night.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I woke up at 4:30am! My last day at Vera Bradley and we are doing inventory. It has been hectic the past couple of days at work since we got in a lot of new product, so that means even more things to inventory! I start walking around 4:50am in the streets of downtown San Francisco. The sun is not out and the buses are not running. I hold my cell phone in one hand and my pepper spray in the other. I put my headphones on just in case someone starts talking to me… I can pretend that I don’t hear them. I don’t remember what I was listening to though. Surprisingly, there is a bunch of people out on the streets… don’t know if that is good or bad for me, but I continue to speed walk to the Westfield Center. I get to the store and no one is there yet. I sit in front of the door waiting. Finally my manager arrives and we start getting ready for inventory before the scanners come in. I start taking all the tags out of the bags in our back stock room. Once I was done with that, I start recounting the bags in our store as the people with their scan guns finishing scanning. That is basically the whole process of inventory: scan and count.
We had to open the store at 11:00am, but it was a mess. I don’t think we opened the doors till 11:20am. I was frantically trying to put the store back together. The scanning people were still there trying to figure miscounts and other things. I used my Spanish skills or lack of, to this family who was visiting from Mexico. He got the gist of what I was saying and they bought luggage! My manager ordered us food from Nordstrom Café since all of staff was there…whoo hoo.. all four of us and my last day. We all had grilled cheese and artichoke soup. Yumm! I get all the things that my family wants from the store, make my purchase, then head to my apartment.
MORE TO COME…
We had to open the store at 11:00am, but it was a mess. I don’t think we opened the doors till 11:20am. I was frantically trying to put the store back together. The scanning people were still there trying to figure miscounts and other things. I used my Spanish skills or lack of, to this family who was visiting from Mexico. He got the gist of what I was saying and they bought luggage! My manager ordered us food from Nordstrom Café since all of staff was there…whoo hoo.. all four of us and my last day. We all had grilled cheese and artichoke soup. Yumm! I get all the things that my family wants from the store, make my purchase, then head to my apartment.
MORE TO COME…
Saturday, September 19
As I walked to work, I decided not to listen to my headphones. I instead enjoyed the view and chattering of tourists everywhere. I had work at Vera Bradley at 10:30am. There was actually a lot for us to do since inventory was the next day. Usually, Saturdays are pretty slow for us but this day was crazy busy! Of course, the one day we actually have a lot of things to do, the store is packed with customers. We are lucky if we get at least one sale an hour, but this day was very different. I was trying to get ready for inventory by checking and pulling tags, but customers kept interrupting me. Haha. I know I shouldn’t be complaining since it is my job to sell cotton bags. I was just so surprised on how busy the store got. We never get that many people in our store. At least we made our day and even some more. The whole time my assistant manager kept persuading me to stay with the company since I decided to leave. I just couldn’t handle going from one job to the next and having a 9am to 9pm day. I wanted more free time to myself, with my family, and studying for the GRE.
My mom and aunt were in the city to go shopping, so they met me for lunch. I had a delicious wild mushroom pizza at Nordstrom Café. Yummm. I ended up staying a few extra hours to get things prepared for the next day. I got off at 9:46pm. I head home, eat dinner, and watch a little bit of the VMAS (trying to catch up on this Kanye/Taylor Swift phenomenon). I finally slept around 11:30pm. I was looking forward to waking up at 4:30am. NOT!
My mom and aunt were in the city to go shopping, so they met me for lunch. I had a delicious wild mushroom pizza at Nordstrom Café. Yummm. I ended up staying a few extra hours to get things prepared for the next day. I got off at 9:46pm. I head home, eat dinner, and watch a little bit of the VMAS (trying to catch up on this Kanye/Taylor Swift phenomenon). I finally slept around 11:30pm. I was looking forward to waking up at 4:30am. NOT!
Friday, September 18
I wake up at 7:00am, but I hit snooze twice. I finally get up at 7:18am to take a shower. While I am in the shower, I think about what I am going to wear. I am done by 7:30am. I turn on the television to see what the weather is going to be, then flip the channel to my favorite morning show… Saved by the Bell. It’s Friday, so that means the college years seasons are on. This episode is the one where Zack and Kelly decide they want to get married, but their parents disapprove. The whole time I kept thinking about the Boy Meets World episode when Corey and Topanga want to get married and it is set up exactly what Zack and Kelly go through. These shows are so predictable, but I love it.
I put on my clothes, organize my bag, and get my snacks for work. I eat my cereal and watch TV till I am ready to get on the bus. I leave a little later than usual because I wanted to see the beginning of the Saved by the Bell wedding in Las Vegas. I decide to record it so I can watch the rest during my free time. I am out of the door by 8:16am. The bus stop is right across the street from my apartment, so it is about a minute walk. Good thing three buses run at my stop, so it’s not a big deal if I miss a bus…. but once I got to the bus stop, it doesn’t stop to get me!! It’s drives off. Jerk! I didn’t get too angry since another bus was coming.
I get on the 3 headed towards the Fillmore. I put on my headphones and my mood is telling me, Senses Fail. At that moment I didn’t really feel content. I am frustrated with him. He aggravates me. I needed to feel it through Senses Fail’s lyrics on the album, Let It Enfold You. This album saved my life. It has helped me become part of who I am today. I listen to the first line of the song, “So love me gently with a chainsaw…” I love how I can express how I feel through their songs. It is exactly how I felt at that moment. I arrive at Sacramento and Fillmore to get on my second bus. This stop is front of the Marc by Marc Jacobs store. I peak through to see if there is a sale or anything new that came in. I still want the Obama shirt that says, “Mr. President… I voted, You Promised… Now please deliver.” Everyday I see that shirt, I think about Babae and how we should wear it to rallies and such. I finally get on the 22 bus. It wasn’t as packed as normal. It is usually filled with middle school kids, but there probably caught the earlier bus. I decide to sit in the elderly area since those were the only seats left. Once I saw a free seat, I got up and moved. I am still listening to Senses Fail. I realize that my all time favorite song by them starts playing… the song that saved my life. It is always a reminder for me to not be the person I was in high school; a reminder to be myself.
I finally arrive to my destination, Bay Street and Fillmore. I walked to work. I arrived, get a laptop since my computer’s hard drive is corrupted, and started checking my emails. I go through my regular routine of Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. I have to keep myself occupied during work! Haha. I turned on my computer and tried to back-up as many files as I could. My new hard drive finally arrived, so once I was done backing up files, my co-worker replaced my hard drive with a new one. Once that was done, I headed out to enjoy the beautiful, sunny day and hang out with a few friends in Daly City. I usually get off at 5:00pm, but since I had nothing else to do I left at 2:30pm.
I get on the 28 and head towards Stonestown to meet with my friends. We eat French Fries for snacks then meet out other friend at their house. After an hour of taking photo booth photos on a computer, we finally go eat at a Japanese restaurant. I order a tofu steak, which was very yummy! After I was done, I go to Trader Joe’s to grab a snack for the workshop, and then meet Joanna at her house. We head to the writing workshop together… just catching up on life and talking about her special car. I tell her about my current situation with him and how we are currently not getting along. How he thinks we shouldn’t be talking anymore because we never agree or get what we say to each other, which makes us angry and frustrated.
I put on my clothes, organize my bag, and get my snacks for work. I eat my cereal and watch TV till I am ready to get on the bus. I leave a little later than usual because I wanted to see the beginning of the Saved by the Bell wedding in Las Vegas. I decide to record it so I can watch the rest during my free time. I am out of the door by 8:16am. The bus stop is right across the street from my apartment, so it is about a minute walk. Good thing three buses run at my stop, so it’s not a big deal if I miss a bus…. but once I got to the bus stop, it doesn’t stop to get me!! It’s drives off. Jerk! I didn’t get too angry since another bus was coming.
