at present i have three blogs running, but none are active. the times the bug to write strikes, i don't opt to write in this space any longer.
i'm thinking of closing down this blog as all the entries here have already been imported to my multiply site, which i feel houses the bits and pieces of my life in a more organised fashion than if i had spread out my information across different photo sites, blogs, and the like.
therefore may i entreat you to visit me at my home site with multiply. feel free to email me for your personal comments at svelterogue@gmail.com or set up a multiply account if you want to comment on the site itself.
for now, let's see how long i can keep this up and running, in a manner of speaking. if and when i remember to return to this page, then i may just as well shut it down already. for now, it's here to stay to give me time to say goodbye and for the occasional reader to actually know of my whereabouts elsewhere.
the US open is upon us and as of this writing, my rafa has just beaten the australian power server and roger walked through his match with the taiwanese kid.
31.8.06
14.5.06
vamos rafael!
this link says it all
and don't forget to check out the related sites on that page as well, a big factor why i love bbc =)
mos of my tears tension and sweat were wrung out here, though, to close out my sunday afternoon *beams* i was especially active in the sets 3-5 entries, making some "friends" in the process, one of them a sampras fan and another a dutch girl who gave us blow by blow scores every freaking three seconds or so.
what a day!!!
*doc emer shared a wonderful photo of rafa's post-winning moment which i featured here
and don't forget to check out the related sites on that page as well, a big factor why i love bbc =)
mos of my tears tension and sweat were wrung out here, though, to close out my sunday afternoon *beams* i was especially active in the sets 3-5 entries, making some "friends" in the process, one of them a sampras fan and another a dutch girl who gave us blow by blow scores every freaking three seconds or so.
what a day!!!
*doc emer shared a wonderful photo of rafa's post-winning moment which i featured here
3.5.06
one foot in front of the other, over leaves and over bridges
more than a year has passed since i last ran laps around the oval at the sports centre. it was a time of starting an MA i can't bring myself to love, a time of getting pregnant with my second son and bringing him to the world in a miraculous VBAC delivery, a time of entering moments of calm and peace in my european adventure.
i've Never run cross-country. i've worn out a couple of cross trainers in my lifetime, too few to ever be considered a serious runner but still more than anyone with a sedentary lifestyle can ever have.
until today. batjay wrote about his brisk walking adventures in orange county over at blogkada and i tried to go the same route, only my way dove into the forest near the arenberg castle in heverlee just outside the ring of leuven, quiet in the middle of the morning under a gray sky. the track was muddy from the previous night's drizzle and i was afraid that any one of my footfalls would betray me and my ankle would crumple beneath me. in spite of the hush, spring's irrepressible energy was jumping from the tree branches and tiny yellow and white flowers growing wild on the forest floor.
more than one year of no physical exertion and my heart wanted to burst out of my chest. the football field next to alma 3 was a sea of undulating green grass, the goal posts reminding me fleetingly of the coming world cup on june 9th. (go brazil!!!)
i wanted to talk about moving on yet now that i'm seated in front of the computer screen, words fail me. words, the very things that define my career as an english teacher, the one thing i wield with confidence, yet they escape me now. right now, all i know about moving on is that sometimes, a rabbit has to run so that eagles will not take him for dinner. i can feel my whiskers twitching. i need to dive into my hole now.
happy birthday, andy.
i've Never run cross-country. i've worn out a couple of cross trainers in my lifetime, too few to ever be considered a serious runner but still more than anyone with a sedentary lifestyle can ever have.
until today. batjay wrote about his brisk walking adventures in orange county over at blogkada and i tried to go the same route, only my way dove into the forest near the arenberg castle in heverlee just outside the ring of leuven, quiet in the middle of the morning under a gray sky. the track was muddy from the previous night's drizzle and i was afraid that any one of my footfalls would betray me and my ankle would crumple beneath me. in spite of the hush, spring's irrepressible energy was jumping from the tree branches and tiny yellow and white flowers growing wild on the forest floor.
more than one year of no physical exertion and my heart wanted to burst out of my chest. the football field next to alma 3 was a sea of undulating green grass, the goal posts reminding me fleetingly of the coming world cup on june 9th. (go brazil!!!)
i wanted to talk about moving on yet now that i'm seated in front of the computer screen, words fail me. words, the very things that define my career as an english teacher, the one thing i wield with confidence, yet they escape me now. right now, all i know about moving on is that sometimes, a rabbit has to run so that eagles will not take him for dinner. i can feel my whiskers twitching. i need to dive into my hole now.
happy birthday, andy.
1.5.06
when poetry takes over
not only was langston hughes born in february, OUR month, but he wrote the following poem:
i remember reading this in my 7th grade textbook for language arts and i have never forgotten it since. the poem is light and gossamer, resting softly on my eyelids. when they flutter open, the poem vanishes, as did my friend.
then there is li po:
only this time my horse was on a modern platform in the middle of brussels and his steed was a red and silver train that would take him away from me yet again. how many times can one endure parting of this magnitude? i used to think that airports were the most lonely places in the world, especially when you were the one left behind. today i saw that beautiful modern train stations can be just as stark and lonely, if not more.
i had a friend:
he went away from me
there's nothing left to say
i had a friend:
i remember reading this in my 7th grade textbook for language arts and i have never forgotten it since. the poem is light and gossamer, resting softly on my eyelids. when they flutter open, the poem vanishes, as did my friend.
then there is li po:
Blue mountains lie beyond the north wall;
Round the city's eastern side flows the white water.
Here we part, friend, once forever.
You go ten thousand miles, drifting away
Like an unrooted water-grass.
Oh, the floating clouds and the thoughts of a wanderer!
Oh, the sunset and the longing of an old friend!
We ride away from each other, waving our hands,
While our horses neigh softly, softly . . . .
only this time my horse was on a modern platform in the middle of brussels and his steed was a red and silver train that would take him away from me yet again. how many times can one endure parting of this magnitude? i used to think that airports were the most lonely places in the world, especially when you were the one left behind. today i saw that beautiful modern train stations can be just as stark and lonely, if not more.
7.4.06
Mysteries of Palm Sunday
the following entry was written for our parish bulletin ... just wanted to share it with you here... svelte rogue
Back in the Philippines, Palm Sunday was time for me to play “The King of Glory” on the organ and watch the throngs of mass-goers wave their intricate palm fronds that the priest walked blessed with holy water. Palm Sunday signalled the start of an arduous week of one service after another that required choir participation, from the washing of the feet on Maundy Thursday; to the Stations of the Cross through village streets baking in the summer heat culminating at 3 PM in the church and the ensuing Veneration of the Cross ceremony; to the Sinakulo (or Cenaculo) performance of the Passion in the evening that ended at midnight; to the rise-sit-kneel of the endless readings of Black Saturday; to the fireball lighting up a pile of twigs to begin the Easter dawn celebrations; the Salubong (Tagalog, which means “Meeting” to refer to Jesus & Mary’s meeting on Easter morning) with matching angels singing a Latin hymn when the processions of Mama Mary and Son Jesus statues meet; until the elaborate Easter Eucharist with the dialogue gospel, renunciation of sin (I do I do and I do!), and renewal of Christian vows (I do yet again I do and I do!). Sitting on my comfortable perch at the organ with my motley crew of singers, images of the coming Holy Week were crystallised most clearly at the start of the gloomy Holy Week.
For some, it also meant counting the remaining days before they could hie off to the beach or highlands for some summer action, since most work ends on Wednesday to give people time to travel to the provinces, presumably to be with family to attend the Holy Week services. But for many Manila folk, this is a great opportunity to travel to vacation spots for a relaxing 4-day weekend of endless card games and booze.
The past two years, though, have found me and my family in Belgium, away from the searing summer Philippine heat. I realise bemusedly that a trip to the beach is wholly possible except that the North Sea off Oostende will be more chilly than I am used to. I see many similarities between the weekend Manila beach bums and almost all of Belgians planning activities for their family during the two-week Paasvakantie.
It has gotten to such a point that in any part of the Christian world I may be, whether in Asia or Europe, Palm Sunday signals the beginning of good times and fun.
Yet the gospels paint a different picture of this tumultuous day in Christian history. On this day, the unassuming Messiah rode into Jerusalem on a donkey and was greeted by waving palm fronds, the sum total of his kingship, kingdom, and people. Here was a glad entourage greeting their homely king, welcoming him into the heart of a city that would turn against him in the coming days, where the leaders of their faith would condemn him to the death sentence reserved for the worst criminals of the Roman estate.
One can point out that this would be the last day of glory and “fun” for Jesus before trekking the painful path of the Passion that lay before him still. How could his human self not have quailed at the thought of the suffering that could break anyone’s spirit?
Today, it is easy for us to approach Palm Sunday with the thought that even if Jesus did enter Jerusalem on this day filled with dread and trepidation, he would eventually come into his paradise, with the hopeful thief on the cross next to him, along with the cries and hopes of the oppressed, downtrodden and sad lives of a cruel world. We always rest secure in the knowledge that after the Passion lies the birth of new life, of Love reborn, of salvation forever within our grasp by the blood of his sacrifice.
Today I wake up to a Palm Sunday with more questions than answers, befuddled and confused as to what stance I must take in order to prepare meaningfully for the coming days. I am torn several ways, both familiar and not, between the rites and rituals of my past experiences, of someone rooted in a deeply Christian culture, of someone who was born in a country where every day one encounters Christ’s Passion in the suffering faces of my co-Filipinos, of someone transplanted into another culture where this same suffering has been cocooned into the colourful easter eggs and marzipan packs found in shops.
I pray that for those of us gathered together on this special morn, the steady footfalls of donkey steps form the rhythmic backdrop of what is still to come --- a taste of pain and suffering that can only end in love and eternal life.
28.3.06
my cup overfloweth
i remember how i used to stare at your older brother while he slept and it's as if the world inside of me would explode through my chest.
i don't remember the day you smiled at me for the first time, the kind of smile that wasn't just gas or a guardian angel chat. i made you smile and you made me feel like the most beautiful person in the world, lighting up your world. and in your eyes, the world was everything. and i was at the center of it.
how many times have i used your helplessness as an excuse not to get up, just so i can feel your body against mine, pliant and trusting in my arms, your warmth bringing sweet lassitude into my limbs? i have often prayed that you stay little and angelic forever, my perfect doll.
when your kuya embraces you, soothes away your tears, scolds me for kissing you too much, i am in a place filled with light and joy. those are moments when god leans over and winks at me, as if saying, "ain't life great?"
i live for a thousand and one moments, and they all contain you, kimi, and your kuya mikka. i will not survive if each time you smile at me, or your kuya is overwhelmingly sweet, is counted as nitroglycerine in the cutest purple bottle.
i don't remember the day you smiled at me for the first time, the kind of smile that wasn't just gas or a guardian angel chat. i made you smile and you made me feel like the most beautiful person in the world, lighting up your world. and in your eyes, the world was everything. and i was at the center of it.
how many times have i used your helplessness as an excuse not to get up, just so i can feel your body against mine, pliant and trusting in my arms, your warmth bringing sweet lassitude into my limbs? i have often prayed that you stay little and angelic forever, my perfect doll.
when your kuya embraces you, soothes away your tears, scolds me for kissing you too much, i am in a place filled with light and joy. those are moments when god leans over and winks at me, as if saying, "ain't life great?"
i live for a thousand and one moments, and they all contain you, kimi, and your kuya mikka. i will not survive if each time you smile at me, or your kuya is overwhelmingly sweet, is counted as nitroglycerine in the cutest purple bottle.
8.3.06
1.3.06
the poor you have always
this topic is too close to my heart not to push to the forefront of my internet splashes.
i don't normally announce when i've written articles elsewhere in the net, but this time, i'd like to send you over to blogkada to read what i and the other berks have written about poverty
(if you want to see the entire site and entries, click here)
of course i'm working with the premise that you are with me here. i've been getting more hits at multiply; maybe that's where i should announce this. pero hindi bagay don kaya dito na lang. hahaha
i don't normally announce when i've written articles elsewhere in the net, but this time, i'd like to send you over to blogkada to read what i and the other berks have written about poverty
(if you want to see the entire site and entries, click here)
of course i'm working with the premise that you are with me here. i've been getting more hits at multiply; maybe that's where i should announce this. pero hindi bagay don kaya dito na lang. hahaha
27.2.06
litterbug
on a good day you can look at this and feel both wonder and some smugness --- give yourself a pat on the back while you sip iced tea and generally just feel what a work of art you are. or you can puzzle over the shadow puppets you've cast on the wall of cyber and real friendships --- which ones are real and which ones are mere projections frozen on the wall?
on a not so good day you can feel the sniffles coming on and the lack of sunlight casts a ghostly light on faces you pass on the street and shadows threaten in every corner of your sanctuary.
on a rotten day the kitchen light conspires against you, door handles snag on sore hips, the innocent chortle of hyperactive toddlers and desperately hungry cries of infants are indictments of your worst maternal fears and insecurities and you just want to call up your dad and blame him for all the shit hitting the fan.
have you seen those swirly colourful circles on lollipops, the kind that spins round and round so you are that dot in the centre that disappears the more mad the dance becomes? i could cross my legs in my comfy corner, adjust the glare of my table lamp and just let the tears slide down my cheeks and not feel at all connected to my heaving shoulders.
there has to be a case for a trash bin you can put at the foot of your chair, just because. then you won't have to bump into people or food along the way as hapless substitutes.
your honour, i rest my case.
on a not so good day you can feel the sniffles coming on and the lack of sunlight casts a ghostly light on faces you pass on the street and shadows threaten in every corner of your sanctuary.
on a rotten day the kitchen light conspires against you, door handles snag on sore hips, the innocent chortle of hyperactive toddlers and desperately hungry cries of infants are indictments of your worst maternal fears and insecurities and you just want to call up your dad and blame him for all the shit hitting the fan.
have you seen those swirly colourful circles on lollipops, the kind that spins round and round so you are that dot in the centre that disappears the more mad the dance becomes? i could cross my legs in my comfy corner, adjust the glare of my table lamp and just let the tears slide down my cheeks and not feel at all connected to my heaving shoulders.
there has to be a case for a trash bin you can put at the foot of your chair, just because. then you won't have to bump into people or food along the way as hapless substitutes.
your honour, i rest my case.
26.2.06
omigaz
this site has been so neglected... by you!
but with one stop shops like multiply around, sites like these are merely redundant. and i am too lazy to consolidate photobucket with this. it's too much work.
i haven't the energy to find ways to woo you back to me. like the perfect partner, you will just come. i'll see you...
but with one stop shops like multiply around, sites like these are merely redundant. and i am too lazy to consolidate photobucket with this. it's too much work.
i haven't the energy to find ways to woo you back to me. like the perfect partner, you will just come. i'll see you...
16.2.06
fearfully and wonderfully made
they fit perfectly in your arms, curves melting against your body, seeping into your bones your blood your heart
their eyes follow your every move, unblinking, steadily counting each minute you are with them as a singular chunk of eternity
you are their everything which in itself is scary --- such trust, such responsibility foisted upon you --- can you last?
they are miniscule expressions of enduring love and hope
their skin, their eyes, their voices, their small tiny hands and feet, their rotund bellies --- seen on anyone over 12 it is grotesque but in their onesies and rompers they are the cutest beings alive
when they coo and gurgle you know that no matter how you've screwed up in life, you can still make the most innocent and pure being happy
how simple are their ways their needs their lives --- why can't we stay little?
babies are special beings and my god, thank you for giving me another one to love and to raise! it's no walk in the park but after the first one, things don't look too difficult or daunting anymore. before i know it, my little kimi will be as big as his kuya mikka and i will wonder how time could fly so swiftly past.
their eyes follow your every move, unblinking, steadily counting each minute you are with them as a singular chunk of eternity
you are their everything which in itself is scary --- such trust, such responsibility foisted upon you --- can you last?
they are miniscule expressions of enduring love and hope
their skin, their eyes, their voices, their small tiny hands and feet, their rotund bellies --- seen on anyone over 12 it is grotesque but in their onesies and rompers they are the cutest beings alive
when they coo and gurgle you know that no matter how you've screwed up in life, you can still make the most innocent and pure being happy
how simple are their ways their needs their lives --- why can't we stay little?
babies are special beings and my god, thank you for giving me another one to love and to raise! it's no walk in the park but after the first one, things don't look too difficult or daunting anymore. before i know it, my little kimi will be as big as his kuya mikka and i will wonder how time could fly so swiftly past.