I get on the 3 headed towards the Fillmore. I put on my headphones and my mood is telling me, Senses Fail. At that moment I didn’t really feel content. I am frustrated with him. He aggravates me. I needed to feel it through Senses Fail’s lyrics on the album, Let It Enfold You. This album saved my life. It has helped me become part of who I am today. I listen to the first line of the song, “So love me gently with a chainsaw…” I love how I can express how I feel through their songs. It is exactly how I felt at that moment. I arrive at Sacramento and Fillmore to get on my second bus. This stop is front of the Marc by Marc Jacobs store. I peak through to see if there is a sale or anything new that came in. I still want the Obama shirt that says, “Mr. President… I voted, You Promised… Now please deliver.” Everyday I see that shirt, I think about Babae and how we should wear it to rallies and such. I finally get on the 22 bus. It wasn’t as packed as normal. It is usually filled with middle school kids, but there probably caught the earlier bus. I decide to sit in the elderly area since those were the only seats left. Once I saw a free seat, I got up and moved. I am still listening to Senses Fail. I realize that my all time favorite song by them starts playing… the song that saved my life. It is always a reminder for me to not be the person I was in high school; a reminder to be myself.
I finally arrive to my destination, Bay Street and Fillmore. I walked to work. I arrived, get a laptop since my computer’s hard drive is corrupted, and started checking my emails. I go through my regular routine of Facebook, Tumblr, and Twitter. I have to keep myself occupied during work! Haha. I turned on my computer and tried to back-up as many files as I could. My new hard drive finally arrived, so once I was done backing up files, my co-worker replaced my hard drive with a new one. Once that was done, I headed out to enjoy the beautiful, sunny day and hang out with a few friends in Daly City. I usually get off at 5:00pm, but since I had nothing else to do I left at 2:30pm.
I get on the 28 and head towards Stonestown to meet with my friends. We eat French Fries for snacks then meet out other friend at their house. After an hour of taking photo booth photos on a computer, we finally go eat at a Japanese restaurant. I order a tofu steak, which was very yummy! After I was done, I go to Trader Joe’s to grab a snack for the workshop, and then meet Joanna at her house. We head to the writing workshop together… just catching up on life and talking about her special car. I tell her about my current situation with him and how we are currently not getting along. How he thinks we shouldn’t be talking anymore because we never agree or get what we say to each other, which makes us angry and frustrated.
Monday, September 21, 2009
7 days of writing
this is really hard for me to do, but i will do it. i still havent finished writing about Friday. I have a lot to catch up on. I have a lot to write about. Sorry for the lase posts. I will get them up soon!
Friday, September 18, 2009
dad
trying to write about a day with my dad as a young kid was hard last week. it was hard for me to think of a particular day. dad wasn't a very present figure in my life. at least not in the sense of how i perceive parents should be. present meaning, he was home most of the time, but he wasn't really there emotionally. he didn't really talk to his kids much. very distant. he was more of a "you're my kid and i'll provide for you and maybe play with you once in a blue moon" dad. dad never talked about his feelings or even his past much. his emotions that he let out was always just anger. my happy memories of dad when i was young was of him cracking jokes, hanging out with his friends, and going to his tennis matches. we would occasionally go to pongol, my grandfather's farm in the mountains of bukidnon. i remember that to be a place where i saw my dad laugh, relax, and enjoy time with his family. that was the happy, confident dad that i remember. the not-so-happy times were there too. memories of my dad's short temper, getting drunk till the wee hours, and fighting with my mom are vivid memories. at a young age, i was both curious and scared of my dad. curious in that he seemed so distant and i wanted to get to know him more. and scared because of his volatile temper.
coming to america changed him though. the social dad who had many friends in the philippines became a recluse here. the thick bisaya accent coupled with working at convenience stores and gas stations shattered his petty bourgeois sense of self.
coming to america changed him though. the social dad who had many friends in the philippines became a recluse here. the thick bisaya accent coupled with working at convenience stores and gas stations shattered his petty bourgeois sense of self.
Bulacan
July 19, 2006
Patience is a virtue. I've been trying to remember this for the last few days. Being home in the Philippines, being in the heart of the Bulacan countryside, has tested my patience. A bit because of my traveling companions, but more significantly because of the disgustingly feudal and impoverished conditions all around me here. I keep thinking that it's 2006. 2006! Laptop computers, flat screen tvs, and high-speed internet seem to be a distant memory. This community still has unpaved roads, no running water, and barely received electricity four years ago. The fight for land is very real here. It is the peasants that cultivate the land. They've been here toiling the fields for generations. Rising before dawn and coming home when the sun sets. Basic farming tools despite hard labor doesn't leave much to harvest. Again, it is the peasants that cultivate the land, yet the Aranetas are trying to claim the land as theirs...thru extortion and hired goons. I met a woman farmer today who was sexually harassed while pregnant by these militia men hired by the Aranetas.
The family I stayed with the other day lived in a one-room house with dirt floor and a makeshift toilet area to the side covered by a tarp. There were 3 sets of families that lived in a space the size of my bedroom. The men have been looking for work for over a year and...nothing. I felt bad for staying there knowing that I displaced a family member for a couple of nights. I felt bad for even eating their food. This whole time, all I can think of is that people shouldn't have to live this way. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking of all of these amazing people that I've met so far, who are trying to make an honest living for themselves and for their families. These are hard-working folks who despite, their struggles, continue to seek changes not just for themselves, but for their whole community and country.
I asked an older manang yesterday, whose husband and son were killed by Araneta goons last year, how she manages to fight on. She said, "My husband and son are gone. It was very painful for me this year. I know they (Aranetas) won't stop harassing and killing until the whole barrio gives up. I don't want anymore people to get hurt or killed. Doing things for others is the best gift we can give to the world, especially in our country. No one else will fight for us, but ourselves."
Patience is a virtue. I've been trying to remember this for the last few days. Being home in the Philippines, being in the heart of the Bulacan countryside, has tested my patience. A bit because of my traveling companions, but more significantly because of the disgustingly feudal and impoverished conditions all around me here. I keep thinking that it's 2006. 2006! Laptop computers, flat screen tvs, and high-speed internet seem to be a distant memory. This community still has unpaved roads, no running water, and barely received electricity four years ago. The fight for land is very real here. It is the peasants that cultivate the land. They've been here toiling the fields for generations. Rising before dawn and coming home when the sun sets. Basic farming tools despite hard labor doesn't leave much to harvest. Again, it is the peasants that cultivate the land, yet the Aranetas are trying to claim the land as theirs...thru extortion and hired goons. I met a woman farmer today who was sexually harassed while pregnant by these militia men hired by the Aranetas.
The family I stayed with the other day lived in a one-room house with dirt floor and a makeshift toilet area to the side covered by a tarp. There were 3 sets of families that lived in a space the size of my bedroom. The men have been looking for work for over a year and...nothing. I felt bad for staying there knowing that I displaced a family member for a couple of nights. I felt bad for even eating their food. This whole time, all I can think of is that people shouldn't have to live this way. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking of all of these amazing people that I've met so far, who are trying to make an honest living for themselves and for their families. These are hard-working folks who despite, their struggles, continue to seek changes not just for themselves, but for their whole community and country.
I asked an older manang yesterday, whose husband and son were killed by Araneta goons last year, how she manages to fight on. She said, "My husband and son are gone. It was very painful for me this year. I know they (Aranetas) won't stop harassing and killing until the whole barrio gives up. I don't want anymore people to get hurt or killed. Doing things for others is the best gift we can give to the world, especially in our country. No one else will fight for us, but ourselves."
The Sense of Sensibilities
An energetic vortex exists in my once calm sea and Svadhisthana pleads to be fulfilled.
I am weak against it, but can do nothing to quench it.
…won’t do anything to quench it…
My knees rise towards my chest. Tonight, I embrace them tightly.
In fetal position, I silently pray for peace to pacify my pulsating pussy.
I’m begging for a good night’s sleep.
“Aahhh…” I close my eyes.
An hour passes. It feels like a lot longer.
It’s midnight - the witching hour in many cultures.
It’s when black magic is at its peak; a time when the alter-consciousness emerges.
My free-spirited gypsy senses battle to overpower my good-girl tendencies.
One hand is cupped below, the other, stretches out to feel for the phone.
Desire and guilt are entangled.
Now the mind is racing.
My mother would never approve…
Or would she?
My father passed away when I was sixteen, and since then, she’s been searching.
Husband; life-partner; cupcake-couple; fuck-friend.
I know she was looking for something. I think she still is.
I know I am…something I can call “special”.
In June, I turned 29.
A time of endings and new beginnings.
Saturn returned and revealed. I – resolved and released.
Next year I will be 30.
By this age, I am expected to be a wife and mother.
To nest a sacred space for family.
But that is not the present reality.
I’m single and on my own…
My body twists in bed like an uncoiling snake.
In heat, I kick off the blankets and quickly peel all layers.
Please sacred Goddess and all that is Divine!!
Release your daughter from this conflicting juxtaposition!
I am a new age girl living in between two worlds.
Open to the universe and her possibilities, but often trapped in old world sensibilities.
The sense of sensibilities…
The sense of sensibilities…
No sense in sensibilities…
I lift my face to peer into La Luna’s luminescence for grace.
Moon beams shine through the white curtains onto my naked body.
The heat is cooled by the soft light.
Fairydust sent by La Luna freefall into my room to sooth my spirit.
I hear the internal strum of my soul. The melody is beautiful.
Love rushes through my veins. Light radiates from my skin.
Breath – inhale and exhale. Balance and rhythm – regained.
I smile. The call was heard.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Time
Hey What's up ladies?
J the youngest brother approached them as they where finishing their moment. Hey J looking good these days ,Chea looked over and gave him a hug and asked. "What have you been up to lately."
"Ahh you know staying clean and out of jail. What's up with you sis, I haven't seem you for a while. Hows being away from home treating you."
Chea sighed " Its great ,learning and growing I'm happy , by the way I'm starting to feel really tired ,I think I'm going to call it for the night and head to bed."
J raised his voiced, What the night has just begun,Everyone knows your in town- We gotta go Party." "I would love to bro ,but I'm tired .
I'll walk back to the house with you Lia grab Chea's arm and leaned on her as they continue walking back home.
"Ohh I see ladies night" J mumble as he turned away."
Hey bro your more then welcome to chill at Lia's house ,I'm tired and want to continue a chill night.
J started kicking rocks staring at the ground." I'll catch you girls later- bye."
Lia looked over to chea "Your silents and shortness said alot."
"I didn't mean to , I just see all his hurt and pain in his eyes and he's not sober."
"I know he's not and its okay he has to learn."
You see Lia I don't want him to go through what I did, I don't think he's strong enough, he O.D. 3 months ago.
Lia responded. "We'll it looks like we are gonna have to keep him in our prayers. "
Chea's eyes got watery , well I'm going to lay down in the room, if you need me just call me."
Lia responded okay -love you.
Love you too-
Chea walked into the room sat on the desk and grab her black book.
Dear diary;
I'm at my sisters house visiting my old home. Its sad and painful to watch my brother be lost,and turn to drugs when he needs to feel good, My sister seems like shes doing good raising a family , I 'm going to have breakfast with my dad tomorrow,a part of me is happy the other half want to pull back and say forget it . All your going to do is get hurt by his remarks like... When are you going to get married, when am i going to give him grandchildren.
He's so macho and a womanizer that he thinks he can treat me the way he treated my mom. I'm a tomboy, a worker,a black-sheep, a strong independent masculine women that does not need to rely on him. I'm everything he disapprove or is afraid of learning about . I am not a women he can down and that's were we disagree.
Family Love (extended)
Jen loves her family, and she knows they love her too. They continue to ask her "When are you coming home?" 12 years have past and they still ask her that. Jen went out-of-state for college, and since then has graduated with a degree in Psychology and created a new home for herself. She yearns to come home to her family and community someday, but visits every 3-4 months in the meantime...
"Oh my gad, Jen!", Tita Joy gasps dramatically, "Ikaw ha, you gained a lot of a weight! Have you been eating a lot?" Tita Joy sucks her stomach in her jeans 2 sizes too small – she had hoped to fit into them perfectly over the last 10 years, but her plan of slimming down didn’t quite work out for her.
"Yah!", Lola looks straight at Jen, "You’re fat!"
"So what! I’m happy with my size and I’m happy with my life," Annoyed, Jen says to Tita Joy "Look who’s talking! You…"
"Hoy! This is my after giving birth to 5 kids! How ‘bout you, do you have any kids?!"
"You gave birth to the last one 25 years ago, what are you talking about?!"
Lola butts in again, "You're not the only one, Gigi’s fat too!"
"Hoy! I just pointed out your flaw, and you get defensive about it?!", Tita Joy aggressively raises her voice, "Fine, I won’t help you improve anymore!" She rolls her eyes and whispers, "Talagang walang respeto!" Raises her voice again, "Oh is that why you’re not living here ha?! A decade has gone by and your family can’t count on you being around all the time anymore! What?! You think you’re too good for us?!"
Anger and guilt are fuming out of Jen’s eyes, and they well up like a glass about to overflow with water. She doesn’t know whether to blow up, or to just walk away and cool down – not something her family was accustomed to.
"I'm not ready! I'm just not ready yet!!!" Jen takes a deep breath... "I come home and all I hear is nag, nag, nag, nag, nag...
"Oh my gad, Jen!", Tita Joy gasps dramatically, "Ikaw ha, you gained a lot of a weight! Have you been eating a lot?" Tita Joy sucks her stomach in her jeans 2 sizes too small – she had hoped to fit into them perfectly over the last 10 years, but her plan of slimming down didn’t quite work out for her.
"Yah!", Lola looks straight at Jen, "You’re fat!"
"So what! I’m happy with my size and I’m happy with my life," Annoyed, Jen says to Tita Joy "Look who’s talking! You…"
"Hoy! This is my after giving birth to 5 kids! How ‘bout you, do you have any kids?!"
"You gave birth to the last one 25 years ago, what are you talking about?!"
Lola butts in again, "You're not the only one, Gigi’s fat too!"
"Hoy! I just pointed out your flaw, and you get defensive about it?!", Tita Joy aggressively raises her voice, "Fine, I won’t help you improve anymore!" She rolls her eyes and whispers, "Talagang walang respeto!" Raises her voice again, "Oh is that why you’re not living here ha?! A decade has gone by and your family can’t count on you being around all the time anymore! What?! You think you’re too good for us?!"
Anger and guilt are fuming out of Jen’s eyes, and they well up like a glass about to overflow with water. She doesn’t know whether to blow up, or to just walk away and cool down – not something her family was accustomed to.
"I'm not ready! I'm just not ready yet!!!" Jen takes a deep breath... "I come home and all I hear is nag, nag, nag, nag, nag...
I want to come home someday, but I want to be strong enough for that moment. There were times I hated being away from all of you... I miss you all so very much, even as I'm standing right in front of you now. I knew that if I came back too soon I wouldn't grow as much.
If I were here, I wouldn't learn to be myself, I wouldn't be proud to be myself. When I went away, I was resenting the person I've made myself to be up until that point. I was empty because I didn't know who I was... I tried my best to be everything everyone wanted me to be.
Mom says I've changed, and it's true, I have... I don't want to please everyone to sacrifice my well-being anymore! I don't want to hide anymore! I just want to be accepted even with my mistakes and flaws! I want to be honest with you and especially myself!! I've worked so hard to love myself, and everytime I come back I worry that I'll be that person again.
I don't mean to disrespect you, I just don't want to suppress myself anymore."
"Well gee, I'm... I'm sorry Jen. I didn't think it was such a big deal to comment on the way you're looking these days... I thought I was helping you out!"
Jen loves her family, but she's not sure if she'll just end up going crazy if she were always around them.
My Life in America at Age 10
My room was dark, but the twin bed was dressed in a coarse golden rod plaid pillowcase and comforter set. It was not comfortable at all, but I guess it was pretty or at least neat looking. My room was right next to a bathroom. It was a long room with the toilet on one end and a counter that ran the length of it on the left side. Under the counter, if you slide the door open, is all kinds of avon products…. Beyond your wildest imagination. Pink panther toothbrush, orange shaped perfume bottle, cute cylinders of baby powder in different scents, powder puffs, soap shaped like shells…. Where the hell did she get all these things. It was a playland for me where I would go to escape.
My life in the U.S. is much different than that in the Philippines. Back home, we were middle-class, and I didn’t really have any responsibilities. We had a yaya each, and helpers in the house. I would have to beg for them to let me do chores like wash the dishes and they would have to clean up after the mess I made “washing the dishes”.