31.1.06
finding a way
i just finished penning some thoughts to the venerable blogkada, that trusty egroups where serendipitously, you can breathe zen, joy, dreams, and secrets into a pool of unquestioning love. it's a happy happy circumstance that brought me into that group of bloggers and sometimes i am a bit embarrassed to be considered one of them because i no longer consider myself a hardcore blogger. that's a thing of the distant past, it seems. i remember having another URL in another lifetime and i know i have a zipped file with all my old entries but it feels like an old, discarded skin. but skin that you can fold lovingly into the most special corner of your closet and maybe one day, pull out once more and smooth lovingly in the soft rays of filtered sunshine making dust specks dance before your eyes.
i wanted to entitle my entry "finding forrester", just like that movie with jamal and william forrester (oh sean connery, you are too cute it's such a drag!!!). i know i mentioned this to blogkada some minutes ago and i feel the need to talk more about it in this more loose and public space. somehow.
photos arrived in my email inbox 11 hours ago and upon seeing them, i don't know, that movie moment happened. breath became suspended involuntarily, eyes misted over and thoughts started to move sluggishly, as if someone had poured a vat of molasses over everything. escape evaded me no matter how much the mind commanded me to shut the door and continue along my little mary sunshine way. of course we know that in life, things do not always turn out the way we want them to.
then i thought, i don't want to end up on google search for that same movie (not that i check my stats anyway, that, too, is a thing of the distant past --- but thank you to my loyal visitors who keep the stats alive no matter what) and thought, let's put a little spin to it, for wit and quick recall. but the alternative was too cheesy, too tacky, dicey. finding family? not again. i've been going on and on about that topic in the past entries and if by some wild chance my older brother or sister bumps into this blog (if blogs could live for a million years, and we, too, why, nothing is impossible), they will be bound to arch their coiffed eyebrows at me and flutter, "self-absorbed lara is at it again, whining about her life. grow up, when will you ever grow up?" ayayay. no na lang. hence, a weak attempt to be general and specific and literary, all experiments in futility.
in that movie, jamal felt that at the moment that he needed forrester's help the most, forrester folded and didn't come through for him. their relationship had deepend beyond words, and both were talented writers. words words words. these will be with me for always. jamal poured out his heart to forrester in one last letter. or so he thought. it was the letter that pushed forrester to go out on a limb for his young ward, friend, son, and brother.
we grow up with family, he said. true enough. don't we all? barring orphans and adopted children, this is par for the course.
then we come to a point in our lives when we make family for ourselves, where we choose to be with people we love and wish to be family for us for all time. ties go beyond blood and name affiliations.
oh i don't know. that caught at me. but suddenly fatigue presses heavily and my fingers can move no more.
kimi will be baptised on the 12th of february. the prospect is joy-filled. in the midst of winter, life will be celebrated. can a child be more perfect than your own? they are wonderfully and fearfully made, fitting in the fold of your arms, warm against your bosom. they are helpless in your love, dependent on your attention and support. life affirming and pure grace.
i find i can go on no more. i shall have to focus better with my entry for blogkada. we're talking about beginnings now. my entry is due to come out on my birthday. right, jay? if not, it's okay.
happy birthday to me. nog niet. vrijdag. tata.
i wanted to entitle my entry "finding forrester", just like that movie with jamal and william forrester (oh sean connery, you are too cute it's such a drag!!!). i know i mentioned this to blogkada some minutes ago and i feel the need to talk more about it in this more loose and public space. somehow.
photos arrived in my email inbox 11 hours ago and upon seeing them, i don't know, that movie moment happened. breath became suspended involuntarily, eyes misted over and thoughts started to move sluggishly, as if someone had poured a vat of molasses over everything. escape evaded me no matter how much the mind commanded me to shut the door and continue along my little mary sunshine way. of course we know that in life, things do not always turn out the way we want them to.
then i thought, i don't want to end up on google search for that same movie (not that i check my stats anyway, that, too, is a thing of the distant past --- but thank you to my loyal visitors who keep the stats alive no matter what) and thought, let's put a little spin to it, for wit and quick recall. but the alternative was too cheesy, too tacky, dicey. finding family? not again. i've been going on and on about that topic in the past entries and if by some wild chance my older brother or sister bumps into this blog (if blogs could live for a million years, and we, too, why, nothing is impossible), they will be bound to arch their coiffed eyebrows at me and flutter, "self-absorbed lara is at it again, whining about her life. grow up, when will you ever grow up?" ayayay. no na lang. hence, a weak attempt to be general and specific and literary, all experiments in futility.
in that movie, jamal felt that at the moment that he needed forrester's help the most, forrester folded and didn't come through for him. their relationship had deepend beyond words, and both were talented writers. words words words. these will be with me for always. jamal poured out his heart to forrester in one last letter. or so he thought. it was the letter that pushed forrester to go out on a limb for his young ward, friend, son, and brother.
we grow up with family, he said. true enough. don't we all? barring orphans and adopted children, this is par for the course.
then we come to a point in our lives when we make family for ourselves, where we choose to be with people we love and wish to be family for us for all time. ties go beyond blood and name affiliations.
oh i don't know. that caught at me. but suddenly fatigue presses heavily and my fingers can move no more.
kimi will be baptised on the 12th of february. the prospect is joy-filled. in the midst of winter, life will be celebrated. can a child be more perfect than your own? they are wonderfully and fearfully made, fitting in the fold of your arms, warm against your bosom. they are helpless in your love, dependent on your attention and support. life affirming and pure grace.
i find i can go on no more. i shall have to focus better with my entry for blogkada. we're talking about beginnings now. my entry is due to come out on my birthday. right, jay? if not, it's okay.
happy birthday to me. nog niet. vrijdag. tata.
18.1.06
i guess not
i prayed last night.
there is still hurt. anger. a sense of loss and betrayal. i can't help but give in to the insidious arguments that can undermine one's self-esteem. there is abandonment. loneliness.
then i realise, after all these years, in spite of our having lived under one roof, that with the weight and magnitude of their hatred in their letters to me, that... they never really loved me.
so many factors come into play but that truth stands out starkly against the melancholia of my present thoughts and feelings.
ganon pala ang pakiramdam, ano, when one comes to such a realisation. it sits quietly and solidly in one's gut and i wonder how i could have missed it all this time but always known about it.
i'm spinning in twilight zone right now.
ps: thanks, hannahlou, for that sweet sweet email...
there is still hurt. anger. a sense of loss and betrayal. i can't help but give in to the insidious arguments that can undermine one's self-esteem. there is abandonment. loneliness.
then i realise, after all these years, in spite of our having lived under one roof, that with the weight and magnitude of their hatred in their letters to me, that... they never really loved me.
so many factors come into play but that truth stands out starkly against the melancholia of my present thoughts and feelings.
ganon pala ang pakiramdam, ano, when one comes to such a realisation. it sits quietly and solidly in one's gut and i wonder how i could have missed it all this time but always known about it.
i'm spinning in twilight zone right now.
ps: thanks, hannahlou, for that sweet sweet email...
5.1.06
when you can smile at these
when you're young and you fall in love and then out of it, you swear you'll never live through the shock of pain hurt and betrayal.
when you're young you are infallible, unbeatable, invincible. nothing gets you down. life is to be conquered, no party is too wild, no drink too deep, no man too tame.
when you're young you are the most beautiful girl at the ball, the smartest chick, the coolest gal, the hippest bitch. nothing, no one, can get you down. let them try.
then one day you wake up and look through the clear glass of your apartment window and the gray skies greet you solemnly and you can't help but smile at the slew of memories that march across the overcast palette of hidden sky.
how has it come to this, that one can miss the flings of her younger years? those very same flings that rocked the foundations of all you held dear, that threatened the very fabric of your most precious existence? can it be possible to become lost in the songs that defined that irresponsible moment of foolish discovery and feel a soft longing for the cast of that story? a tale shakespeare could have himself crafted in his most perfect play, "othello", a story of greed, jealousy, lust, and the earth-shaking depths of love. as boy and girl sing in "moulin rouge", i believe in love above all, come what may, i will love you until my dying day...
i never gave it much thought, but he did love the beatles. the simple strains of "why (s)he had to go i don't know, (s)he wouldn't stay. i said something wrong how i long for yesterday..." stand the test of time, sitting collectedly among the greatest songs of all time, not just the previous century. the george harrison songs i love bring back sun-kissed beaches in mindanao when i still had a 24-inch waist and graceful flexible limbs that allowed me to float above my students' wide-eyed faces while dancing "here comes the sun" at our farewell party, or to stare at the crystal clear skies studded with a million stars, exchanging warm caresses with a boyfriend who would someday beat up his wife and leave her, a mere shadow of his former cute self, ugly, drawn, haggard, and weary with life. but the hint of a smile on my jaded lips will always hearken back to that golden time when the night wind cloaked my love in its secret folds and took me anywhere everywhere my searching questing heart yearned to go.
you can only smile at the past tragedies, the past loves, the past shadows, when you have found your own very special place in the world. until you have found your niche in the order of things, the past will be nothing but ghosts that haunt you endlessly until you have buried them in their proper places with a secure, peace-filled present. maybe that's why it took me a long time to settle down, i was too curious, too adventurous, too full of (unnecessary) questions (at times)... the one time (was it only one?) i nearly lost it all was enough to put the fear of god in my heart forever and vow NEVER ever to hurt my one true thing, the one person who means the world to me, the one person who is the One for me in this life and beyond.
if there is a tale of true love for me, it is one with the streamer above the entrance of a yellow brick road: "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". the road dives into dark woods filled with dangerous bandits and intoxicating hideaways then explodes onto golden beaches of wanton sun-tipped waves before alighting gently on fields of gold (of course sting is there to greet me at life's end) where nothing can hurt me anymore, not the traumas and stigmas of past experiences that are best left in the wooden chests of memories.
i cannot exchange my life for a more innocent one, for a more idyllic one. this present one, with all the nightmares and joys, has been tailor-made for me, though i may not have seen it at the time. am i being fatalistic? not at all. i am a firm believer in free will, i am no puppet that acts out the designs of a sadistic higher force. i am a child of the universe, born out of and in love, thrown into the tumultuous pot of self-discovery the hard way, but always, always, holding the cinnamon bottle of love tightly in my hands, so much so that it is part and parcel of who i am and always will be.
Now another wintertime has come and gone
The pigeons feeding in the square have flown
But I remember when the vespers chime
You loved me once upon a summertime...
when you're young you are infallible, unbeatable, invincible. nothing gets you down. life is to be conquered, no party is too wild, no drink too deep, no man too tame.
when you're young you are the most beautiful girl at the ball, the smartest chick, the coolest gal, the hippest bitch. nothing, no one, can get you down. let them try.
then one day you wake up and look through the clear glass of your apartment window and the gray skies greet you solemnly and you can't help but smile at the slew of memories that march across the overcast palette of hidden sky.
how has it come to this, that one can miss the flings of her younger years? those very same flings that rocked the foundations of all you held dear, that threatened the very fabric of your most precious existence? can it be possible to become lost in the songs that defined that irresponsible moment of foolish discovery and feel a soft longing for the cast of that story? a tale shakespeare could have himself crafted in his most perfect play, "othello", a story of greed, jealousy, lust, and the earth-shaking depths of love. as boy and girl sing in "moulin rouge", i believe in love above all, come what may, i will love you until my dying day...
i never gave it much thought, but he did love the beatles. the simple strains of "why (s)he had to go i don't know, (s)he wouldn't stay. i said something wrong how i long for yesterday..." stand the test of time, sitting collectedly among the greatest songs of all time, not just the previous century. the george harrison songs i love bring back sun-kissed beaches in mindanao when i still had a 24-inch waist and graceful flexible limbs that allowed me to float above my students' wide-eyed faces while dancing "here comes the sun" at our farewell party, or to stare at the crystal clear skies studded with a million stars, exchanging warm caresses with a boyfriend who would someday beat up his wife and leave her, a mere shadow of his former cute self, ugly, drawn, haggard, and weary with life. but the hint of a smile on my jaded lips will always hearken back to that golden time when the night wind cloaked my love in its secret folds and took me anywhere everywhere my searching questing heart yearned to go.
you can only smile at the past tragedies, the past loves, the past shadows, when you have found your own very special place in the world. until you have found your niche in the order of things, the past will be nothing but ghosts that haunt you endlessly until you have buried them in their proper places with a secure, peace-filled present. maybe that's why it took me a long time to settle down, i was too curious, too adventurous, too full of (unnecessary) questions (at times)... the one time (was it only one?) i nearly lost it all was enough to put the fear of god in my heart forever and vow NEVER ever to hurt my one true thing, the one person who means the world to me, the one person who is the One for me in this life and beyond.
if there is a tale of true love for me, it is one with the streamer above the entrance of a yellow brick road: "the road to hell is paved with good intentions". the road dives into dark woods filled with dangerous bandits and intoxicating hideaways then explodes onto golden beaches of wanton sun-tipped waves before alighting gently on fields of gold (of course sting is there to greet me at life's end) where nothing can hurt me anymore, not the traumas and stigmas of past experiences that are best left in the wooden chests of memories.
i cannot exchange my life for a more innocent one, for a more idyllic one. this present one, with all the nightmares and joys, has been tailor-made for me, though i may not have seen it at the time. am i being fatalistic? not at all. i am a firm believer in free will, i am no puppet that acts out the designs of a sadistic higher force. i am a child of the universe, born out of and in love, thrown into the tumultuous pot of self-discovery the hard way, but always, always, holding the cinnamon bottle of love tightly in my hands, so much so that it is part and parcel of who i am and always will be.
Now another wintertime has come and gone
The pigeons feeding in the square have flown
But I remember when the vespers chime
You loved me once upon a summertime...
4.1.06
postpartum views
after having kimi, i realise that the depression i suffered after my first pregnancy was connected to the actual mode of delivery. the CS of mikka left me feeling grossly betrayed by my doctor then. if any of you ever have a doctor named GRANADOS who holds clinic at cardinal santos memorial hospital in greenhills, and also at the swank ayala alabang medical center, stay clear of her. she is no doubt a nice person, she is very dignified and pretty, but she will not refund your philhealth and she will opt for an emergency CS even if you don't need it. i Know. i went through that with her.
she betrayed me. she knew that at all costs, i didn't want a CS yet she cut up my belly. and i spilled tears over mikka in the succeeding weeks. i was the most athletic child in my family, i was an active pregnant mom, swimming three times a week until my 32nd week, and i was athlete of the year at our university sportsfest. then this happened. i was an invalid for 6 weeks, hobbling around with a huge bandage covering the ghastly smile just above my crotch. i couldn't lift mikka at all, not even to feed him. i had to wait for someone to bring him to me. i couldn't do any exercises until the doctor had declared my muscles completely healed. i had to wait at least 2 years before conceiving again if i wanted a shot at normal delivery.
all this crushed me. no aikido. no swimming. no running.
when kimi was still in my tummy, i worried about being alone in a cold country, on my own, no yayas, no family nearby. kimi's been out for more than a week and i am still basking in the glow of his miraculous birth, the wonderful timing of his coming into the world... i am content, filled with peace, happy. if i have cried in the past few days, it's been out of petty frustrations like not being able to fix the room of the boys to look like a real boy's room. S took me to a shop earlier today and the sales have begun... we were able to purchase some maternity stuff for me which i have long hankered for and this helped dispel some of my crankiness. so nothing lasting there, no dark cloud of depression despite the biting cold. we even had to dive into a café so i could breastfeed kimi who was bawling in hunger. he even had kaka in his nappy which i changed right on the seat of the resto.
no depression for me this time, even if the same people who ignored mikka are steadfastly ignoring me now. i don't need their affirmation anymore. i guess you can say i am a much more secure lara now than i was years ago, when cretinous siblings ignored me and prioritised their friends and other family over me and left me feeling rejected. i can still remember bea chiding me gently and not so gently about this: "lara, stop tying your sense of worth to these people!!! you are lovely in your own special way and you don't need them!" bea dear, you are so right. today, i am surrounded by wonderful friends here in leuven and brussels, cyber friends are completely great (the berks top the list of course!), and real friends and family never fail to come through in momentous occasions like these.
i am now excitedly looking forward to kimi's christening this coming february. it's going to be a double celebration since i'll be celebrating my 35th birthday then. so much to be thankful and happy for in this life! :)
here's my feeling madonna moment with my son kimi...
she betrayed me. she knew that at all costs, i didn't want a CS yet she cut up my belly. and i spilled tears over mikka in the succeeding weeks. i was the most athletic child in my family, i was an active pregnant mom, swimming three times a week until my 32nd week, and i was athlete of the year at our university sportsfest. then this happened. i was an invalid for 6 weeks, hobbling around with a huge bandage covering the ghastly smile just above my crotch. i couldn't lift mikka at all, not even to feed him. i had to wait for someone to bring him to me. i couldn't do any exercises until the doctor had declared my muscles completely healed. i had to wait at least 2 years before conceiving again if i wanted a shot at normal delivery.
all this crushed me. no aikido. no swimming. no running.
when kimi was still in my tummy, i worried about being alone in a cold country, on my own, no yayas, no family nearby. kimi's been out for more than a week and i am still basking in the glow of his miraculous birth, the wonderful timing of his coming into the world... i am content, filled with peace, happy. if i have cried in the past few days, it's been out of petty frustrations like not being able to fix the room of the boys to look like a real boy's room. S took me to a shop earlier today and the sales have begun... we were able to purchase some maternity stuff for me which i have long hankered for and this helped dispel some of my crankiness. so nothing lasting there, no dark cloud of depression despite the biting cold. we even had to dive into a café so i could breastfeed kimi who was bawling in hunger. he even had kaka in his nappy which i changed right on the seat of the resto.
no depression for me this time, even if the same people who ignored mikka are steadfastly ignoring me now. i don't need their affirmation anymore. i guess you can say i am a much more secure lara now than i was years ago, when cretinous siblings ignored me and prioritised their friends and other family over me and left me feeling rejected. i can still remember bea chiding me gently and not so gently about this: "lara, stop tying your sense of worth to these people!!! you are lovely in your own special way and you don't need them!" bea dear, you are so right. today, i am surrounded by wonderful friends here in leuven and brussels, cyber friends are completely great (the berks top the list of course!), and real friends and family never fail to come through in momentous occasions like these.
i am now excitedly looking forward to kimi's christening this coming february. it's going to be a double celebration since i'll be celebrating my 35th birthday then. so much to be thankful and happy for in this life! :)
here's my feeling madonna moment with my son kimi...
31.12.05
both sides of the divide
if you were free of all medical constraints and could opt for any kind of birth you wanted, which would you choose? a cesarean section delivery or a normal vaginal birth delivery? most women will opt for the latter but there are women who will opt for the former in spite of its being a major surgery with longer healing time.
perhaps i am not asking the right question here. after all, i am not trying to introduce some kind of debate on the pro's and con's of one type of delivery over the other; i think it is pretty much obvious that if no complications ever existed in the world, no one would think of a cesarean section anyway. but i discount here the kind of woman who does not wish to experience the excruciating vaginal tearing brought on by the relentless pushing of the child down the birth canal, or an episiotomy, and think that the smiley cut on the lower part of the abdomen is the "less evil cut", as it were.
perhaps what i want to ask is, after you have experienced both kinds of deliveries, what can possibly go through your mind and heart following such experiences?
so i zone in on my own personal experiences once again and have realised that in the 5 days of my confinement at the hospital on the hill (whih is barely a 10 minute walk away from our apartment), not only can thoughts flood my mind on the differences of the two methods of delivery, but a swell of emotions as well. i can honestly say that having experienced both kinds of pain associated with each type of delivery, there is a particular pain associated with each, i daresay, and that in the balance, i would still opt for a particular kind of delivery, because of the pain that it can bring. [ano daw? shet, ang labo non a]
i have never wanted to have my abdomen cut. i always had this feeling deep in my gut that my first doctor, the one who had delivered mikka by emergency CS, had not tried out all possible options to bring mikka into the world normally. this intuition was borne out, at last, when i delivered mikka's baby brother, our christmas gift, kimi jesu, at 12:05 pm (just 5 minutes past midday!) last december 25th. you could say that he had arrived on the dot, on schedule, just as projected. just like the christ child whose coming was heralded by angel song and wondrous starlight. it was the same experience of contractions, of waiting out the slow hours for my cervix to dilate, with kimi that i had undergone with mikka. the one big difference was that with kimi, i was wide awake, with only my abdominal area numbed by the pain of the successive contractions by the greatest technological advance in child delivery, the epidural. i will swear by the wonders of this local anaesthesia until the day i die, and if given the chance to promote its use, will do so over and over again. thus, being wide awake, i was aware of everything happening, even feeling when kimi was ready to come, every contraction that told me when to push, and all the attendant tearing that came from pushing out a 3 kilo and 590 gram (nearly 8 lbs) 40-week old baby boy.
there was a rush of blood and something warm when i finally pushed the head out, my knees spread out at 180°, my entire body open to the world. then there he was, blood matted in his hair, slight down on his shoulders, his face pink, his arms and legs wrinkled like an old man's, breathing atop my belly. my first words? "you are the biggest thing i have ever shitted out..." there was a slight pause and expressions of bewilderment on the faces of S, the doctor, and midwife before they all burst into laughter. now why the hell i said that eludes me, really, for i am not a logical person. i remember an ex asking me to close my eyes while he slipped what seemed to be a wedding band on my finger, inscribed with the words, "always remember" on the eve of his departure for new york for university, and my first words of surprise being, "a wedding ring? what for? it's so loose!" if magic was meant to define that moment, then we know why he and i never worked things out, i just didn't have the proper cue words for the angels to tip over their buckets of stardust on that moment of love and commitment.
so back to my kimi... when all the shock and trauma and fatigue of waiting and pushing had passed, all that remained was a sense of wonder and awe. always and forever with me, i believe. thank you, i whispered tremulously to my God, for letting this happen. i knew i could do it the normal way, a tiny voice kept singing over and over in my heart. there kimi lay, breathing on my belly while S prepared to cut his umbilical cord with the help of the midwife (who was wearing this nose stud, and dem, was she pretty). nature is amazing, S smiled at me. my uterus started descending, and when kimi first suckled at my breast, it started to contract. 4 days after delivery, my roommate janet, this sweet woman from england who had given birth to a beautiful blonde baby girl, matilda, told me, "you look very slim already! your belly has gotten very small so quickly." perhaps i had taken this phenomenon for granted, because i had breastfed mikka, too, and his constant suckling made my uterus contract in a week's time. by the time i was released from the hospital yesterday, kimi had taken in all the colostrum meant for him and was already controlling the ducts of my breasts with his hunger cycle. it hurts, that initial suckle from a hungry newborn, but something i will never exchange for anything in the world.
if anything, breast milk is my one great gift to mikka and kimi, to have given them something that will be with them for the rest of their lives. with my milk, i hope to free them from the usual illnesses of infancy that formula milk cannot shield them from, i hope to help them in developing their digestive and respiratory systems so that their toilet training goes smoothly and they need not suffer from primary complexes or baby asthma... also, the bond between myself and my sons is irreplaceable. even if i were the stinkiest mama this part of the universe, there is at least one person (now two in my case) who will know my odour instinctively, who can find me on the darkest night by smell alone, and be reassured by the presence of that smell, be it stink or offal. hehehe i couldn't help it...
i see that little face pressed against my breast at least 8 times a day, and am able to monitor the small changes that creep across that precious countenance with the passing days.
i am rambling... i've been given another chance to be a mother in this lifetime and each experience, with mikka and kimi, has been truly life-affirming.
thank you, mikka and kimi, for blessing my life and S's, for being our precious children, for forming our little family of four. i love you both, your father above all. :)
perhaps i am not asking the right question here. after all, i am not trying to introduce some kind of debate on the pro's and con's of one type of delivery over the other; i think it is pretty much obvious that if no complications ever existed in the world, no one would think of a cesarean section anyway. but i discount here the kind of woman who does not wish to experience the excruciating vaginal tearing brought on by the relentless pushing of the child down the birth canal, or an episiotomy, and think that the smiley cut on the lower part of the abdomen is the "less evil cut", as it were.
perhaps what i want to ask is, after you have experienced both kinds of deliveries, what can possibly go through your mind and heart following such experiences?
so i zone in on my own personal experiences once again and have realised that in the 5 days of my confinement at the hospital on the hill (whih is barely a 10 minute walk away from our apartment), not only can thoughts flood my mind on the differences of the two methods of delivery, but a swell of emotions as well. i can honestly say that having experienced both kinds of pain associated with each type of delivery, there is a particular pain associated with each, i daresay, and that in the balance, i would still opt for a particular kind of delivery, because of the pain that it can bring. [ano daw? shet, ang labo non a]
i have never wanted to have my abdomen cut. i always had this feeling deep in my gut that my first doctor, the one who had delivered mikka by emergency CS, had not tried out all possible options to bring mikka into the world normally. this intuition was borne out, at last, when i delivered mikka's baby brother, our christmas gift, kimi jesu, at 12:05 pm (just 5 minutes past midday!) last december 25th. you could say that he had arrived on the dot, on schedule, just as projected. just like the christ child whose coming was heralded by angel song and wondrous starlight. it was the same experience of contractions, of waiting out the slow hours for my cervix to dilate, with kimi that i had undergone with mikka. the one big difference was that with kimi, i was wide awake, with only my abdominal area numbed by the pain of the successive contractions by the greatest technological advance in child delivery, the epidural. i will swear by the wonders of this local anaesthesia until the day i die, and if given the chance to promote its use, will do so over and over again. thus, being wide awake, i was aware of everything happening, even feeling when kimi was ready to come, every contraction that told me when to push, and all the attendant tearing that came from pushing out a 3 kilo and 590 gram (nearly 8 lbs) 40-week old baby boy.
there was a rush of blood and something warm when i finally pushed the head out, my knees spread out at 180°, my entire body open to the world. then there he was, blood matted in his hair, slight down on his shoulders, his face pink, his arms and legs wrinkled like an old man's, breathing atop my belly. my first words? "you are the biggest thing i have ever shitted out..." there was a slight pause and expressions of bewilderment on the faces of S, the doctor, and midwife before they all burst into laughter. now why the hell i said that eludes me, really, for i am not a logical person. i remember an ex asking me to close my eyes while he slipped what seemed to be a wedding band on my finger, inscribed with the words, "always remember" on the eve of his departure for new york for university, and my first words of surprise being, "a wedding ring? what for? it's so loose!" if magic was meant to define that moment, then we know why he and i never worked things out, i just didn't have the proper cue words for the angels to tip over their buckets of stardust on that moment of love and commitment.
so back to my kimi... when all the shock and trauma and fatigue of waiting and pushing had passed, all that remained was a sense of wonder and awe. always and forever with me, i believe. thank you, i whispered tremulously to my God, for letting this happen. i knew i could do it the normal way, a tiny voice kept singing over and over in my heart. there kimi lay, breathing on my belly while S prepared to cut his umbilical cord with the help of the midwife (who was wearing this nose stud, and dem, was she pretty). nature is amazing, S smiled at me. my uterus started descending, and when kimi first suckled at my breast, it started to contract. 4 days after delivery, my roommate janet, this sweet woman from england who had given birth to a beautiful blonde baby girl, matilda, told me, "you look very slim already! your belly has gotten very small so quickly." perhaps i had taken this phenomenon for granted, because i had breastfed mikka, too, and his constant suckling made my uterus contract in a week's time. by the time i was released from the hospital yesterday, kimi had taken in all the colostrum meant for him and was already controlling the ducts of my breasts with his hunger cycle. it hurts, that initial suckle from a hungry newborn, but something i will never exchange for anything in the world.
if anything, breast milk is my one great gift to mikka and kimi, to have given them something that will be with them for the rest of their lives. with my milk, i hope to free them from the usual illnesses of infancy that formula milk cannot shield them from, i hope to help them in developing their digestive and respiratory systems so that their toilet training goes smoothly and they need not suffer from primary complexes or baby asthma... also, the bond between myself and my sons is irreplaceable. even if i were the stinkiest mama this part of the universe, there is at least one person (now two in my case) who will know my odour instinctively, who can find me on the darkest night by smell alone, and be reassured by the presence of that smell, be it stink or offal. hehehe i couldn't help it...
i see that little face pressed against my breast at least 8 times a day, and am able to monitor the small changes that creep across that precious countenance with the passing days.
i am rambling... i've been given another chance to be a mother in this lifetime and each experience, with mikka and kimi, has been truly life-affirming.
thank you, mikka and kimi, for blessing my life and S's, for being our precious children, for forming our little family of four. i love you both, your father above all. :)
16.12.05
panganay moments
1. He's counting. i mean, he finally has mastered the concept that there is a one-to-one correspondence between a number and its object, so that when he counts his fingers, he can show me 6 fingers when asked for 6 fingers. he can count his clementine pieces without recounting the same pieces again and assigning it more than one number. he mastered this a month ago, but i can't help it, i'm still tickled pink by his breakthrough.
2. He knows his oppositions in terms of space. Above vs below. Right vs left. Inside vs outside. Black vs white. To be honest, he started mastering this at age 2, so when we had a parent-teacher conference two months ago, I couldn’t help but feel damn proud when his teacher told us that mikka is advanced for his age in terms of his counting skills, identication of letters, numbers, and colours. He knows animals his father taught him, he watches national geographic channel, bbc, and cnn and can identify the channel logos. Not only that, he can also identify the logos of Thalys, ICE, and local Belgian IC trains. He knows if we’re doing our groceries at Delhaize, Carrefour, or GB by simply looking at the signages of the stores. He’s fooled quite a few of his uncles at our Saturday gatherings, making them believe he can actually read. Two weeks ago, he was reading the digital display on the VCR and he identified the date, saying, “it’s 2006!” and it was. I glowed. Just that morning, mikka and I had a lesson in identifying numbers, from 10s to 100s to 1000s, and he was already applying it that evening. As for telling time, I can only teach him how to identify the hour on the hour time, simply saying, “every time the minute hand (he does know the differences among the hour, minute, and second hands on our wall clock) is on 12, it’s always an ‘o’clock’.” At this point, I can’t expect him to transform the numbers 1-12 on the clock into the minute equivalents yet. As far as he knows, those are only numbers 1-12, and not 60 minutes. That will come, but not yet.
3. He’s improving with his colouring and writing skills. I can’t get over it. To distract him from the Season 3 DVDs of ‘Alias’ S and I are avidly watching before our Sunday deadline (time is so short and it’s a great and suspenseful season! Sydney vs Lauren, talk about hot spy chicks!), I sat him down to a colouring practice session which evolved into a writing session as well. after months of seeing him bring home school work with haphazard colouring, mikka has gotten quite the hang of colouring within boundaries, so that his pictures now look neater and more… identifiable. Then out of the blue, he says, “mama, I want to write the letters I-C-E. (he’s an avid fan of the German ICE trains which we have ridden twice, the first when we went to hanau last year, and the second when we visited cologne last September). So I made him write with a blue marker on one of the pages. Grasping the marker awkwardly, I could see that he had an idea of how the C should curve, and the need to attach three horizontal parallel lines to complete his letter E. the letter I must be the easiest thing to draw so there was no difficulty for him there. Then using some of the techniques of “positive praise” that super nanny jo keeps impressing in her tutorials, I saw mikka glow bloom and thrive every time I exclaimed “excellent! You’re a great colouring boy! Woohoo!” in the beginning it was mostly theatre on my part but when I saw him struggling to write his letters on his own initiative, and his colouring showing more control, I couldn’t help but let my excitement get the better of me. The first time he showed me his coloured cow, I fervently wrote the date on the bottom of the page and ran to S with the obra maestra, gushing like crazy. At the end of our colouring and writing session, mikka was strutting around the apartment, chest puffed out, stride filled with so much confidence, while S and I laughed at his newfound sense of new learning. To the point na nga that he wants to draw and draw more, kahit pagod na ako!