But here in America, I had lots of responsibilities. As the oldest and only girl, and with my parents working a lot, I was the one in charge of my brothers. In-charge of bathing them, dressing, them, feeding them, and making sure they finished their homework. I didn’t mine so much in the beginning.
It was fun to dress them, pretending they were my life-size dolls. I would dress them matching from top to bottom. Shirts matching shorts. Shorts matching the stripes on the socks. Even the shoes would have to match.
But there were some tasks that was not as fun. Like feeding my brothers. We were all third-world skinny and hated to eat. my grandma’s mission was to fatten us up. We would get rewards for gaining weight. A dollar, a toy, a surprise…… but I was in charge of making sure my brothers emptied their plates and would have to spoon-feed them. They hated to eat so much that they would fall asleep with food in their mouths and I would have to jog them back awake. I would get so frustrated. One time, I put my 3 year old brother in the washing machine and turned on the water to scare him awake. I wonder if that is how my yaya felt with me.
My life in the U.S. is much different than that in the Philippines. Back home, we were middle-class, and I didn’t really have any responsibilities. We had a yaya each, and helpers in the house. I would have to beg for them to let me do chores like wash the dishes and they would have to clean up after the mess I made “washing the dishes”.
But here in America, I had lots of responsibilities. As the oldest and only girl, and with my parents working a lot, I was the one in charge of my brothers. In-charge of bathing them, dressing, them, feeding them, and making sure they finished their homework. I didn’t mine so much in the beginning.
It was fun to dress them, pretending they were my life-size dolls. I would dress them matching from top to bottom. Shirts matching shorts. Shorts matching the stripes on the socks. Even the shoes would have to match.
But there were some tasks that was not as fun. Like feeding my brothers. We were all third-world skinny and hated to eat. my grandma’s mission was to fatten us up. We would get rewards for gaining weight. A dollar, a toy, a surprise…… but I was in charge of making sure my brothers emptied their plates and would have to spoon-feed them. They hated to eat so much that they would fall asleep with food in their mouths and I would have to jog them back awake. I would get so frustrated. One time, I put my 3 year old brother in the washing machine and turned on the water to scare him awake. I wonder if that is how my yaya felt with me.
Raquel's, Joana's, and Joanna's
[Can someone please pass these on before Friday's session, salamat...]
Joana:
"connection to the light" "lives in a bubble" (someone else wrote this phrase, too) - thoughts of a convict brother who is disappointed in the backpacking, student sister, hoping she'd write, connect, love, not diss him, not forget him -- the awareness of others' perceptions -- do they hinder or promote your own growth? Staging, I see a single light, indistinct features, a lone narration, caged, limited movement surrounded by a growing light of a freely moving person, a chance touch. Write more on the sister's dance around the caged area (actions with friends, groups, a definite comparison to one who gives -- those who "take", deserve to, and see no need to change actually define the other person even more.
Joanna:
Day with Dad: a family daytime recurring incident: is it his choice, the GMA supershow? Do Lolo/lola "acquiesce" to this choice so Dad will remain pleasant? There are many unanswered questions here: "usual routine" - the reliance on another ride to/from school, gas money; what is the mother's mood through all of this? What is dad's job/where that he chooses and has the opportunity to come home for a family lunch, which was what? What do he and lolo bicker about? "A purpose about him" vs what; no purpose before this? His neighborhood tennis friends relax him, make no demands, the period allows him to interact with his daughter. What is NOT being said here; where are you NOT going (despite that this was an assigned work?) Soundscape: I hear only the TV, a tennis match, a muted palette. Color our senses, all of them.
Raquel:
Oddly humorous: lola? should be glad that a granddaughter WANTS to see the Philippines ("home" -- all bloggers refer to P.I. as home since as early as 5 years old; very noticeable). Family obligations, health issues, religion -- the step taken to 'make things better' (send them to America) backfires -- no longer sweet, obedient, but 'independent' - an American term, mentioned twice. A poignant phrase "she did not need me anymore" (nostalgic); "more traveling than me" (envious); "crazy aunts" ah-ha! Lola must be the ONLY sane one (she sounds funny). And to be aware of Image re "Gloria" "proud, ashamed, or worried" says so much more about Lola than it does about her granddaughter. There's a kind of badge she seems to like to wear concerning the pamous one, talaga. Fill out this incident more: staging, maybe she sits watching TV, the protestor/granddaughter lit in another area, a barrage of worries to anyone who is listening -- and yet it seems it would end with her smiling to herself at the TV.
LORNA: please let me know if you have any additions to all my comments on all blogs to date -- salamat, all,
Jeannie
VEGas
It's burning hot. It feels like the firey breeze coming from an oven. But you don't just feel it on your face, it breathes against your whole body. I enter the house. Immediately, I feel the cold sensation of the air conditioning. This air conditioning. It's unnatural. It's just cold.
Skin, eyes, nose, hands, feet, body, soul
It's been 2 years since I've been home. The sounds of coins clanking, casino machines beeping, and loud music coming from afar invade my ears. I feel a sudden sense of exclusion. This is not where I belong. THe worst is the smell of cigarette smoke and vomit from alcohol. How the fuck did I grow up around this!? I thought.
Back to the house. I enter. It feels desolate. I pass the living room where I remember seeing my father passed out on the floor on christmas eve one night after hearing a pot of flowers crash to the wall where my mom was just standing. Snoring. ALcohol vomit next to him. And the smell of smoke. THe living room smells like total shit. Fuck, is all I can think. Why do I still remember this?
I walk past the living room, and there it was. The keyboard. The keyboard that I had when I was younger because my dad chose to buy a car with my mom's money instead of a real piano. The keyboard only had 6 octaves worth of keys. It wasn't even a full set of keys. This instrument which freed me became a tool of imprisonment. It no longer liberated the day I began to believe everything I was told. Thoughts of inadequacy came rushing back. I touched the keys. They felt warm.
Next to the piano is the door to my mom's room. The same room that I remember my dad barged angrily into one evening as I hid in my mom's bed under the covers. Scared. I clung to my stuffed bunny, named fuzzy, crying. Hoping he wouldn't come. But he did. And he met my eyes w/ a pair that held so much anger, hate, resentment. He looked directly into mine, and I knew with just that look that he was going to leave. That he wanted to leave. But for some idiotic reason, I didn't want him to. So when he asked me whether I could survive without him, I said no.
Suddenly, I remember seeing it. The letter that my dad received from some woman in the Philippines. She loved him. This woman was not my mom. She sounded desperate. God, why the fuck would anyone be in love with my father. He is the most impossible person. All he ever makes a woman feel is inadequacy, self-hate, fear, fear, and more fear. And of course, that's all I ever felt growing up. Every day of my fucking life, i can hear his voice telling me all of the following: you can't do it, you can't do it, you can't fucking do it. So don't even try. Fuck, just give up.
Dad, you didn't have to tell me all that bullshit to "motivate" me or shape me into some sort of "functioning" human being with a thick skin. I've never built a thick skin. Those words still hurt. And they hurt me every day of life. Everything I do, I have to build up an overwhelming amount of courage just to do it. Those words have wounded my soul, and I have to use every ounce of strength that I have to repair it. To transform it into something beautiful. To heal it.
All I needed to hear were three simple words: "i love you." And to this day, I have not heard you say it. You've told me many times before that actions speak louder than words so why should you tell me those words. I know you've sacrificed a lot. and given your history, the way you grew up, the struggles, the hardship you encountered, you think you've done so much for us. And now it makes sense to me. Because it's true. You probably gave as much as you could because you are so fucked up and what you gave to us was all that you could give. I feel like an idiot sometimes. Like, why would I even care to hear those words from my own father. Shouldn't I be strong enough to not need that? But fuck that. Every person deserves to feel like their home is their home. Without that home, we all just feel so damn fucked up all the time. Like there's something wrong with us when the truth is, there is nothing wrong at all.