Nothing really puffs up a mother’s heart more than seeing her own child blossom beneath her gaze… now if I can only think of ways to help him develop better motor skills with the scissors, because that’s what his teacher told me I could help him with at home… and in this department, I really am at a loss because I don’t know how to impart such skills to him! And by the way, I was a poor student of art in my student days. Partly due to my lack of self confidence and the trauma of having an ex-boyfriend’s mom as my art teacher, who I one day discovered had told my close friends, “lara sucks in art, I don’t know why I even bother to encourage her!” and I was part of the yearbook staff that did the layouting, and she was the moderator of that “division”. I don’t think I will ever recover from that stigma; the recollection of her plastic smile as she encouraged me with what I thought were super creative ideas while deep inside she was recoiling in horror at my work.
Which is why it takes a lot of effort on my part to really buckle down and do art work with mikka. In the beginning, S told me, after I told him exasperatedly that I couldn’t draw the planes and trains mikka demanded of me, “it doesn’t matter if you can draw it or not, dear, what matters to mikka is that you’re working with him. So even if you create these funny looking objects, just do the best you can and you’ll see, it makes mikka happy because you’re with him.” Of course I have seen the wisdom of his advice, but recently, it’s gotten a little comic when mikka tells me, “mama, that doesn’t look right, the train should be bigger.” Reminds me of the time I tried to draw the setting of a short story I was taking up with my freshman literature class years back… my students, after several minutes of trying to decipher my misshapen cows and horses, chorused, “ma’am, here’s aaron, he can really draw, maybe he can draw instead…” and since that day, I have always asked my classes, “who can draw and give me a hand?” I do so chuckle at the memory. I have crazy students --- and son!
2. He knows his oppositions in terms of space. Above vs below. Right vs left. Inside vs outside. Black vs white. To be honest, he started mastering this at age 2, so when we had a parent-teacher conference two months ago, I couldn’t help but feel damn proud when his teacher told us that mikka is advanced for his age in terms of his counting skills, identication of letters, numbers, and colours. He knows animals his father taught him, he watches national geographic channel, bbc, and cnn and can identify the channel logos. Not only that, he can also identify the logos of Thalys, ICE, and local Belgian IC trains. He knows if we’re doing our groceries at Delhaize, Carrefour, or GB by simply looking at the signages of the stores. He’s fooled quite a few of his uncles at our Saturday gatherings, making them believe he can actually read. Two weeks ago, he was reading the digital display on the VCR and he identified the date, saying, “it’s 2006!” and it was. I glowed. Just that morning, mikka and I had a lesson in identifying numbers, from 10s to 100s to 1000s, and he was already applying it that evening. As for telling time, I can only teach him how to identify the hour on the hour time, simply saying, “every time the minute hand (he does know the differences among the hour, minute, and second hands on our wall clock) is on 12, it’s always an ‘o’clock’.” At this point, I can’t expect him to transform the numbers 1-12 on the clock into the minute equivalents yet. As far as he knows, those are only numbers 1-12, and not 60 minutes. That will come, but not yet.
3. He’s improving with his colouring and writing skills. I can’t get over it. To distract him from the Season 3 DVDs of ‘Alias’ S and I are avidly watching before our Sunday deadline (time is so short and it’s a great and suspenseful season! Sydney vs Lauren, talk about hot spy chicks!), I sat him down to a colouring practice session which evolved into a writing session as well. after months of seeing him bring home school work with haphazard colouring, mikka has gotten quite the hang of colouring within boundaries, so that his pictures now look neater and more… identifiable. Then out of the blue, he says, “mama, I want to write the letters I-C-E. (he’s an avid fan of the German ICE trains which we have ridden twice, the first when we went to hanau last year, and the second when we visited cologne last September). So I made him write with a blue marker on one of the pages. Grasping the marker awkwardly, I could see that he had an idea of how the C should curve, and the need to attach three horizontal parallel lines to complete his letter E. the letter I must be the easiest thing to draw so there was no difficulty for him there. Then using some of the techniques of “positive praise” that super nanny jo keeps impressing in her tutorials, I saw mikka glow bloom and thrive every time I exclaimed “excellent! You’re a great colouring boy! Woohoo!” in the beginning it was mostly theatre on my part but when I saw him struggling to write his letters on his own initiative, and his colouring showing more control, I couldn’t help but let my excitement get the better of me. The first time he showed me his coloured cow, I fervently wrote the date on the bottom of the page and ran to S with the obra maestra, gushing like crazy. At the end of our colouring and writing session, mikka was strutting around the apartment, chest puffed out, stride filled with so much confidence, while S and I laughed at his newfound sense of new learning. To the point na nga that he wants to draw and draw more, kahit pagod na ako!
Nothing really puffs up a mother’s heart more than seeing her own child blossom beneath her gaze… now if I can only think of ways to help him develop better motor skills with the scissors, because that’s what his teacher told me I could help him with at home… and in this department, I really am at a loss because I don’t know how to impart such skills to him! And by the way, I was a poor student of art in my student days. Partly due to my lack of self confidence and the trauma of having an ex-boyfriend’s mom as my art teacher, who I one day discovered had told my close friends, “lara sucks in art, I don’t know why I even bother to encourage her!” and I was part of the yearbook staff that did the layouting, and she was the moderator of that “division”. I don’t think I will ever recover from that stigma; the recollection of her plastic smile as she encouraged me with what I thought were super creative ideas while deep inside she was recoiling in horror at my work.
Which is why it takes a lot of effort on my part to really buckle down and do art work with mikka. In the beginning, S told me, after I told him exasperatedly that I couldn’t draw the planes and trains mikka demanded of me, “it doesn’t matter if you can draw it or not, dear, what matters to mikka is that you’re working with him. So even if you create these funny looking objects, just do the best you can and you’ll see, it makes mikka happy because you’re with him.” Of course I have seen the wisdom of his advice, but recently, it’s gotten a little comic when mikka tells me, “mama, that doesn’t look right, the train should be bigger.” Reminds me of the time I tried to draw the setting of a short story I was taking up with my freshman literature class years back… my students, after several minutes of trying to decipher my misshapen cows and horses, chorused, “ma’am, here’s aaron, he can really draw, maybe he can draw instead…” and since that day, I have always asked my classes, “who can draw and give me a hand?” I do so chuckle at the memory. I have crazy students --- and son!
9.12.05
another astrud moment
there is this one song of astrud i simply love with these lyrics:
who can i turn to when nobody needs me?
my heart wants to know
and so i must go where destiny leads me
with no star to guide me
and no one beside me
i'll go on my own and after the day
the darkness will hide me
and maybe tomorrow
i'll find what i'm after
i'll throw off my sorrow
beg, steal and borrow
my share of laughter
with you i could learn to begin on a new day
but who can i turn to if you turn away?
i used to sing this when i was single and S had not yet come into my life and transformed it into this colourful and meaningful tapestry of what true joy is. in so many ways, S has stilled my heart from so many traumas of the past but some things never go away, either.
here's one for the books: who can you turn to when your own flesh and blood spurn you? perhaps it is folly on my part to believe that i can let my hair loose in the presence of people i grew up with, with whom my DNA pattern is practically similar, hoping that since we're all past the age of 30, some unpredictable factors can come into play and hopefully, be forgiven?
in the tv series LOST, locke has resigned himself to a life on the island, isolated, apart from the life he knew, while other people like michael want nothing more than to get back the life they used to have so that they can forge a new tomorrow, their hearts always filled with hope.
in many ways, i am trapped between the wishes of michael and locke, and after a very revealing exchange with people i love over cyberspace, i realised that maybe, just maybe, the time has come for me to cross over to locke's philosophy and forget that i did have a past, that i did have a dream of some day belonging, of some day no longer having to be KSP with my own family, of some day no longer having to bear yet another moment the debilitating stereotypes of my childhood.
it is one thing to idealise relationships, and another to come face to face with certain truths, such as: no matter how much you change, no matter how far you've come, no matter how much you have gained in years and wisdom, the very people you love and wish to share all your life's discoveries, your own family, can be the ones who will not see your gains, who will choose to see only what they want to see, and forever box you into their impressions and opinions of you from time long gone.
if there is one thing my being in belgium has taught me, it is this: that family is important, even if it hurts to reach out to people who will not reach back to you across the miles, not even the cyber miles. i refuse to believe that this is payback time for sins of the past because if there's one thing i want to break in my family history, it's all the shit of previous generations being handed down to us, draped over us like a default hole-ridden ozone layer about which we can do nothing. right now i'm licking my wounds from the rejection dealt me by my own brothers and sister, but i know that this, too, will pass.
i'm in an island, cast out at sea, true, but i'm not Lost, not like locke and the other passengers on that ill-fated oceanic flight from sydney to los angeles. i know from where i have come, i know where i am right now, and i do NOT know where i will eventually end up, but i am not afraid of the journey before me.
there is a weight in my chest right now, because i would like to share my pain with others, and my first choice is to share it with my siblings, but if they will not be there for me, then as the cliché goes, if a door closes somewhere, god opens a window elsewhere. and in just a matter of hours, little peepholes have opened not just a crack but wide open, casting warm sunlight on my wet cheeks and teasing me with a view of beautiful blue skies.
the path before me lies half in mist, half in sunshine. each unturned stone shivers with promise and the chill snaking its way beneath my scarf promises pockets of joy yet to discover, even if it means being on my own. sometimes, all you need is the rest of the world to realise that family can be just a construct we can tie around an oak tree for posterity.
so who can i turn to if you turn away? the answer is not clear-cut but i can see it basking in the soft winter glow: there is someone out there who loves you, and that's all that matters. i can feel his hand massaging my heart gently and already my life is settling nicely into a new groove. for yet another adventure.
who can i turn to when nobody needs me?
my heart wants to know
and so i must go where destiny leads me
with no star to guide me
and no one beside me
i'll go on my own and after the day
the darkness will hide me
and maybe tomorrow
i'll find what i'm after
i'll throw off my sorrow
beg, steal and borrow
my share of laughter
with you i could learn to begin on a new day
but who can i turn to if you turn away?
i used to sing this when i was single and S had not yet come into my life and transformed it into this colourful and meaningful tapestry of what true joy is. in so many ways, S has stilled my heart from so many traumas of the past but some things never go away, either.
here's one for the books: who can you turn to when your own flesh and blood spurn you? perhaps it is folly on my part to believe that i can let my hair loose in the presence of people i grew up with, with whom my DNA pattern is practically similar, hoping that since we're all past the age of 30, some unpredictable factors can come into play and hopefully, be forgiven?
in the tv series LOST, locke has resigned himself to a life on the island, isolated, apart from the life he knew, while other people like michael want nothing more than to get back the life they used to have so that they can forge a new tomorrow, their hearts always filled with hope.
in many ways, i am trapped between the wishes of michael and locke, and after a very revealing exchange with people i love over cyberspace, i realised that maybe, just maybe, the time has come for me to cross over to locke's philosophy and forget that i did have a past, that i did have a dream of some day belonging, of some day no longer having to be KSP with my own family, of some day no longer having to bear yet another moment the debilitating stereotypes of my childhood.
it is one thing to idealise relationships, and another to come face to face with certain truths, such as: no matter how much you change, no matter how far you've come, no matter how much you have gained in years and wisdom, the very people you love and wish to share all your life's discoveries, your own family, can be the ones who will not see your gains, who will choose to see only what they want to see, and forever box you into their impressions and opinions of you from time long gone.
if there is one thing my being in belgium has taught me, it is this: that family is important, even if it hurts to reach out to people who will not reach back to you across the miles, not even the cyber miles. i refuse to believe that this is payback time for sins of the past because if there's one thing i want to break in my family history, it's all the shit of previous generations being handed down to us, draped over us like a default hole-ridden ozone layer about which we can do nothing. right now i'm licking my wounds from the rejection dealt me by my own brothers and sister, but i know that this, too, will pass.
i'm in an island, cast out at sea, true, but i'm not Lost, not like locke and the other passengers on that ill-fated oceanic flight from sydney to los angeles. i know from where i have come, i know where i am right now, and i do NOT know where i will eventually end up, but i am not afraid of the journey before me.
there is a weight in my chest right now, because i would like to share my pain with others, and my first choice is to share it with my siblings, but if they will not be there for me, then as the cliché goes, if a door closes somewhere, god opens a window elsewhere. and in just a matter of hours, little peepholes have opened not just a crack but wide open, casting warm sunlight on my wet cheeks and teasing me with a view of beautiful blue skies.
the path before me lies half in mist, half in sunshine. each unturned stone shivers with promise and the chill snaking its way beneath my scarf promises pockets of joy yet to discover, even if it means being on my own. sometimes, all you need is the rest of the world to realise that family can be just a construct we can tie around an oak tree for posterity.
so who can i turn to if you turn away? the answer is not clear-cut but i can see it basking in the soft winter glow: there is someone out there who loves you, and that's all that matters. i can feel his hand massaging my heart gently and already my life is settling nicely into a new groove. for yet another adventure.
26.11.05
advent begins
tomorrow the church officially begins the 3-week liturgical period of advent, the time of waiting for christ's coming.
in two days, baby center will tell me i'm 36 weeks along. kimi jesu will be full term by then, and we --- S, mikka, and myself --- have a 4-week, plus or minus, advent for the newest member of our family.
thank god he'll be born in europe, where people will not wonder too much why he has a "girly" name. i'm hoping that there will be more who will recognise that his and his older brother's names derive from formula one finnish race car drivers, mika hakkinen and kimi raikkonen. if i have yet another child... let's say, a girl... maybe i'll take the name of that american babe making waves in race car driving, danica patrick. (thanks, jing, for the update! as of dec 9 2005)
this is the greatest gift of all. kimi, we're waiting.
in two days, baby center will tell me i'm 36 weeks along. kimi jesu will be full term by then, and we --- S, mikka, and myself --- have a 4-week, plus or minus, advent for the newest member of our family.
thank god he'll be born in europe, where people will not wonder too much why he has a "girly" name. i'm hoping that there will be more who will recognise that his and his older brother's names derive from formula one finnish race car drivers, mika hakkinen and kimi raikkonen. if i have yet another child... let's say, a girl... maybe i'll take the name of that american babe making waves in race car driving, danica patrick. (thanks, jing, for the update! as of dec 9 2005)
this is the greatest gift of all. kimi, we're waiting.
2.11.05
a night with chito tagle
down-to-earth. charming. warm. intelligent. sensible. perceptive.
being with bishop chito tagle of imus, cavite, last night at a gathering of pinoy students and their friends was a very pleasant experience for me.
plus it reminds me that there really ARE cool priests.
i really like him. ever since he officiated a mass for us at our JVP 10-year reunion 4 years ago, i have been hooked. what a great man!
blessing, indeed.
being with bishop chito tagle of imus, cavite, last night at a gathering of pinoy students and their friends was a very pleasant experience for me.
plus it reminds me that there really ARE cool priests.
i really like him. ever since he officiated a mass for us at our JVP 10-year reunion 4 years ago, i have been hooked. what a great man!
blessing, indeed.