I live every day with fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of people, and most frighteningly, fear of love & connection. But outside of this "home" is my real home. The moments where I do not fear. Because by the same token... and on the same days... I live with courage. courage to love, connect, liberate, serve, and hope. And those same violent words that invade my mind translate into the total opposite. My words. The truth. My mantra. And a poem to my daughters:
"Hey there baby girl
you are a precious... treasure"
everything about you is so precious
like a bird flying, soaring
you are precious
free
eloquent, articulate, and passionate
you are
don't let anyone tell you otherwise
hear, but don't listen
watch, but don't conform
This modern world is isolating
But there is a home that you forge
one that you create for yourself
one that is defined by you
it's where the world collides
it's contradictions make sense
and the pain becomes a source of strength
A home. A place where we can take the mask off
To feel accepted, loved, valued
Speaking with freedom
to listening ears
instead of to the passive invisible walls
that imprints itself into the ground with heavy chains
Chains that clang, clash, cling, clack
binding us to those walls
disallowing us to touch
to feel
to embrace our inner pain
strength
a home
a home with no walls
and the chains fall to the soil beneath
chains which turn into tears
Tears which turn into a home.
precious baby girl.
let the tears fall
clothespins and band-aids
painted buddha with big belly and little children crawling all over her
round dining table with lazy susan
rattan rocking chair with yellow multi-colored plastic weaving
turned upside down and it was a mountain on the outside, a cave on the inside
streets named after luzon, visayas, mindanao
her family left this childhood house of in marikina to move to a new subdivision in Rizal
it was new housing development exclusively for employees of MERALCO
track houses that each family tried to personalizeher dad picked a lot at the culdesac that ended in the mountains
it was at this culdesac that she learned to ride her bike. after 2 weeks, she was an expert.she was bike
one summer, her cousins from the states visited. they stayed at a hotel but they broughta balikbayan box full of american goodies. avon products, pink pather tooth brush,shiny apple pencil sharpener, plastic clothesline clips in the basic colors.
later that summer, the laundry clips were gone and their newly handwashed clotheswere on the ground
her parents suspected it was the mountain kids who had taken the laundry clips soshe was sent up to the mountain with her yaya to find it.
they walked to the end of the culdesac and up the hill. crossed streams and up the mountain.a white snake slid from the mountain to the stream, but too busy to pay attention to them.
they found some huts inhabited by the mountain people and there on the clotheline were the
plastic clips in the basic colors. red, yellow, and bright blue stood out in the plush green
scene. on a clothesline tied to mango trees full of the fattest yellowest and most fragran mangoes
she didn't care about the clips. a boy her age came out of the hut and offered her a mango forthe tree. who cares about the clips. they had bright beautiful mangoes and they shared.
they went back to their house empty-handed. no clothesline clips.
days later, she was playing scrabble with her parents in the livingroom. there was a knock onthe door. it was her friend from the mountains with a box of mangoes.
he was shy and just said hi. "these are for you", and he took off.
she was teased by her parents " oooh, he likes you.... he brought you mangoes".
she was embarrased.
she and the boy became friends. one day he came down from the mountains and playedwith her and the other neighborhood kids-- the let's throw rocks at each other game.
she was on her bike and he just ran around. they threw rocks at a each other.
who knew throwing rocks at each other would be so much fun they most mostly missed but it was fun until one rock landed right above his brow. and before she could say a word, his head started gushingwith blood.
she was shocked as if the ribbons of red wrapped around her mouth and muted her.and instead of saying sorry, or helping him out,, she ran off, riding her bike into their gated house andinto hid her room. was it pride? fear? shock? that stopped her from saying sorry and helping her friend.
that night, she was watching tv with her yaya and brother in the dark living room when a there was a knock on the door. her yaya went to open the door and by the bright light from the tv she saw 2 figures.it was hear friend and his older sister. "Excuse me po" said the sister. "we are just here to ask if youmight have a band-aid that we can use kasi Rachel hit my brother on the head and made him bleed." she was so ashamed and guilty. especially to know that her mountain friend's family did not have band-aids.
round dining table with lazy susan
rattan rocking chair with yellow multi-colored plastic weaving
turned upside down and it was a mountain on the outside, a cave on the inside
streets named after luzon, visayas, mindanao
her family left this childhood house of in marikina to move to a new subdivision in Rizal
it was new housing development exclusively for employees of MERALCO
track houses that each family tried to personalizeher dad picked a lot at the culdesac that ended in the mountains
it was at this culdesac that she learned to ride her bike. after 2 weeks, she was an expert.she was bike
one summer, her cousins from the states visited. they stayed at a hotel but they broughta balikbayan box full of american goodies. avon products, pink pather tooth brush,shiny apple pencil sharpener, plastic clothesline clips in the basic colors.
later that summer, the laundry clips were gone and their newly handwashed clotheswere on the ground
her parents suspected it was the mountain kids who had taken the laundry clips soshe was sent up to the mountain with her yaya to find it.
they walked to the end of the culdesac and up the hill. crossed streams and up the mountain.a white snake slid from the mountain to the stream, but too busy to pay attention to them.
they found some huts inhabited by the mountain people and there on the clotheline were the
plastic clips in the basic colors. red, yellow, and bright blue stood out in the plush green
scene. on a clothesline tied to mango trees full of the fattest yellowest and most fragran mangoes
she didn't care about the clips. a boy her age came out of the hut and offered her a mango forthe tree. who cares about the clips. they had bright beautiful mangoes and they shared.
they went back to their house empty-handed. no clothesline clips.
days later, she was playing scrabble with her parents in the livingroom. there was a knock onthe door. it was her friend from the mountains with a box of mangoes.
he was shy and just said hi. "these are for you", and he took off.
she was teased by her parents " oooh, he likes you.... he brought you mangoes".
she was embarrased.
she and the boy became friends. one day he came down from the mountains and playedwith her and the other neighborhood kids-- the let's throw rocks at each other game.
she was on her bike and he just ran around. they threw rocks at a each other.
who knew throwing rocks at each other would be so much fun they most mostly missed but it was fun until one rock landed right above his brow. and before she could say a word, his head started gushingwith blood.
she was shocked as if the ribbons of red wrapped around her mouth and muted her.and instead of saying sorry, or helping him out,, she ran off, riding her bike into their gated house andinto hid her room. was it pride? fear? shock? that stopped her from saying sorry and helping her friend.
that night, she was watching tv with her yaya and brother in the dark living room when a there was a knock on the door. her yaya went to open the door and by the bright light from the tv she saw 2 figures.it was hear friend and his older sister. "Excuse me po" said the sister. "we are just here to ask if youmight have a band-aid that we can use kasi Rachel hit my brother on the head and made him bleed." she was so ashamed and guilty. especially to know that her mountain friend's family did not have band-aids.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Do I remember?
I use to write all the time. I still have all my journals, from my first pink diary with the gold lock in kindergarten, to last year’s semi-scattered neglected leather bound book from Ross. I always loved to write, and to write where I need to go brings back the happiest moments in my childhood with my family. Those happiest of moments come hand in hand with the most painful butchered hemorrhaging heartache I can verbalize with words. Love has always been about pain. My heart was broken at the age of 5. The more questions I asked about the past, the angrier I became. How could something so beautiful be so fucked within a matter of moments? I string them along, bit by bit, part by part. Playing the scenes over and over…where did it all go wrong?
It was my mother’s fault. It was my nanay’s fault. It was my tatay’s fault. How does my brother feel? It was America’s fault. Like a teenybopper crazed over their pop idols’ poster son the wall, I placed my father on a pedestal. It was always someone else’s fault until I learned how to blame it all on myself.
Whose fault is it that my happiest of memories are so locked away that when I return to them all I am is a ball of mucus and stinging eye balls???
Do I not remember the full day because I was 5? Or did I repress it? What is memory?
I must’ve wore my gray dog-eared fuzzy cap that day. I wore it everywhere. Aside from my red, yellow, blue, and white Nike’s, that hat was always on my head. Except that day. The day I was taken into America. None of my photos show my hat.
I don’t remember posing with my childhood friends, whom I would play dolls, hide and seek, make-believe, tag, etc. But I have photos of it all.
I don’t remember the blanket I woke to that morning when I had to say good-bye to everyone I knew and loved. But during my last visit to the Philippines my dad took it out of his drawer and asked me if I remembered it?
I don’t remember how I said good-bye to my first pet: Zero my skinny mutt of a puppy. But I later found out that someone had poisoned him because he would not stop barking. Did he bark so much because he missed me? I don’t remember him being a troubled pup.
I don’t remember the hot sticky drive to the Manila International airport from Baguio in my dad’s red Jeep. Did I sleep the whole way?
I don’t remember what I ate, what it smelled like, what I felt, or when I got my passport photo taken.
All I remember, without the help of photos my dad took is: my mom asked me to pack my toys in a bag. It was a big pink clunky vinyl bag with colorful shapes sewn on the front. Funny thing is, I don’t remember what I packed. All my mom said was that we were going on a trip.
No one told me the trip would mean I would be leaving my homeland forever. No one told me I would not be seeing my dad for years, if that. No one told me that my father had to sign papers stating he had given up custody so that I can leave the country. No one told me that the only reason my father signed those papers was because he was lied to about their intent and actual purpose. Nonetheless, the consequences stuck. No one told me that all those trips we took to Manila before hand was so I could get a passport. No one told me I was an accident. No one told me that when I was being born my mom lied to her parents telling them she was taking exams and that’s why she couldn’t go to Manila to welcome them back from America. No one told me my mom thought about aborting me, and my dad had to talk her out of it. No one told me it would hurt. No one told me it would still hurt.
Piece by piece I try to mend it all into one cohesive story. But the antagonists and challenges tear and claw away at the happiest moments of being with my family: my father, my mother, and my younger brother.
No one tells me about how I use to run around and laugh when I was a kid, No one tells about all the trips we use to take along the Pangasinan countryside. No one tells me about how I loved Taho. No one tells me how I loved to go to the market and travel the Baguio streets with my view from my father’s shoulders. No one tells about the purple stuffed monkey with Velcro paws I use to wear around my waist as a belt. No one tells me about my cousins in Bolinao and how much fun we’d have together catching dragon flies, playing at the beach, and eating mangoes.. No one tells me about that here. But my father would remind me through his letters, and the few talks I’d had with him over the years.
All I have left is the past. I can’t make new moments with my family. My family is dead. There is no longer my father, my mother, my brother, and I. My mom and dad haven’t spoken in years. My mom hates my dad. Shes managed to survive the onslaught of loneliness. My dad never got over my mom. He hasn’t formally dated anyone since her. While my brother and I drown in the lack of something we once had.
Dreaming of a remedy. Dreaming of satiating the pain. Dreaming of a new kind of happiness.
No one told me this is the American dream.
It was my mother’s fault. It was my nanay’s fault. It was my tatay’s fault. How does my brother feel? It was America’s fault. Like a teenybopper crazed over their pop idols’ poster son the wall, I placed my father on a pedestal. It was always someone else’s fault until I learned how to blame it all on myself.
Whose fault is it that my happiest of memories are so locked away that when I return to them all I am is a ball of mucus and stinging eye balls???
Do I not remember the full day because I was 5? Or did I repress it? What is memory?
I must’ve wore my gray dog-eared fuzzy cap that day. I wore it everywhere. Aside from my red, yellow, blue, and white Nike’s, that hat was always on my head. Except that day. The day I was taken into America. None of my photos show my hat.
I don’t remember posing with my childhood friends, whom I would play dolls, hide and seek, make-believe, tag, etc. But I have photos of it all.
I don’t remember the blanket I woke to that morning when I had to say good-bye to everyone I knew and loved. But during my last visit to the Philippines my dad took it out of his drawer and asked me if I remembered it?
I don’t remember how I said good-bye to my first pet: Zero my skinny mutt of a puppy. But I later found out that someone had poisoned him because he would not stop barking. Did he bark so much because he missed me? I don’t remember him being a troubled pup.
I don’t remember the hot sticky drive to the Manila International airport from Baguio in my dad’s red Jeep. Did I sleep the whole way?
I don’t remember what I ate, what it smelled like, what I felt, or when I got my passport photo taken.
All I remember, without the help of photos my dad took is: my mom asked me to pack my toys in a bag. It was a big pink clunky vinyl bag with colorful shapes sewn on the front. Funny thing is, I don’t remember what I packed. All my mom said was that we were going on a trip.
No one told me the trip would mean I would be leaving my homeland forever. No one told me I would not be seeing my dad for years, if that. No one told me that my father had to sign papers stating he had given up custody so that I can leave the country. No one told me that the only reason my father signed those papers was because he was lied to about their intent and actual purpose. Nonetheless, the consequences stuck. No one told me that all those trips we took to Manila before hand was so I could get a passport. No one told me I was an accident. No one told me that when I was being born my mom lied to her parents telling them she was taking exams and that’s why she couldn’t go to Manila to welcome them back from America. No one told me my mom thought about aborting me, and my dad had to talk her out of it. No one told me it would hurt. No one told me it would still hurt.
Piece by piece I try to mend it all into one cohesive story. But the antagonists and challenges tear and claw away at the happiest moments of being with my family: my father, my mother, and my younger brother.
No one tells me about how I use to run around and laugh when I was a kid, No one tells about all the trips we use to take along the Pangasinan countryside. No one tells me about how I loved Taho. No one tells me how I loved to go to the market and travel the Baguio streets with my view from my father’s shoulders. No one tells about the purple stuffed monkey with Velcro paws I use to wear around my waist as a belt. No one tells me about my cousins in Bolinao and how much fun we’d have together catching dragon flies, playing at the beach, and eating mangoes.. No one tells me about that here. But my father would remind me through his letters, and the few talks I’d had with him over the years.
All I have left is the past. I can’t make new moments with my family. My family is dead. There is no longer my father, my mother, my brother, and I. My mom and dad haven’t spoken in years. My mom hates my dad. Shes managed to survive the onslaught of loneliness. My dad never got over my mom. He hasn’t formally dated anyone since her. While my brother and I drown in the lack of something we once had.
Dreaming of a remedy. Dreaming of satiating the pain. Dreaming of a new kind of happiness.
No one told me this is the American dream.
Mute
It’s the end of the month. Mom’s mad again.
I can hear her throwing the plates around in the kitchen, slamming drawers and cupboards, not saying a word, but I can feel the heat of her anger from the dining room. I’m scared.
I thought that when we got to the US, all the fighting would stop. I thought that was the whole point of coming here. A better life, more money, a job, family, Disneyland, something that would solve all our problems. Something that would ease the tension between my mom and my dad that had become so unbearable at 35 Payna St. But it didn’t. It’s like this monster clung to our backs and followed us here, and mutated into a creature worse than before.
We sit in silence.
I don’t want to move. My dad’s lips are quivering, his hand balled into a fist on the table. He’s staring at me.
No, he’s not.
His eyes are on me, but I can tell he’s somewhere else in his head. I can see the rage building up inside him and I can barely recognize his face.
I don’t even know how it all started, the fight. It was like a switch was turned on and it just started. All the anger, the flames just unleashed without warning.
It was like everything was on mute. Maybe the yelling was so loud, it made me deaf, but I felt the slap of their words on my face. Almost immediately, I start crying. I take my sister’s hand and pull her to my lap, shielding her head. She hugs me so tight I can barely breathe. She buries her face into my chest and she shouts her fears into my body.
Flashes of sounds, but they don’t make sense. “PUTANG INA!! PERA!!....BASTOS!! ..WALANG CUENTA!! AMERICA!! TRABAJO!! ....KAYOD AKO NG KAYOD!! GAGO!!... HINDI KO NA KAYA!!”
I think I’m yelling, maybe begging. Begging for them to stop. Begging for them to hear my cries, but I can’t even hear myself. Saying please over and over and over, but nobody hears me.
He shakes the table. She slams a dish. He looks up to the heavens. She starts to cry.
There’s no logic or reason anymore. Just anger, and pain, and pride, and desperation.
Something happens, but it was so fast I didn’t catch it. He grabs me up from the dining chair and pulls me to the kitchen. He’s crying. He kneels and yells at me. “SIGE!! TAPOSIN MO NA!! HINDI NYO NA BA MAHAL AKO?! WALA BA AKONG CUENTA SA INYO?! MAGHANAP NALANG KAYO NG BAGONG AMA NA MAKAKABIGAY NG KAILANGAN NYO!!”
He opens a drawer and pulls out a knife. I start crying harder, but I try my hardest not to move. He shoves the knife in my hand and puts my hand up to his throat. He tells me to push it. He tells me to push it if I really think he’s not enough of a father. He yells at me to push the knife if our life is really that unbearable.