27.10.05
happy happy thoughts
happy happy happy happy thoughts... talk about things you like to do... you got to have a dream, or you won't have a dream, how you gonna make a dream come true? --- from south pacific
yesterday morning i was walking home after bringing mikka to school. when we leave for school, the streets are still in semi-darkness, the moon sharing the sky with the coming sun (sounds like a fusion of miss saigon and beatles). on my way back, the sky has lightened to a pale blue and barring those ubiquitous clouds, sunlight touches little leuven with soft glowy hues.
autumn is here, despite the unusually high temperatures of the last two weeks. perhaps my pregnancy helps keep my body warmer than the usual, but i am content to just pull on a cotton shirt and a fleece pullover with my mom's delish cargo pants while walking through the chill early morning rush. the leaves strewn all over the path form a soft, chaotic cushion beneath my feet. reminds me of a poem i have drawn into the folds of memory by ezra pound, a poem i write in the middle of the board when i begin the module on 'imagism', a brief but favorite period of 20th century poetry:
the images of these faces in a crowd:
petals on a wet, black bough.
i usually meet parents from neighbouring apartments walking their children to school, and yesterday this thought gave me a luscious thrill: "it must still be early because i've already brought my kid to school and they're just about to bring theirs." i walked into our apartment with a silly grin plastered on my face. i had to shake myself to unwind my arms from around my body. S looked at me quizzically.
i will never get over the thrill of being a mom. of actually being one. my friends back home don't know me as a mom, only as this carefree single with wild thoughts and ways.
i stare at mikka every night while he sleeps and shower his soft, round face with kisses. he Knows he is my angel; there will come a day when he Will say, i know, "ma, ok, ok, i've heard you! talk to the haaannnddddd..." when i whisper our special night prayer in his ears, his body becomes pliant in my arms and he lays his head on my round belly, embracing his little brother.
this morning i kept jabbing my tummy with my pointer while asking mikka, "who else does mama love aside from mikka and papa?" i wanted to hear him say his brother's name. instead he remonstrated me with, "mama, don't hurt kimi!" oopsy, ok, son, sorrreeee.
keep that sun streaming through my windows, please. it makes for happier moments. the grass below our balcony is covered in a blanket of yellow. makes me want to throw myself smack center and roll around until i'm a jaundiced mummy. the thick green trees that greeted me upon my arrival a month ago are a bit skinnier now, and not so green anymore. it's sunshiney colours on every leaf tip. the street cleaners are clogged with the merry dropping of leaves cavorting in the air before they take their soggy places on the curb.
yesterday morning i was walking home after bringing mikka to school. when we leave for school, the streets are still in semi-darkness, the moon sharing the sky with the coming sun (sounds like a fusion of miss saigon and beatles). on my way back, the sky has lightened to a pale blue and barring those ubiquitous clouds, sunlight touches little leuven with soft glowy hues.
autumn is here, despite the unusually high temperatures of the last two weeks. perhaps my pregnancy helps keep my body warmer than the usual, but i am content to just pull on a cotton shirt and a fleece pullover with my mom's delish cargo pants while walking through the chill early morning rush. the leaves strewn all over the path form a soft, chaotic cushion beneath my feet. reminds me of a poem i have drawn into the folds of memory by ezra pound, a poem i write in the middle of the board when i begin the module on 'imagism', a brief but favorite period of 20th century poetry:
petals on a wet, black bough.
i usually meet parents from neighbouring apartments walking their children to school, and yesterday this thought gave me a luscious thrill: "it must still be early because i've already brought my kid to school and they're just about to bring theirs." i walked into our apartment with a silly grin plastered on my face. i had to shake myself to unwind my arms from around my body. S looked at me quizzically.
i will never get over the thrill of being a mom. of actually being one. my friends back home don't know me as a mom, only as this carefree single with wild thoughts and ways.
i stare at mikka every night while he sleeps and shower his soft, round face with kisses. he Knows he is my angel; there will come a day when he Will say, i know, "ma, ok, ok, i've heard you! talk to the haaannnddddd..." when i whisper our special night prayer in his ears, his body becomes pliant in my arms and he lays his head on my round belly, embracing his little brother.
this morning i kept jabbing my tummy with my pointer while asking mikka, "who else does mama love aside from mikka and papa?" i wanted to hear him say his brother's name. instead he remonstrated me with, "mama, don't hurt kimi!" oopsy, ok, son, sorrreeee.
keep that sun streaming through my windows, please. it makes for happier moments. the grass below our balcony is covered in a blanket of yellow. makes me want to throw myself smack center and roll around until i'm a jaundiced mummy. the thick green trees that greeted me upon my arrival a month ago are a bit skinnier now, and not so green anymore. it's sunshiney colours on every leaf tip. the street cleaners are clogged with the merry dropping of leaves cavorting in the air before they take their soggy places on the curb.
17.10.05
tidbits
they say big things come in little packages. and so they do.
S and i stumbled on this quaint secondhand shop for baby clothes and stuff yesterday. i've been here for nearly two years and i never noticed it! it just wasn't my kind of thing then, i suppose. funny what need does to you.
so anyhow, the stuff in there were pretty cool quality, not like the stuff i remember seeing at SPIT or OXFAM, where you could still smell the body odour on the clothes. sure, i got one cool adidas sports jacket for only £1 back in '97 but i had to launder it to rid myself of the fear of inheriting any anghit or what-have-you. and the prices. sooo reasonable it made me want to snap things up.
S did allow me to snap up a MAYA SLING WRAP, the kind i have been dying to get from my relatives. the bonus thing was that it was brand new, and sold at secondhand price!!! if you check out this link, the fabric i got mine in was # 39, a deep rich burgundy with multi-coloured stripes. we got it at a relatively good price, considering that with shipping and VAT, that wrap would have come up to be around 60€, while we got it for only 29€. i'm just happy i have the sling; i even practised wearing it, in spite of the big belly. i have gained around 7 kilograms since my pregnancy, approximately 15 pounds.
then today, three sweet girls gifted me with stuff for kimi: you already know about what V lent me (crib, baby carrier, steriliser); there was a bag of some clothes, socks, and toys from M1, then 2 bigger bags of clothes and beddings from M2... i was thinking, life is great. thank you, lord!!!
then i got to talk to my mom via skype, and am in constant communication with my preggy older sister, all about baby related stuff... and things are just swell.
never mind that someone i knew from the philippines knifed me in the back over music-related matters, or that el shaddai, the choir i teach in brussels (come to think of it, not even a recognised chapter of el shaddai, ha!), have been doing some dirty politicking with me and my husband. i did cry for a while but chatting with my best friend and another good friend from brussels who dropped by unexpectedly has lifted my spirits. considerably so!!!
the little things count. they really do.
S and i stumbled on this quaint secondhand shop for baby clothes and stuff yesterday. i've been here for nearly two years and i never noticed it! it just wasn't my kind of thing then, i suppose. funny what need does to you.
so anyhow, the stuff in there were pretty cool quality, not like the stuff i remember seeing at SPIT or OXFAM, where you could still smell the body odour on the clothes. sure, i got one cool adidas sports jacket for only £1 back in '97 but i had to launder it to rid myself of the fear of inheriting any anghit or what-have-you. and the prices. sooo reasonable it made me want to snap things up.
S did allow me to snap up a MAYA SLING WRAP, the kind i have been dying to get from my relatives. the bonus thing was that it was brand new, and sold at secondhand price!!! if you check out this link, the fabric i got mine in was # 39, a deep rich burgundy with multi-coloured stripes. we got it at a relatively good price, considering that with shipping and VAT, that wrap would have come up to be around 60€, while we got it for only 29€. i'm just happy i have the sling; i even practised wearing it, in spite of the big belly. i have gained around 7 kilograms since my pregnancy, approximately 15 pounds.
then today, three sweet girls gifted me with stuff for kimi: you already know about what V lent me (crib, baby carrier, steriliser); there was a bag of some clothes, socks, and toys from M1, then 2 bigger bags of clothes and beddings from M2... i was thinking, life is great. thank you, lord!!!
then i got to talk to my mom via skype, and am in constant communication with my preggy older sister, all about baby related stuff... and things are just swell.
never mind that someone i knew from the philippines knifed me in the back over music-related matters, or that el shaddai, the choir i teach in brussels (come to think of it, not even a recognised chapter of el shaddai, ha!), have been doing some dirty politicking with me and my husband. i did cry for a while but chatting with my best friend and another good friend from brussels who dropped by unexpectedly has lifted my spirits. considerably so!!!
the little things count. they really do.
13.10.05
feels unique, only it isn't
wherever i look or turn, i see hordes of people with super duper close family ties.
i have never related to such closeness. the only close family i have is my younger brother. and his wife, who is like a really cool younger sister. my first cousin used to be my best friend but we drifted apart after high school, more her choice than mine. can't blame her, though. she was surrounded by people who kept comparing the two of us. little does she know that my mom, older sister and older brother treat her much better than they do me, so it's par for the course.
it eats me up when these tiny voices of expectation whisper in my ear sweet tempting promises of support. "wouldn't it be nice if..." "what if, for one eensy day, they would show they cared..."
there was mass this evening at the holy spirit chapel. there was a woman there who reminds me of my mom, simply because she keeps me at a distance, the only married student and mother there, while the whole flock of singles are her adopted children. makes me want to cry out, "being married and a mother does not exempt me from needing a mother, dammmmitttt".
then this beautiful offertory song took hold of me with these lyrics, "panginoon, turuan mo akong maging bukas palad... turuan mo akong maglingkod sa iyo... na magbigay ng ayon sa nararapat... na walang hinihintay mula sa 'yo..." [translation: lord, teach me to be generous, teach me to serve you as i should, to give and not to count the cost, to labor and ask not for reward...]
i stared at my palms lying on my lap, just beneath the swollen abdomen cradling kimi within. i so look for them, i thought, i yearn for their love and their support yet it eludes me. so be it. there are other windows through which light and love enter.
during the sign of peace, i wandered among fellow students, kissing and embracing them. my former philosophy teacher, the one who had sent me a sweet mother's day card months before, laid her hand gently on my belly and whispered, "peace to the little one, too." i nearly let a tear slip past. someone had remembered my little kimi. just one, but it meant the world to me.
after mass, i shot my husband a plaintive look to stay just a while longer. i told him, "i want to taste the food they prepared for us..." he didn't look pleased and kept telling me to go home on my own. then mikka, amidst protests from his dad and the other grown ups, took a container of nuts and offered them to me, saying, "let mama eat." my baby, my angel. another tear threatened.
earlier today, V from brussels, a girl with no papers, rang me and comforted me, telling me that she would gift me with some baby stuff for kimi. she is already providing me with a crib, a baby carrier, and a bottle steriliser. i told her, "i'm speechless. these are truly blessings..." and she teased me with, "blessings come to nice people. like you." i chuckled at her sweetness. can it be true? another woman, also without papers, will drop off baby clothes for winter at V's house for pick-up this saturday. so many blessings. so much that it enabled me to share the same things with my pregnant older sister back in the philippines. i told my sister, "i know how it is to be a 'new' mother (this is her 4th pregnancy, but this comes nearly 10 years after the previous one so she feels like a first-time mom again) and to have these things offered is truly grace." if i have to share the bounty in my life, i would like to share it with people i love and who are of my blood.
but that's just me, i guess. the tears have run their course again and the heart is in a strangely calm place. as it always is after a storm.
isn't it strange to feel utterly invisible, especially when you know you've swallowed a bowling ball and no one even acknowledges the many changes taking place in your life? if i stop looking for them, i will see the blessings god plants in the beautiful garden of life, feel the raindrops of love he showers on me each day, bringing life from places i never imagined existed. always teaching me to See, teaching me where to Look and become truly Joyful.
i have never related to such closeness. the only close family i have is my younger brother. and his wife, who is like a really cool younger sister. my first cousin used to be my best friend but we drifted apart after high school, more her choice than mine. can't blame her, though. she was surrounded by people who kept comparing the two of us. little does she know that my mom, older sister and older brother treat her much better than they do me, so it's par for the course.
it eats me up when these tiny voices of expectation whisper in my ear sweet tempting promises of support. "wouldn't it be nice if..." "what if, for one eensy day, they would show they cared..."
there was mass this evening at the holy spirit chapel. there was a woman there who reminds me of my mom, simply because she keeps me at a distance, the only married student and mother there, while the whole flock of singles are her adopted children. makes me want to cry out, "being married and a mother does not exempt me from needing a mother, dammmmitttt".
then this beautiful offertory song took hold of me with these lyrics, "panginoon, turuan mo akong maging bukas palad... turuan mo akong maglingkod sa iyo... na magbigay ng ayon sa nararapat... na walang hinihintay mula sa 'yo..." [translation: lord, teach me to be generous, teach me to serve you as i should, to give and not to count the cost, to labor and ask not for reward...]
i stared at my palms lying on my lap, just beneath the swollen abdomen cradling kimi within. i so look for them, i thought, i yearn for their love and their support yet it eludes me. so be it. there are other windows through which light and love enter.
during the sign of peace, i wandered among fellow students, kissing and embracing them. my former philosophy teacher, the one who had sent me a sweet mother's day card months before, laid her hand gently on my belly and whispered, "peace to the little one, too." i nearly let a tear slip past. someone had remembered my little kimi. just one, but it meant the world to me.
after mass, i shot my husband a plaintive look to stay just a while longer. i told him, "i want to taste the food they prepared for us..." he didn't look pleased and kept telling me to go home on my own. then mikka, amidst protests from his dad and the other grown ups, took a container of nuts and offered them to me, saying, "let mama eat." my baby, my angel. another tear threatened.
earlier today, V from brussels, a girl with no papers, rang me and comforted me, telling me that she would gift me with some baby stuff for kimi. she is already providing me with a crib, a baby carrier, and a bottle steriliser. i told her, "i'm speechless. these are truly blessings..." and she teased me with, "blessings come to nice people. like you." i chuckled at her sweetness. can it be true? another woman, also without papers, will drop off baby clothes for winter at V's house for pick-up this saturday. so many blessings. so much that it enabled me to share the same things with my pregnant older sister back in the philippines. i told my sister, "i know how it is to be a 'new' mother (this is her 4th pregnancy, but this comes nearly 10 years after the previous one so she feels like a first-time mom again) and to have these things offered is truly grace." if i have to share the bounty in my life, i would like to share it with people i love and who are of my blood.
but that's just me, i guess. the tears have run their course again and the heart is in a strangely calm place. as it always is after a storm.
isn't it strange to feel utterly invisible, especially when you know you've swallowed a bowling ball and no one even acknowledges the many changes taking place in your life? if i stop looking for them, i will see the blessings god plants in the beautiful garden of life, feel the raindrops of love he showers on me each day, bringing life from places i never imagined existed. always teaching me to See, teaching me where to Look and become truly Joyful.
9.10.05
one of those days
it's a typically cloudy today, the kind belgium is (in)famous for.
it's the time of day that is also most peaceful. husband and son are taking a nap and it's quiet in the apartment.
you can hear yourself think and sometimes you wish you couldn't.
baby kimi gets ever bigger and more malikot in my tummy. it takes me 5 minutes to find a comfortable position on the couch and i spend all night on my left side. if i'm unlucky, my left hip will be a little sore the next day.
out there in the world are a host of female friends and relatives i desperately seek but don't know how to reach. just because. just one person, even gay, to whom i can cling for a moment and let out my fears and frustrations about the coming caesarean section i am bound to have, the helpless post-partum days of healing, and praying that i, we, will be able to provide for baby kimi in the winter months.
thank god for little blessings. when i look out my bedroom window, i see trees in the distance, and the tops are now changing colour. i see remnants of the summer budding in some yellow blossoms, then the more autumnal presence of the light orange and brittle yellow of leaves on the fringe, ready to fall with the slightest wind, and on one tree alone, dark red leaves weighing down the pine-like branches.
i wish i could banish my fears and trepidations. i can recall that the only way i could mask my fear in the past was by talking to someone about it. i did throw my thoughts on the table today, after lunch, and got sticky warm hugs from my eldest son (forever angel) and husband. thank god for the little serendipitous things.
now it's time to put on blinders and not look elsewhere for relief and comfort. it drives my spirit down when i think that way but i can't help it sometimes. i remember the post-partum depression i underwent with my firstborn and i know that this really happens. and i was in social philippines that time. my cousin visited me in the first week, as did my aunt, and some co-teachers from ateneo. then silence for weeks on end while the CS gash in my abdomen healed ever so slowly. i hobbled around for days, wondering if my guts would spill out.
there's a brown bird struggling among the yellow and green leaves of the tallest tree in the distance. two black birds streak across the pale sky above him, oblivious to his plight.
it's the time of day that is also most peaceful. husband and son are taking a nap and it's quiet in the apartment.
you can hear yourself think and sometimes you wish you couldn't.
baby kimi gets ever bigger and more malikot in my tummy. it takes me 5 minutes to find a comfortable position on the couch and i spend all night on my left side. if i'm unlucky, my left hip will be a little sore the next day.
out there in the world are a host of female friends and relatives i desperately seek but don't know how to reach. just because. just one person, even gay, to whom i can cling for a moment and let out my fears and frustrations about the coming caesarean section i am bound to have, the helpless post-partum days of healing, and praying that i, we, will be able to provide for baby kimi in the winter months.
thank god for little blessings. when i look out my bedroom window, i see trees in the distance, and the tops are now changing colour. i see remnants of the summer budding in some yellow blossoms, then the more autumnal presence of the light orange and brittle yellow of leaves on the fringe, ready to fall with the slightest wind, and on one tree alone, dark red leaves weighing down the pine-like branches.
i wish i could banish my fears and trepidations. i can recall that the only way i could mask my fear in the past was by talking to someone about it. i did throw my thoughts on the table today, after lunch, and got sticky warm hugs from my eldest son (forever angel) and husband. thank god for the little serendipitous things.
now it's time to put on blinders and not look elsewhere for relief and comfort. it drives my spirit down when i think that way but i can't help it sometimes. i remember the post-partum depression i underwent with my firstborn and i know that this really happens. and i was in social philippines that time. my cousin visited me in the first week, as did my aunt, and some co-teachers from ateneo. then silence for weeks on end while the CS gash in my abdomen healed ever so slowly. i hobbled around for days, wondering if my guts would spill out.
there's a brown bird struggling among the yellow and green leaves of the tallest tree in the distance. two black birds streak across the pale sky above him, oblivious to his plight.
8.10.05
father who?
i've been watching presumably older episodes of "the practice" and the last two i saw showed eugene lashing at the catholic church.
some days ago, my family and i were enjoying late afternoon tea in the studio flat of a friend who lives in the building block just across from ours. we were joined by another friend who lived a few doors down from the studio. both of them are priests.
as a catholic, i admitted to them that such shows where there is catholic-church bashing leaves me sad and yet resigned. i personally know many great catholics, whether religious or lay, and to see the church maligned 'across the board', as it were, hurts me. after all, i AM a catholic, and although i can see that there are really some jerky catholics, i can say the same for other people of other religions.
and it dawned on me, like a sunrise, or a creeping shadow as dusk falls softly around me, unnoticed but inescapably present. the stupid mistakes you commit, the silly things you do, will inevitably be tied to your affiliations, the most glaring of which is the religious one.
so when i do something "un-christian", i am bearing negative witness to my faith. makes sense. after all, religions claim a particular brand of lifestyle and lifestyle can only be concretely manifested through acts. this sounds like i'm stating the obvious but can i overdo such a proclamation? it seems that even the most learned among us neglect this deceptively simple truth, for truth it is, and fact, and hard bite of reality.
it is worse for priests. they stand above all other catholics, as beacons and supposedly good representatives of the faith. these figures, much hated in the west but still loved and adored in developing countries, are the principal figures of catholicism. for the lascivious acts of horny, depraved, or perverted men in frock, the entire vocation of the presbyterate is under fire. especially since the most celebrated and public cases come from libel-hungry, media-exaggerating US of A. where else, right?
let's take some pinoy priests i happen to know, and with whom i have had contact that went beyond the "bless me, father, for i have sinned" or "father, hello, need your blessing!" niceties. in the past year, more especially when my pregnancy started kicking in, baby kimi helped me to overcome (initially overlook) the excesses and little irritating acts of what seemed like an elitist group of priests who were looking out only for their own interests. freed from their pastoral duties here in europe, they flit from one filipino community to another, welcomed with much warmth and alacrity by people who hardly have contact with priests in their abroad existence, and eagerly seek the personal and unique touch of a pinoy priest. this goes all very well for everyone involved except that there are some instances of really spoiled behaviour from some of them, who Expect their needs to be served. although their numbers are few, their actions stand out glaringly on people like me, and grate completely on the nerves. (if you want specific examples, email me and i will gladly enumerate, but for this blog, it will obscure my pièce de resistance, hence, the glossing over)
last night, i watched in horrified fascination as this particular priest manifested the worst kinds of behaviour that i would like to coin in the following ways: Sucking Up, Speaking Over Others, and Bullshitting Tactics.
grabe, pari ka man din. at ganyan kang umasta. people like me don't blindly accept the words of priests, especially when they're not saying mass --- and even if they are --- as gospel truth. i don't know what it is in my background that enables me to see them as ordinary human beings who have to slug it out in intellectual and emotional circles like the rest of us ordinary folk in the world, butthat's how i am. i was educated in a jesuit university and was lucky enough to have steered clear of those priests who had their fan club following of enamoured students and campus ministers, and got to know cool priests who didn't throw their weight around as though they had the right to do so.
this priest, a phd student, prides himself in his sharp mental capacities and articulate use of english. i've read some of his work and listened to him give homilies, both in tagalog and english, and have found him to be rather flowery and excessive in his use of either language. but i don't take that against him. people are entitled to their Romantic tendencies of embellishments and curlicues. i have sat with this priest and told him some of my hurts, confiding in him as a friend, and have seen how he mocked that moment of vulnerability and spread nasty jokes to another priest about that supposedly private session. i have seen through him and i can tell you, dear reader, that with a priest like him, i am privately glad that there is so much animosity in the west against his kind, and understand why the sutana he so proudly donned on his ordination day is sullied by liberal thought.
he is one of many i have personally encountered, but i have singled him out in this entry for the plain reason that he eagerly embraced all the negative attributes of any human being and manifested them in a short period of time. can't apologise for my thoughts and feelings, fr. ______.
father who?
some days ago, my family and i were enjoying late afternoon tea in the studio flat of a friend who lives in the building block just across from ours. we were joined by another friend who lived a few doors down from the studio. both of them are priests.
as a catholic, i admitted to them that such shows where there is catholic-church bashing leaves me sad and yet resigned. i personally know many great catholics, whether religious or lay, and to see the church maligned 'across the board', as it were, hurts me. after all, i AM a catholic, and although i can see that there are really some jerky catholics, i can say the same for other people of other religions.
and it dawned on me, like a sunrise, or a creeping shadow as dusk falls softly around me, unnoticed but inescapably present. the stupid mistakes you commit, the silly things you do, will inevitably be tied to your affiliations, the most glaring of which is the religious one.
so when i do something "un-christian", i am bearing negative witness to my faith. makes sense. after all, religions claim a particular brand of lifestyle and lifestyle can only be concretely manifested through acts. this sounds like i'm stating the obvious but can i overdo such a proclamation? it seems that even the most learned among us neglect this deceptively simple truth, for truth it is, and fact, and hard bite of reality.
it is worse for priests. they stand above all other catholics, as beacons and supposedly good representatives of the faith. these figures, much hated in the west but still loved and adored in developing countries, are the principal figures of catholicism. for the lascivious acts of horny, depraved, or perverted men in frock, the entire vocation of the presbyterate is under fire. especially since the most celebrated and public cases come from libel-hungry, media-exaggerating US of A. where else, right?
let's take some pinoy priests i happen to know, and with whom i have had contact that went beyond the "bless me, father, for i have sinned" or "father, hello, need your blessing!" niceties. in the past year, more especially when my pregnancy started kicking in, baby kimi helped me to overcome (initially overlook) the excesses and little irritating acts of what seemed like an elitist group of priests who were looking out only for their own interests. freed from their pastoral duties here in europe, they flit from one filipino community to another, welcomed with much warmth and alacrity by people who hardly have contact with priests in their abroad existence, and eagerly seek the personal and unique touch of a pinoy priest. this goes all very well for everyone involved except that there are some instances of really spoiled behaviour from some of them, who Expect their needs to be served. although their numbers are few, their actions stand out glaringly on people like me, and grate completely on the nerves. (if you want specific examples, email me and i will gladly enumerate, but for this blog, it will obscure my pièce de resistance, hence, the glossing over)
last night, i watched in horrified fascination as this particular priest manifested the worst kinds of behaviour that i would like to coin in the following ways: Sucking Up, Speaking Over Others, and Bullshitting Tactics.
- Sucking Up: as points were presented to the body of students (it was a gathering of students, which he is, like me and the rest assembled there), he would make loud and corny jokes about each point. when one former student voiced her opinion about a particular matter, he immediately --- in a loudly exaggerated voice and theatrical movements --- championed her cause. never mind that it was a point that ran perfectly counter to his previous statements. i stared at him in disbelief. what a sucker! in the back of my mind, i could hear the song, "how much is that puppy in the window, ruff ruff!!!" playing over and over again.
- Speaking Over Others: there was a suggestion for a particular activity, and the exchanges were getting intense. one lay student (not a priest or seminarian) raised a point, the other student priests jumped on it in dissension, and banding together with their loud voices, seemed to forget the point raised initially. another lay student raised his hand to reinforce the first point given, and this particular priest Cut Him Short, perhaps after only the third word uttered. i shot that priest a chilling look and said softly, "let him finish". but since my voice was Soft, i was ignored, naturally. the second lay student renewed his efforts to speak and did so, in a much louder voice than that priest, and pointed out that in fact, the point of the other lay student had not been acknowledged by the body and that this priest had misunderstood the point and was misrepresenting it to the rest of the group. to me, one thing was strikingly clear. this priest was Not Listening to what others had to say. it stood out in my consciousness simply because he had on a cloak of smug superiority that elicited from me the expectation, "for someone who's supposed to be smart, you ought to know how to listen to points. your listening skills suck!" so now he Doubly Sucked.
- Bullshitting Tactics: by virtue of his cutie boy looks. sounds bitter? perhaps. but he knows he's cute. he knows he's charming. so in pinoy parlance, bolero siya. he utters sweet nothings, especially to the lay women students, and bullies fellow students with his charm, which reeks with falseness and hollowness. (again, if you need specific examples, i can provide these by email. i can still remember the BS he gave me when i was new. now he keeps me an arm's length away because he probably knows i have his number and will not hesitate to show him up at the slightest chance. ahahaha) what boosts my case at this point is that several Male students have told me that they, too, have noticed how glib and bolero this priest is, thus reinforcing my initial observations. in my single days, boleros topped my list of Yucky traits in men. this guy has loads and loads of BS in his system. if he had been a lay person, he would have gotten his share of putdowns from more beautiful women than a priest is normally surrounded with, and i hope you know what i mean. but that, they say, is another story..
grabe, pari ka man din. at ganyan kang umasta. people like me don't blindly accept the words of priests, especially when they're not saying mass --- and even if they are --- as gospel truth. i don't know what it is in my background that enables me to see them as ordinary human beings who have to slug it out in intellectual and emotional circles like the rest of us ordinary folk in the world, butthat's how i am. i was educated in a jesuit university and was lucky enough to have steered clear of those priests who had their fan club following of enamoured students and campus ministers, and got to know cool priests who didn't throw their weight around as though they had the right to do so.
this priest, a phd student, prides himself in his sharp mental capacities and articulate use of english. i've read some of his work and listened to him give homilies, both in tagalog and english, and have found him to be rather flowery and excessive in his use of either language. but i don't take that against him. people are entitled to their Romantic tendencies of embellishments and curlicues. i have sat with this priest and told him some of my hurts, confiding in him as a friend, and have seen how he mocked that moment of vulnerability and spread nasty jokes to another priest about that supposedly private session. i have seen through him and i can tell you, dear reader, that with a priest like him, i am privately glad that there is so much animosity in the west against his kind, and understand why the sutana he so proudly donned on his ordination day is sullied by liberal thought.
he is one of many i have personally encountered, but i have singled him out in this entry for the plain reason that he eagerly embraced all the negative attributes of any human being and manifested them in a short period of time. can't apologise for my thoughts and feelings, fr. ______.
father who?
6.10.05
dem accent
one of the things that gets my hide is when i hear people with british and american accents pronouncing other-than-of-anglican-origin words without any effort to pronounce it properly, properly here meaning "the way the locals do it".
i have a belgian classmate with a smacking english accent who enjoys anglisising everything, even when i explicitly tell him how to pronounce particular words. he insists that his pronunciation is correct, even when it grates on the ears. he will stand by his way of saying things, oblivious to the fact that he sounds not only offensive, but ignorant as well, especially in the light of exposure to the proper way of pronouncing certain words.
i have heard too often how the ubiquitous american accent can bastardise the sound of certain words, not just filipino words (i once came across a site where filipino was spelled as 'philippino' but i digress, this isn't anything to do with sound, i know) or names, but proper names of countries and other people. classic examples? check out "los angeles", where the "g" has taken on the hard "j" sound, which goes against the logic of hispanic words (which los angeles obviously are, meaning 'the angels'), and therefore must be pronounced as 'los ang-heh-les'. in the tv series "the agency" and "without a trace", actors posing as CIA and FBI agents insist on pronouncing iraq as "ay-rack", prolonging the initial vowel sound, creating a trochee instead of the iambic cadence of putting the stress on the second syllable and using the short "i" sound. of course the same goes for iran, making it sound like a simple sentence, "i ran".
for pinoy readers, i have heard this chinese basher of our beloved balut pronounce the word as ba-lute, injecting an y-grec sound to the "u" that doesn't exist in normal pronunciation.
why does it always turn out that everyone else but the brits and americans know how to pronounce words properly? being a native speaker of english does not automatically mean that you are a competent and even proficient user of it. not at all, i'm afraid. (verrry afraid)
bottom line? it would work for the better good if people exerted effort to be more conscious of how things are pronounced Properly in different parts of the world. it works towards better global harmony and communications and eradicates the pervasive feeling that people of the first world are self-absorbed and, dare i say it, grossly ignorant of the LARGER world that does exist beyond their borders.
i have a belgian classmate with a smacking english accent who enjoys anglisising everything, even when i explicitly tell him how to pronounce particular words. he insists that his pronunciation is correct, even when it grates on the ears. he will stand by his way of saying things, oblivious to the fact that he sounds not only offensive, but ignorant as well, especially in the light of exposure to the proper way of pronouncing certain words.
i have heard too often how the ubiquitous american accent can bastardise the sound of certain words, not just filipino words (i once came across a site where filipino was spelled as 'philippino' but i digress, this isn't anything to do with sound, i know) or names, but proper names of countries and other people. classic examples? check out "los angeles", where the "g" has taken on the hard "j" sound, which goes against the logic of hispanic words (which los angeles obviously are, meaning 'the angels'), and therefore must be pronounced as 'los ang-heh-les'. in the tv series "the agency" and "without a trace", actors posing as CIA and FBI agents insist on pronouncing iraq as "ay-rack", prolonging the initial vowel sound, creating a trochee instead of the iambic cadence of putting the stress on the second syllable and using the short "i" sound. of course the same goes for iran, making it sound like a simple sentence, "i ran".
for pinoy readers, i have heard this chinese basher of our beloved balut pronounce the word as ba-lute, injecting an y-grec sound to the "u" that doesn't exist in normal pronunciation.
why does it always turn out that everyone else but the brits and americans know how to pronounce words properly? being a native speaker of english does not automatically mean that you are a competent and even proficient user of it. not at all, i'm afraid. (verrry afraid)
bottom line? it would work for the better good if people exerted effort to be more conscious of how things are pronounced Properly in different parts of the world. it works towards better global harmony and communications and eradicates the pervasive feeling that people of the first world are self-absorbed and, dare i say it, grossly ignorant of the LARGER world that does exist beyond their borders.