I want to hold his hand. I want to touch his cheek and wipe away the tears and tell him that it’s not true. I want to cling to his neck and reassure him that it will be ok. That I don’t care where we live, I don’t care what his job is, I don’t care about any of it. I want to tell him all of this, but I don’t. I’m paralyzed and all I can do is cry. I look at his eyes and the only thing I say is “Please papa. Tama na.”
And it all stops. Just as quickly as it all started, it stopped.
see comments on your blog entries
Hello:
"Raquel", "Joanna", and "Joana" are not Babae bloggers yet, so I'll hold off posting comments for their Friday work. Please have new work posted by Thurs. 10pm. Thanks, Jeannie
Friday, September 11, 2009
Fuck the Police
I just want my paintings back from the gallery.
Since Obama was elected, my art has been held hostage in Lake Merrit.
I call.
I leave messages.
I ask around the neighborhood to see if they've seen the gallery owner. They all want nothing to do with him, say that he's a druggie, a bad guy, violent....
I leave notes on the door.
The next time I'm there I see the note has been read, and yet no call back.
They say that if anything, getting a college degree is proof that you know how to navigate a bureaucratic system at the least...
So after college then what? We're automatically experts at jumping through all the hoops of any government system??
No one ever answers their phones. None of the web pages answer my questions. Can someone just please tell me which court house to go to to file a small claims case? Oh gee, this is nice, after a BART ride to Oakland, getting lost for 30 min, finally finding the court house, but having to pay for parking and the meter doesn't tell you how much 25 cents is worth on the meter, so we put in a dollar thinking it would be enough, then you get a receipt saying you paid way over 30 minutes, then going through a security x-ray line, I find a big note on the non-occupied info desk reading: "If you are here to file a small claims case, please go to the Rene C. Davidson Courthouse"
So off to get lost again in Oakland, rushing past China Town, the driver calling her partner to give her google directions over the phone, we almost crash 3 times...
A rally about Police Brutality is happening outside of the courthouse, we rush past as I strike a convo with my fellow justice seeker, turns out she thinks Oscar deserved to get killed? We enter another security check, as the info desk re-directs us to another room.
Then we wait.
We wait.
We wait because the lady behind the glass is talking to her friends. We finally get the forms, fill them out, fill out a waiver form, then wait some more.
The lady behind the glass is now arguing with someone over a pen. She wanted him to leave his ID for safe return of her writing utensil.
So we wait.
Other friends stop by to talk to her.
Still waiting.
We finally get our forms processed. I ask her questions about the serving procedure and she begins to rattle on about: You have 3 options to get someone served: a private citizen, a professional processor, or if your fee waiver goes through, the sheriff will serve the defendant...I check my form: the defendant's name is spelled wrong: how am I suppose to sue for my property if the defendant's name is in-correct: fine print says the judge will throw out any case with any minor mistakes, like going to the wrong court house or incorrect spelling...I ask about my fee waiver...the woman behind the glass says to call back next week to see if the waiver went through...
We leave still empty handed of our art.
Next week rolls around. I call back. I'm on hold.
Still on hold.
Still holding.
A woman with a monotone voice answers. Our records show that a fee waiver form was never filled out. I was fucking there, I filled it out where the fuck is my form? Of course I'm not cussing at the lady on the phone: is there someone I can talk to who knows where my form went? "You can call back Monday."
What options do I have? Legal Outreach help lines have yet to call me back. Someone answering makes me lucky...I just want my art back.
Seems like every branch of the government turns people cold, un-caring, and un-helpful. Most of all, no justice. So fuck the police, I'm gonna burn that gallery to ashes and my art will be the suicide bombers.
Since Obama was elected, my art has been held hostage in Lake Merrit.
I call.
I leave messages.
I ask around the neighborhood to see if they've seen the gallery owner. They all want nothing to do with him, say that he's a druggie, a bad guy, violent....
I leave notes on the door.
The next time I'm there I see the note has been read, and yet no call back.
They say that if anything, getting a college degree is proof that you know how to navigate a bureaucratic system at the least...
So after college then what? We're automatically experts at jumping through all the hoops of any government system??
No one ever answers their phones. None of the web pages answer my questions. Can someone just please tell me which court house to go to to file a small claims case? Oh gee, this is nice, after a BART ride to Oakland, getting lost for 30 min, finally finding the court house, but having to pay for parking and the meter doesn't tell you how much 25 cents is worth on the meter, so we put in a dollar thinking it would be enough, then you get a receipt saying you paid way over 30 minutes, then going through a security x-ray line, I find a big note on the non-occupied info desk reading: "If you are here to file a small claims case, please go to the Rene C. Davidson Courthouse"
So off to get lost again in Oakland, rushing past China Town, the driver calling her partner to give her google directions over the phone, we almost crash 3 times...
A rally about Police Brutality is happening outside of the courthouse, we rush past as I strike a convo with my fellow justice seeker, turns out she thinks Oscar deserved to get killed? We enter another security check, as the info desk re-directs us to another room.
Then we wait.
We wait.
We wait because the lady behind the glass is talking to her friends. We finally get the forms, fill them out, fill out a waiver form, then wait some more.
The lady behind the glass is now arguing with someone over a pen. She wanted him to leave his ID for safe return of her writing utensil.
So we wait.
Other friends stop by to talk to her.
Still waiting.
We finally get our forms processed. I ask her questions about the serving procedure and she begins to rattle on about: You have 3 options to get someone served: a private citizen, a professional processor, or if your fee waiver goes through, the sheriff will serve the defendant...I check my form: the defendant's name is spelled wrong: how am I suppose to sue for my property if the defendant's name is in-correct: fine print says the judge will throw out any case with any minor mistakes, like going to the wrong court house or incorrect spelling...I ask about my fee waiver...the woman behind the glass says to call back next week to see if the waiver went through...
We leave still empty handed of our art.
Next week rolls around. I call back. I'm on hold.
Still on hold.
Still holding.
A woman with a monotone voice answers. Our records show that a fee waiver form was never filled out. I was fucking there, I filled it out where the fuck is my form? Of course I'm not cussing at the lady on the phone: is there someone I can talk to who knows where my form went? "You can call back Monday."
What options do I have? Legal Outreach help lines have yet to call me back. Someone answering makes me lucky...I just want my art back.
Seems like every branch of the government turns people cold, un-caring, and un-helpful. Most of all, no justice. So fuck the police, I'm gonna burn that gallery to ashes and my art will be the suicide bombers.
Why?
This is a story that I need to tell.
This is a story I’ve kept inside for so long.
This is a story that I need to accept.
This is the hardest story I’m ever going to tell.
We wake up early on a sunny, Sunday to go to mass. After mass we decide to go back home to eat a quick breakfast. Before we even get a chance to heat our food, the phone rings. We quickly leave the house and head to the hospital. My mom, dad, brother, cousin, and I arrive first. We pick up the phone… the nurse tells us to wait in the waiting room because the doctors were working on a few procedures. I see my aunt and baby cousin in front of the waiting room door. We run out and tell her what the nurse said. She says my grandpa and aunt are already inside. I see them crying and my heart begins to sink. I can no longer feel my body. The doctor comes out and I just want to cut off my ears. He tells us… she is not going to make it. She is weak. She is struggling. They tried everything, but nothing was working.
I look through the window of the door and blue lights were flashing above her room door. Code Blue. We run inside and surround her. There she was… lying helplessly. I wanted to pull the tubes off her mouth and hear her talk. I don’t know if she heard our cries, screams, and I love you's. I didn’t want her to go. I couldn’t believe she was leaving us. It couldn’t be true. I can still hear her last breaths. I can still feel the touch of her skin. I wanted to feel her hug back. I kept putting my hand through her hair, waiting for her to complain like usual… but nothing. I didn’t hear her grunts. All I heard were cries and screams. I can still see the numbers on the machine getting lower and lower. We were telling her to fight. We were wishing for a miracle. We didn’t want her life to end. We weren’t ready. No, we weren’t ready. I remember the sound of the machine when her pulse hit zero. That was the worst noise I have ever heard. I never want to hear that again.
My heart disappears. It is gone. I can’t feel it anymore. My whole world just ended. Time stopped. All I wanted was a miracle. But nothing… she was really gone. It was so unexpected. That was… no is the hardest thing I have ever had to deal with in my life. I still deal with it everyday. I still can’t accept it. I know she is in a better place, but why now? I’ve been angry with God for so long. I stop going to church. I stop praying. I know I need to accept it. I slowly am, or am I really? I know she is still here. I can feel her presence, but it is only in my heart and mind. I can’t see her face. I can’t hear her laugh. I can’t feel her hug. I miss my grandma.
March 29, 2009. So much was happening this day. I was suppose to go to Los Angeles with Babae for the Bayan/Gabriela Conference, but stayed to see my favorite band in concert. I was supposed to leave Saturday night so I can wait in line for the concert early Sunday morning, but I didn’t. I think about it now and it would have been worst if I did go to LA and leave Saturday night. Everything happens for a reason, but I’m still trying to figure out… why? Why did she have to go so early? Why God?
My brother and I... our last photo with her.
This is a story I’ve kept inside for so long.
This is a story that I need to accept.
This is the hardest story I’m ever going to tell.
We wake up early on a sunny, Sunday to go to mass. After mass we decide to go back home to eat a quick breakfast. Before we even get a chance to heat our food, the phone rings. We quickly leave the house and head to the hospital. My mom, dad, brother, cousin, and I arrive first. We pick up the phone… the nurse tells us to wait in the waiting room because the doctors were working on a few procedures. I see my aunt and baby cousin in front of the waiting room door. We run out and tell her what the nurse said. She says my grandpa and aunt are already inside. I see them crying and my heart begins to sink. I can no longer feel my body. The doctor comes out and I just want to cut off my ears. He tells us… she is not going to make it. She is weak. She is struggling. They tried everything, but nothing was working.
I look through the window of the door and blue lights were flashing above her room door. Code Blue. We run inside and surround her. There she was… lying helplessly. I wanted to pull the tubes off her mouth and hear her talk. I don’t know if she heard our cries, screams, and I love you's. I didn’t want her to go. I couldn’t believe she was leaving us. It couldn’t be true. I can still hear her last breaths. I can still feel the touch of her skin. I wanted to feel her hug back. I kept putting my hand through her hair, waiting for her to complain like usual… but nothing. I didn’t hear her grunts. All I heard were cries and screams. I can still see the numbers on the machine getting lower and lower. We were telling her to fight. We were wishing for a miracle. We didn’t want her life to end. We weren’t ready. No, we weren’t ready. I remember the sound of the machine when her pulse hit zero. That was the worst noise I have ever heard. I never want to hear that again.
My heart disappears. It is gone. I can’t feel it anymore. My whole world just ended. Time stopped. All I wanted was a miracle. But nothing… she was really gone. It was so unexpected. That was… no is the hardest thing I have ever had to deal with in my life. I still deal with it everyday. I still can’t accept it. I know she is in a better place, but why now? I’ve been angry with God for so long. I stop going to church. I stop praying. I know I need to accept it. I slowly am, or am I really? I know she is still here. I can feel her presence, but it is only in my heart and mind. I can’t see her face. I can’t hear her laugh. I can’t feel her hug. I miss my grandma.
March 29, 2009. So much was happening this day. I was suppose to go to Los Angeles with Babae for the Bayan/Gabriela Conference, but stayed to see my favorite band in concert. I was supposed to leave Saturday night so I can wait in line for the concert early Sunday morning, but I didn’t. I think about it now and it would have been worst if I did go to LA and leave Saturday night. Everything happens for a reason, but I’m still trying to figure out… why? Why did she have to go so early? Why God?
My brother and I... our last photo with her.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
sisters
"I'm so glad that you came back to visit home ,you been away for a while." Lia expresses as she smiles through her eyes.
Chea sighs and smile "Its nice to be back to check up on you ,I just needed to move,learn, grow and explore and not be influence by mom and dads views.
"Well I'm glad you did you seem happier and more free."
"Thanks Lia that means alot to me , Hey sis do you remember that one time I took you to church. "
"Yeah how could I not we took the bus all the way cross town where all the white rich people live."
The two sister sat on the wood porch, it was a late warm night as they continued sharing old memories that renewed a sensation in their hearts.
Lia looks at her older sister Chea- How old were we? "I was 16 and you were 12." They both looked at each other and said DANG time flys.
Chea wanted to share her truth with Lia , she decides to get up and suggest to go for a walk.
"Dam here you go again with your dam walks such a hippy, gotta be one with the trees, feel the air kiss your cheeks, or at least make use with those granola shoes your wearing.
Chea looks at Lia you must really miss me that much to be talking all this shit I miss you too."
The two went for a walk in a neighborhood they both grew up in. Outsiders says its a bad area ,drug runs, fights ,folks geting beat up for thier kicks or money.
Folks around town knew better to mess with them because they are considered old school. All the locals would naturally shares thier funny simple waves of love in ways that may seem familar to them.
"So you do remember that time at church" Chea curiously asked.
"Yeah I could never forget, what got me is watching the white paster touching everyones head yelling and they would fall to the ground ,and I got scared when I saw you fell."
Chea continued walking staring at the ground "Yeah thats what I wanted to talk to you about,14 years has past since then. That time Pastor Wendell touched my head and ,I dropped to the ground cause everyone else did and I didn't want to be the only one standing up.¬ So I joined the rest of them.
Lia couldn't stop laughing,"that is so funny." Chea justified "We'll I guess you have to start some where with your search in Life"
Lia reached over and hugged her sister and ask so have you found what you where looking for?
sisters
"I'm so glad that you came back to visit home ,you been away for a while." Chea expresses as she smiles through her eyes.
Lia sighs and smile "Its nice to be back to check up on you ,I just needed to move,learn, grow and explore and not be influence by mom and dads views.
"Well I'm glad you did you seem happier and more free."
"Thanks Lia that means alot to me , Hey sis do you remember that one time I took you to church. "
"Yeah how could I not we took the bus all the way cross town where all the white rich people live."
The two sister sat on the wood porch, it was a late warm night as they continued sharing old memories that renewed a sensation in their hearts.
Lia looks at her older sister Chea- How old were we? "I was 16 and you were 12." They both looked at each other and said DANG time flys.
Chea wanted to share her truth with Lia , she decides to get up and suggest to go for a walk.
"Dam here you go again with your dam walks such a hippy, gotta be one with the trees, feel the air kiss your cheeks, or at least make use with those granola shoes your wearing.
Chea looks at Lia you must really miss me that much to be talking all this shit I miss you too."
The two went for a walk in a neighborhood they both grew up in. Outsiders says its a bad area ,drug runs, fights ,folks geting beat up for thier kicks or money.
Folks around town knew better to mess with them because they are considered old school. All the locals would naturally shares thier funny simple waves of love in ways that may seem familar to them.
"So you do remember that time at church" Lia curiously asked.
"Yeah I could never forget, what got me is watching the white paster touching everyones head yelling and they would fall to the ground ,and I got scared when I saw you fell."
Lia continued walking staring at the ground "Yeah thats what I wanted to talk to you about,14 years has past since then. That time Pastor Wendell touched my head and ,I dropped to the ground cause everyone else did and I didn't want to be the only one standing up.¬ So I joined the rest of them.
Chea couldnt stop laughing,"that is so funny." Lia justified "We'll I guess you have to start some where with your search in Life"
Chea reached over and hugged her sister and ask so have you found what you where looking for?
Looking forward to Friday 7pm
Hi, All:
Sorry I missed you at the Sept. 4 show - some ideas might apply to your project. General Note to all bloggers: the SIX senses -- some are very vivid; review areas where you can still apply more. See you soon,
Jeannie
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Writing Workshop this Friday
Hi Everyone,
Been enjoying reading everyone's posts! Keep them coming.
I just wanted to remind everyone that this Friday is our next Writing Workshop
7pm-9:30pm
Can we used FCC again?
Let me know...thank you!
Lorna
Been enjoying reading everyone's posts! Keep them coming.
I just wanted to remind everyone that this Friday is our next Writing Workshop
7pm-9:30pm
Can we used FCC again?
Let me know...thank you!
Lorna
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