27.9.05
single yet not alone
i discovered early this month that the real heroes of my world are single mothers. they have to juggle the pieces of their lives and still present a "whole" person to the world. their world revolves around their children, they have their own lives to think about... and frankly, how they are able to put all these into one day is an astounding feat.
i have had to be a single mother for only 18 days this month (i cheated on 2 when i begged my husband to come back from paris following a series of nasty bullying incidents to our son in school and in el shaddai) and although i have had to be so for a little more than 2 weeks, i can say that the experience has stretched me in a way that not even my JVP year did not, when i was single and with my partner from zamboanga.
suddenly i am no longer afraid to stay in belgium until 2008. i have proven to myself, to my husband, and to my son (who needs no proof of my mommy-ness) that i can take care of a household, of another life that depends solely on me, and still manage to get myself out into the world for brief snatches of time. so what if i cannot find the time to read as i would like (i am only a bit more than halfway through tolstoy's chatty anna karenina), or check out the books i need to complete my thesis before january (my promoter will be asking me to go to ghent next week to meet with her and i have read nil on my topic!), or even do a little exercise by way of walking or swimming perhaps (more far-fetched now that we have moved to our new apartment which is farther away from the sports centre than our previous apartment)! there is a full-filling sensation at the end of each bone-tiring day that you have been able to cook, clean up, get the kid his requisite care and tucked in bed with hugs and kisses... i tell you, irreplaceable. completely so.
i would now never exchange such a harrowing month of being a single mom for anything in the world. really. i feel the spoiled pampered lara fading more and more into the corners of the past. for me, this is one of the biggest accomplishments of my life so far, and these are life lessons i never learned from my family, one of the most spoiled entities in the world. now i can tell my kuya (who has had to survive on his own, and in a foreign country, since he was 20), who has been telling me all these years that i lead a spoiled and pampered life, "kuya, i know now what you meant! and i have survived, and will survive more in the days and years to come!"
what more can i say... only this: although single mothers are the unsung heroes in my book, i still do not consider myself among the ranks of those single moms who have actual careers to juggle with their home responsibilities. right now, i am only just beginning to enjoy and learn the ropes of being a housewife, or more aptly, housemom. :)
and here's a little tickler to end my post. mikka has been sick for more than a week with a viral infection that metamorphosed into something bacterial. since S went away to rome last saturday to deliver yet another paper at a nostra aetate conference, i have been cowardly enough to keep mikka next to me at night (even when he insists on lying on his own bed at night), begging him to keep me company owing to my fear of ghosts in our new apartment (i can swear that someone pinched my toes our third night here, and promptly asked a friend priest to bless the house the very next day). i have also used the pretext of being his nurse, administering his needed antibiotics until thursday, to keep him home from school, too. for some reason, i am more needy of his presence than he is of mine. i need my son! i just want him nearby while i am spouse-less this week... and frankly, my dear, i don't give a damn if it makes me look like a pathetic mommy clinging to her eldest child. hehehe basta mahal na mahal ko yang anak ko at ayaw kong mag isa dito sa bahay! pag ok na kami ng resident mumu namin, siguro kakayanin ko nang mag-isa. :)
i have had to be a single mother for only 18 days this month (i cheated on 2 when i begged my husband to come back from paris following a series of nasty bullying incidents to our son in school and in el shaddai) and although i have had to be so for a little more than 2 weeks, i can say that the experience has stretched me in a way that not even my JVP year did not, when i was single and with my partner from zamboanga.
suddenly i am no longer afraid to stay in belgium until 2008. i have proven to myself, to my husband, and to my son (who needs no proof of my mommy-ness) that i can take care of a household, of another life that depends solely on me, and still manage to get myself out into the world for brief snatches of time. so what if i cannot find the time to read as i would like (i am only a bit more than halfway through tolstoy's chatty anna karenina), or check out the books i need to complete my thesis before january (my promoter will be asking me to go to ghent next week to meet with her and i have read nil on my topic!), or even do a little exercise by way of walking or swimming perhaps (more far-fetched now that we have moved to our new apartment which is farther away from the sports centre than our previous apartment)! there is a full-filling sensation at the end of each bone-tiring day that you have been able to cook, clean up, get the kid his requisite care and tucked in bed with hugs and kisses... i tell you, irreplaceable. completely so.
i would now never exchange such a harrowing month of being a single mom for anything in the world. really. i feel the spoiled pampered lara fading more and more into the corners of the past. for me, this is one of the biggest accomplishments of my life so far, and these are life lessons i never learned from my family, one of the most spoiled entities in the world. now i can tell my kuya (who has had to survive on his own, and in a foreign country, since he was 20), who has been telling me all these years that i lead a spoiled and pampered life, "kuya, i know now what you meant! and i have survived, and will survive more in the days and years to come!"
what more can i say... only this: although single mothers are the unsung heroes in my book, i still do not consider myself among the ranks of those single moms who have actual careers to juggle with their home responsibilities. right now, i am only just beginning to enjoy and learn the ropes of being a housewife, or more aptly, housemom. :)
and here's a little tickler to end my post. mikka has been sick for more than a week with a viral infection that metamorphosed into something bacterial. since S went away to rome last saturday to deliver yet another paper at a nostra aetate conference, i have been cowardly enough to keep mikka next to me at night (even when he insists on lying on his own bed at night), begging him to keep me company owing to my fear of ghosts in our new apartment (i can swear that someone pinched my toes our third night here, and promptly asked a friend priest to bless the house the very next day). i have also used the pretext of being his nurse, administering his needed antibiotics until thursday, to keep him home from school, too. for some reason, i am more needy of his presence than he is of mine. i need my son! i just want him nearby while i am spouse-less this week... and frankly, my dear, i don't give a damn if it makes me look like a pathetic mommy clinging to her eldest child. hehehe basta mahal na mahal ko yang anak ko at ayaw kong mag isa dito sa bahay! pag ok na kami ng resident mumu namin, siguro kakayanin ko nang mag-isa. :)
4.9.05
jing's tag
What are the things you enjoy, even when no one around you wants to go out and play?
What lowers your stress/blood pressure/anxiety level?
Seven things that scare you:
Seven things you like the most:
Seven important things in your bedroom:
Seven random facts about you:
Seven things you plan to do before you die:
Seven things you can do:
Seven things you can't do:
Seven things that attract you to the opposite sex:
Seven things you say the most:
Seven celeb crushes (whether local or foreign):
rafa!
- reading a book, watching a movie, sitting at a cafe
What lowers your stress/blood pressure/anxiety level?
- sports, sex (yes jing, me too)
Seven things that scare you:
- being separated from my son and husband
- not being able to defend my son should the need arise
- freak accidents to my son
- racism
- if roaches took over the world, especially if i were to see them flying *eeewww!!!*
- fearless rats staring me in the eye
- not being able to go home ever to the philippines
Seven things you like the most:
- spending time with my husband and son
- doing sports, especially badminton, aikido, swimming
- same-time orgasm
- a warm hug from someone you trust
- getting letters in the post
- when people ask you how you are
- hanging out with people whose company you enjoy
Seven important things in your bedroom:
- a time device of sorts
- a good bedside book nearby
- my husband beside me(thing ba siya? ahihihi)
- nice clean sheets
- study desk (?)
- sound system
- mobile phone
Seven random facts about you:
- used to think i was lesbian
- am drawn to calm, quiet, strong, self-assured people, whether in personal life or in sports (or in politics, as it were)
- want up to 4 kids if possible
- have square jaws that reminded my late paternal grandmother of jacqueline bisset and jackie onassis (the former whom i saw on tv at the venice fim festival a few days ago --- and man, i look nothing like her!)
- dance is my first love, not singing
- play the piano better than i sing
- used to imagine people walking naked
Seven things you plan to do before you die:
- visit indochina
- do a big humanitarian effort
- get a phd in music
- send my kids abroad for their vacation or whatever experiences (i can't monopolise all the fun in the world)
- send people i care about deeply to school, people like rosali
- change careers
- publish a book
Seven things you can do:
- swim 40 laps at 32 weeks of pregnancy
- fart unashamedly in the presence of close and not-so-close friends (it's my relief and their shame)
- drive like a maniac --- easily!
- deliver excellently --- you name it *nax*
- speak openly about almost anything under the sun without batting an eyelash
- call a spade a spade when no one else can or will
- say sorry immediately when i realise i am in the wrong
Seven things you can't do:
- raise my eyebrows in taray fashion (hence, people think i am not mataray)
- roll my tongue
- flick my fingers (in tagalog, pumitik)
- cry at will
- tell a lie comfortably
- sex without love
- be hypocritical even if the situation calls for it
Seven things that attract you to the opposite sex:
- broad shoulders
- piercing gaze
- self confidence
- natural kindness to others, not just to me
- nice round butt
- great appetite (if he can eat with gusto, then he'll eat me the same way ahihihi)
- ability to laugh at himself
Seven things you say the most:
- what the f**k???
- there you go
- oh my god
- puñeta!
- never... rarely
- always
- cool
Seven celeb crushes (whether local or foreign):
rafa!
2.9.05
DUH!!!
my 2nd name is katrina, which makes my name pretty famous these days, especially to americans, and most especially to those affected directly by the category 5 hurricane that has dubya declaring the last 5 days as one of the worst national disasters. infamy is truly part and parcel of my life, even in something as mundane as a name. [trivia: another hurricane is developing over the atlantic, lee, which is the same name as my brother naman. 'la lang, napaisip lang ako]
these have been my thoughts the past week while following the coverage of bbc, euronews, and cnn on hurricane katrina.
i have lived in the first world for two years and i have seen the gaping disparity in the quality of life of people here and those in my own third world country. i have been blessed to live a sheltered middle fucking class life in the philippines but i have not been detached from the extreme poverty and hopelessness of the people there. in simple matters like water consumption, food choices, or leisure activities, there is truly a great divide between citizens of nations such as the united states and the european union and citizens of southeast asia and africa. the simple fact is: people in the first world have, while people in africa and southeast asia have not.
take this, you arrogant cnn reporter: venezuelan president chavez, that same man your wacko pat robertson ordered "to be taken out because the US has the capacity to do thus" has offered humanitarian aid to be sent to the states, this in spite of his being a staunch critic of bush. chirac, another leader who is often at loggerheads with the policies of the american government, has expressed his sympathy for the american people. if you would only have eyes to see and ears to hear, there do exist pockets of decency, if you would only have the grace to accept such "offers" and not look for money from others where there is none.
so my bottom line is: how can you expect there to be instant aid in $$ terms when most of the $$ in the world are already in the united states??? one big fucking DUH!!!
shit.
post script: to people who cannot understand my point above due to my expletives, get this one thing clear --- i am not writing this against the plight of people who have suffered due to hurricane katrina.
these have been my thoughts the past week while following the coverage of bbc, euronews, and cnn on hurricane katrina.
- now that the states has been exposed to a natural disaster of this magnitude, i can't help but think that with all the foreknowledge that a huge disaster is coming, the response of people to prevention has been very slow. in light of all the satellite feeds (something that the tsunami victims did not have, take note), the exhortations from highly placed officials for people to do what they can a week in advance, still, still, hundreds of thousands of people were caught flat-footed by the hurricane, and i mean not only the victims in the affected areas, but by the federal authorities themselves. the response has been horrifically slow, and i say this as a third world citizen, who is used to seeing hundreds of my countrymen suffer yearly from at least 10 typhoons that will visit our shores.
- i thought dubya looked too smug during his consolation speech. first, his vacation was cut short when katrina struck. he knew a week before katrina arrived that this would happen, and yet he went onwards with his vacation. the chief executive of the nation is expected to be empathetic to his countrymen, something that seemed sorely lacking in his response to sheehan, a grief-stricken mother to a marine who died in iraq, who camped outside his vast ranch in texas. then there he was, in his armani suit, surrounded by his equally well-dressed cabinet members with unsmiling faces, speaking in a cocky tone, "i am confident that we will triumph and america will be stronger after this." what of the now, you imbecilic president? what are you doing to address the needs of your people who need you to be visible to them now??? where are you when they need to see you, touch you, hear you? i told my husband, to gma's credit, no matter how much i dislike her, she shows more empathy towards our people when tragedy strikes. after 9/11, bush's image was splattered all over the media in his suckseer coat, communicating the message, "i'm ready to buckle down and work with you." too bad then new york mayor guillani [sorry for the typo, if ever] beat him to the draw and was very visible to the public as a hands on chief who cared for his people. i find that the same illness amongst politicians is staring us in the face: the rich and pampered elite officials are pulled out of their expensive vacations while thousands of their poor countrymen suffer without food and water, among lawlessness and lack of order.
- fuck cnn. this eastern european anchor based in the states was accusing a UN official of the slow response of the international community to this american tragedy, while the US of A is always expected to be at the forefront of international aid when some ailing nation is affected by some disaster. what the fucking fuck??? i want to thumb my nose at these idiotic anchors and do the monkey dance. duh!!! critical thought is certainly not ingrained in this cnn anchor!!! (bring in veronica pedrosa please) the united states is the wealthiest nation in the world, it is the most powerful nation in the world, it can do pretty much what if fucking pleases when it fucking chooses. if that texan president had so willed it, he could have dispatched thousands of troops and resources to the affected areas within a DAY of the hurricane's landing. he can have congress pass $10.5 billion in emergency aid for the simple fucking reason that the united states HAS the funds at its immediate disposal, unlike impoverished 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th world nations like sri lanka, indonesia, india, and what have you out there. how can anyone draw this comparison???
i have lived in the first world for two years and i have seen the gaping disparity in the quality of life of people here and those in my own third world country. i have been blessed to live a sheltered middle fucking class life in the philippines but i have not been detached from the extreme poverty and hopelessness of the people there. in simple matters like water consumption, food choices, or leisure activities, there is truly a great divide between citizens of nations such as the united states and the european union and citizens of southeast asia and africa. the simple fact is: people in the first world have, while people in africa and southeast asia have not.
take this, you arrogant cnn reporter: venezuelan president chavez, that same man your wacko pat robertson ordered "to be taken out because the US has the capacity to do thus" has offered humanitarian aid to be sent to the states, this in spite of his being a staunch critic of bush. chirac, another leader who is often at loggerheads with the policies of the american government, has expressed his sympathy for the american people. if you would only have eyes to see and ears to hear, there do exist pockets of decency, if you would only have the grace to accept such "offers" and not look for money from others where there is none.
so my bottom line is: how can you expect there to be instant aid in $$ terms when most of the $$ in the world are already in the united states??? one big fucking DUH!!!
shit.
post script: to people who cannot understand my point above due to my expletives, get this one thing clear --- i am not writing this against the plight of people who have suffered due to hurricane katrina.
18.8.05
EDSA soirée
this is my first entry for the first round of LASANG PINOY. the first month launch centers around ninoy's death anniversary, august 21, which makes it but fitting to launch this monthly project on sunday, the 21st of august.
that day in 1983 changed the life of our nation 22 years ago. the sequence of the inevitable that culminated in the events of the first people power of february 1986, the first the world had ever seen of a revolution by the people won by prayer and peaceful demonstrations, would give filipinos something to be truly proud of after decades of humiliating decline on the world stage. for some strange reason, i will always look back at that time as one helluva street party catered by street vendors and ingenius entrepreneurs. it was probably one of the best parties i had ever attended in my whole life. 'til now. even after being part of edsa dos, which wasn't much of a party for me, as i never relished the thought of some midget fence-sitter aceding to power on the toil of a few good men and women.
it was 1986 and classes had been called off. my english teacher at the time had appeared on tv somewhere, kneeling in front of a tank, a rosary clasped in her tense hands, her face a mask of desperation and agony. and no wonder. she was only a few feet away from the first wave of tanks that marcos had ordered to disperse the huge crowd that had gathered at the edsa-ortigas intersection (grabe, wala pang flyover don, not to mention that weird looking golden statue of mama mary being pooped on by birds). she would later recount hearing the engines of the tanks coming closer until that excruciating moment when the engine died and she could see clearly the faces of the young soldiers who emerged from the tank's bowels. her face would become one of the most famous images of the revolution of the middle class against marcos, immortalised in the international news magazines at the time and the coffee table books that sprung up after marcos' ignominious exit to hawaii. it was a turning point, in a strange way, of the way i viewed her, too. that day her face was flashed all over the anti-marcos papers (it could have been malaya; inquirer was just like a tabloid at the time) i saw not just my 9th grade mrs badoy, but the fearless pura badoy, willing to face down tanks and use her booming voice --- not just in the classroom to discipline us high school brats --- but to compel hundreds of other frightened activists to get on their knees and pray the rosary with her.
in 1985 my dad was part of the CAPM, or the cory aquino for president movement that collected over a million signatures to convince cory to run for president. (in fact, he is immortalised in a coffee table book, too, as he recounted his role in the CAPM and the turmoil of those times).
before that, around 2 years before the signature campaign, my dad came home with 3 yellow shirts with the face of a smiling man in glasses emblazoned across the front of it. on the back were the words: "the filipino is worth dying for." (years later, my dad, disgusted with the turn of events in the country that would lead to erap's presidency and then edsa dos, would empathically say, "ninoy was wrong. the filipino is NOT worth dying for!" he left for the united states 4 years ago and has not returned since to the philippines) i was only 12 at the time so i lost the battle to get one of those shirts. my mom got one by default and of course my older sister, being the eldest in the family. my dad told us shirt-less siblings, "when you understand what he died for, then i'll get you your own shirts."
but it wasn't until i was 14 did things begin to make sense. by then, the shirts were no longer being manufactured so i contented myself with stealing my mom's or sister's shirt and wearing it to school --- just to be cool, because at the time, i was in a school filled with the children of diplomats whom i knew would never have a shirt just like mine. there was something about ninoy aquino that was 'cool' to me at the time: he was articulate, his daughter had been my classmate briefly in 7th grade, and now, my signature was part of a million that would push cory to run as the widow president. those were exciting days, right before the events at edsa. i remember boycotting san miguel beer around christmas time --- yes, i was already drinking beer at the time. i remember watching people flock to the polling booths on that long ago morning of feb 7, 1986 at the public school a stone's throw away from our house and wishing fervently i could vote. i even remember sitting beside the namfrel poll watchers as they tallied the votes. in all our precincts, cory won by a huge margin. but the televised comelec results would reveal a different story.
on the 2nd night of the vigil at edsa, my kuya and his girlfriend announced that they were going to edsa and stop any more tanks that marcos and ver would send. my kuya's girl turned to me and asked if i wanted to come along. i looked at my parents quickly. my dad, without any hesitation, said, "of course you should go. this is history in the making!!!" the thought that crossed my mind was, "cooooool. camp crame is THE place to be!" i got my sister's ninoy shirt and tucked it into my walking shorts. high waist pa ako non. (hanggang ngayon pa naman but that, as they say, is another story) i remember the grown ups --- or rather, the older-ups --- packing tons of food in the trunk of the car. it didn't cross my mind that i could get hungry in the next 24 hours we would be 'hanging out' at edsa.
we parked near the cubao flyover because the 'relevant' stretch of edsa was virtually unpassable. there was a festive mood in the air as we made our way down edsa towards crame. barkadas of teens were chanting as they passed by, in kapit-bisig fashion, yelling, "asan na mga tangke??? lusubin nila tayo kung kaya nila!!!" this followed by boisterous shouts and peals of laughter. i couldn't help but laugh along.
there were vendors everywhere selling everything and anything. from flashlights to more ninoy shirts to little filipino flags on barbecue sticks. by the time we got to crame i had seen car after car parked facing the wall, the boot open, filled with crates of food and tetrapacks, some for sale. "matinik", i remember thinking. i had stepped on so many squished plastic bags and straws filled with remnants of what had been mirinda pepsi or coke. barbecue sticks littered the way. there were karitons filled with balut and boiled peanuts. as night descended upon the throngs, the kariton-drivers lit greasy kerosene lamps and these flickered uneasily along that stretch of highway that looked more like a park scene rather than a battlefield of the forces of right and wrong. or the forces of a sundered friendship between ramos/enrile and macoy. flattened cartons and banigs were now lining the road. we really were going to meet those tanks in our probinsya mode beddings.
all night long i munched on the egg and pimiento sandwiches that my kuya's girlfriend had packed in the trunk of the car. i sipped from zesto tri-a-packs (di ko masabing tetra pack yon kasi mukang triangle e) and from time to time, bought mirinda from the passing vendors. my kuya cracked some balut eggs at around 4 am and had me drink the soup. at that time i didn't know how to eat a balut standing up. there were no plates to be had so my ka-artehan in balut eating were sidelined for the time being.
there were many false alerts throughout that long night. mostly it was the vendors who would run past, shouting, "parating na sila, mga dalawang tangke din yon!!!" we would get to our feet and cluster uncertainly near the island, knowing only that if tanks really did roll towards us, we would all scream in unison and pray that god be on our side. we must have burst into song so many times that night, the words "ibon mang may layang lumipad..." fluttering in our breasts and flying towards the stars every time someone told us that the tanks were not coming, not yet, not yet, but do not waver for we know not the time when they will be upon us.
the tanks did not come. not that night. we would hear over radio veritas that there was a tank or two in the succeeding days, but our day was not the "chosen one". when i remember our disappointment at having avoided a confrontation, i shake my head bemusedly but at the time, it was like a big party at the fort and we young ones were just too eager to embrace danger. we were, after all, at that point in our lives when we sought excitement and adventure --- and this kind, we were sure, would make us heroes not only to our friends but to an entire nation. if anything, those frenzied 5 days of edsa defined my teen life as the time i crossed over from being a party-hungry girl to someone who had purpose not only in my life but for the life of my nation.
after edsa, it was only a matter of time before i was signing up for volunteer service to one of the poorest provinces of the country at the time. it meant nothing to me at the time to get a high paying job when so many in the country were living in poverty. i knew i always had my comfortable middle class life to return to after a year of service but this was the promise of my youth, my mid-teenaged years when i was part of the crowds who cheered and yes, wept, when the dictator and his crazy wife fled the country. i was one of those who could never be comfortable touring malacanang palace or the malacanang of the north in laoag, who nearly threw up when i saw macoy's preserved body in a glass coffin, lit up by a solitary spotlight while triumphal classical music played from hidden speakers. to this day, the sight of imelda marcos makes my blood boil. i want to put my fingers in her thickly coiffed hair and pull every strand apart, just before she steps into her limousine.
it was during that soirée, while i munched on my favorite cheese pimiento sandwich, sipping from my brother's balut and zesto drink, that something hardened within me, turning me off forever to a life in pursuit of caprice and comfort. as long as people suffer, i vowed in between bites, i cannot relax. ever. what that man said years ago will make sense in my lifetime, that we, pinoys, are indeed worth dying for. i dedicate my life to the realisation of this truth. i will prove my dad wrong and perhaps call him home in the process of doing so.
today, 2 years away from my beloved homeland, i miss the taste of balut most of all. here in belgium, it costs a terrifying 1.50 euros. that's 100 pesos for one little egg!!! next year, i will be able to buy my 9 peso-balut again from that vendor just outside the heart center, maybe after aikido practice. or so i hope.
that day in 1983 changed the life of our nation 22 years ago. the sequence of the inevitable that culminated in the events of the first people power of february 1986, the first the world had ever seen of a revolution by the people won by prayer and peaceful demonstrations, would give filipinos something to be truly proud of after decades of humiliating decline on the world stage. for some strange reason, i will always look back at that time as one helluva street party catered by street vendors and ingenius entrepreneurs. it was probably one of the best parties i had ever attended in my whole life. 'til now. even after being part of edsa dos, which wasn't much of a party for me, as i never relished the thought of some midget fence-sitter aceding to power on the toil of a few good men and women.
it was 1986 and classes had been called off. my english teacher at the time had appeared on tv somewhere, kneeling in front of a tank, a rosary clasped in her tense hands, her face a mask of desperation and agony. and no wonder. she was only a few feet away from the first wave of tanks that marcos had ordered to disperse the huge crowd that had gathered at the edsa-ortigas intersection (grabe, wala pang flyover don, not to mention that weird looking golden statue of mama mary being pooped on by birds). she would later recount hearing the engines of the tanks coming closer until that excruciating moment when the engine died and she could see clearly the faces of the young soldiers who emerged from the tank's bowels. her face would become one of the most famous images of the revolution of the middle class against marcos, immortalised in the international news magazines at the time and the coffee table books that sprung up after marcos' ignominious exit to hawaii. it was a turning point, in a strange way, of the way i viewed her, too. that day her face was flashed all over the anti-marcos papers (it could have been malaya; inquirer was just like a tabloid at the time) i saw not just my 9th grade mrs badoy, but the fearless pura badoy, willing to face down tanks and use her booming voice --- not just in the classroom to discipline us high school brats --- but to compel hundreds of other frightened activists to get on their knees and pray the rosary with her.
in 1985 my dad was part of the CAPM, or the cory aquino for president movement that collected over a million signatures to convince cory to run for president. (in fact, he is immortalised in a coffee table book, too, as he recounted his role in the CAPM and the turmoil of those times).
before that, around 2 years before the signature campaign, my dad came home with 3 yellow shirts with the face of a smiling man in glasses emblazoned across the front of it. on the back were the words: "the filipino is worth dying for." (years later, my dad, disgusted with the turn of events in the country that would lead to erap's presidency and then edsa dos, would empathically say, "ninoy was wrong. the filipino is NOT worth dying for!" he left for the united states 4 years ago and has not returned since to the philippines) i was only 12 at the time so i lost the battle to get one of those shirts. my mom got one by default and of course my older sister, being the eldest in the family. my dad told us shirt-less siblings, "when you understand what he died for, then i'll get you your own shirts."
but it wasn't until i was 14 did things begin to make sense. by then, the shirts were no longer being manufactured so i contented myself with stealing my mom's or sister's shirt and wearing it to school --- just to be cool, because at the time, i was in a school filled with the children of diplomats whom i knew would never have a shirt just like mine. there was something about ninoy aquino that was 'cool' to me at the time: he was articulate, his daughter had been my classmate briefly in 7th grade, and now, my signature was part of a million that would push cory to run as the widow president. those were exciting days, right before the events at edsa. i remember boycotting san miguel beer around christmas time --- yes, i was already drinking beer at the time. i remember watching people flock to the polling booths on that long ago morning of feb 7, 1986 at the public school a stone's throw away from our house and wishing fervently i could vote. i even remember sitting beside the namfrel poll watchers as they tallied the votes. in all our precincts, cory won by a huge margin. but the televised comelec results would reveal a different story.
on the 2nd night of the vigil at edsa, my kuya and his girlfriend announced that they were going to edsa and stop any more tanks that marcos and ver would send. my kuya's girl turned to me and asked if i wanted to come along. i looked at my parents quickly. my dad, without any hesitation, said, "of course you should go. this is history in the making!!!" the thought that crossed my mind was, "cooooool. camp crame is THE place to be!" i got my sister's ninoy shirt and tucked it into my walking shorts. high waist pa ako non. (hanggang ngayon pa naman but that, as they say, is another story) i remember the grown ups --- or rather, the older-ups --- packing tons of food in the trunk of the car. it didn't cross my mind that i could get hungry in the next 24 hours we would be 'hanging out' at edsa.
we parked near the cubao flyover because the 'relevant' stretch of edsa was virtually unpassable. there was a festive mood in the air as we made our way down edsa towards crame. barkadas of teens were chanting as they passed by, in kapit-bisig fashion, yelling, "asan na mga tangke??? lusubin nila tayo kung kaya nila!!!" this followed by boisterous shouts and peals of laughter. i couldn't help but laugh along.
there were vendors everywhere selling everything and anything. from flashlights to more ninoy shirts to little filipino flags on barbecue sticks. by the time we got to crame i had seen car after car parked facing the wall, the boot open, filled with crates of food and tetrapacks, some for sale. "matinik", i remember thinking. i had stepped on so many squished plastic bags and straws filled with remnants of what had been mirinda pepsi or coke. barbecue sticks littered the way. there were karitons filled with balut and boiled peanuts. as night descended upon the throngs, the kariton-drivers lit greasy kerosene lamps and these flickered uneasily along that stretch of highway that looked more like a park scene rather than a battlefield of the forces of right and wrong. or the forces of a sundered friendship between ramos/enrile and macoy. flattened cartons and banigs were now lining the road. we really were going to meet those tanks in our probinsya mode beddings.
all night long i munched on the egg and pimiento sandwiches that my kuya's girlfriend had packed in the trunk of the car. i sipped from zesto tri-a-packs (di ko masabing tetra pack yon kasi mukang triangle e) and from time to time, bought mirinda from the passing vendors. my kuya cracked some balut eggs at around 4 am and had me drink the soup. at that time i didn't know how to eat a balut standing up. there were no plates to be had so my ka-artehan in balut eating were sidelined for the time being.
there were many false alerts throughout that long night. mostly it was the vendors who would run past, shouting, "parating na sila, mga dalawang tangke din yon!!!" we would get to our feet and cluster uncertainly near the island, knowing only that if tanks really did roll towards us, we would all scream in unison and pray that god be on our side. we must have burst into song so many times that night, the words "ibon mang may layang lumipad..." fluttering in our breasts and flying towards the stars every time someone told us that the tanks were not coming, not yet, not yet, but do not waver for we know not the time when they will be upon us.
the tanks did not come. not that night. we would hear over radio veritas that there was a tank or two in the succeeding days, but our day was not the "chosen one". when i remember our disappointment at having avoided a confrontation, i shake my head bemusedly but at the time, it was like a big party at the fort and we young ones were just too eager to embrace danger. we were, after all, at that point in our lives when we sought excitement and adventure --- and this kind, we were sure, would make us heroes not only to our friends but to an entire nation. if anything, those frenzied 5 days of edsa defined my teen life as the time i crossed over from being a party-hungry girl to someone who had purpose not only in my life but for the life of my nation.
after edsa, it was only a matter of time before i was signing up for volunteer service to one of the poorest provinces of the country at the time. it meant nothing to me at the time to get a high paying job when so many in the country were living in poverty. i knew i always had my comfortable middle class life to return to after a year of service but this was the promise of my youth, my mid-teenaged years when i was part of the crowds who cheered and yes, wept, when the dictator and his crazy wife fled the country. i was one of those who could never be comfortable touring malacanang palace or the malacanang of the north in laoag, who nearly threw up when i saw macoy's preserved body in a glass coffin, lit up by a solitary spotlight while triumphal classical music played from hidden speakers. to this day, the sight of imelda marcos makes my blood boil. i want to put my fingers in her thickly coiffed hair and pull every strand apart, just before she steps into her limousine.
it was during that soirée, while i munched on my favorite cheese pimiento sandwich, sipping from my brother's balut and zesto drink, that something hardened within me, turning me off forever to a life in pursuit of caprice and comfort. as long as people suffer, i vowed in between bites, i cannot relax. ever. what that man said years ago will make sense in my lifetime, that we, pinoys, are indeed worth dying for. i dedicate my life to the realisation of this truth. i will prove my dad wrong and perhaps call him home in the process of doing so.
today, 2 years away from my beloved homeland, i miss the taste of balut most of all. here in belgium, it costs a terrifying 1.50 euros. that's 100 pesos for one little egg!!! next year, i will be able to buy my 9 peso-balut again from that vendor just outside the heart center, maybe after aikido practice. or so i hope.
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