The Dichotomy of who I am

The Dichotomy of who I am

I came back from my daily morning walks and was told that my cousin had called and I needed to call her back as soon as I could. I had been waiting for her call and was certainly glad that she finally did. The end of summer was creeping upon us and she had promised to bring her kids by for a visit.  I returned her call as soon as I caught up with my breath. I was thinking that I would be spending time with her chatting about how life’s been like since we saw each other last. She was one of those people in my life who I had always considered as a kindred spirit, for although we weren’t actually related by blood, I always thought of her as my “soul sister”.  For the similarities in our lives were uncanny, we were like two people trekking parallel life paths.

​The last time I saw her, there was an apparent bliss in her bearing. From what I had gathered, she and her family had attended a couple of religious retreats sponsored by the local church. The details were a bit fuzzy but what was distinctive about all of her experience was her strengthened religious bond. She was ecstatic with her newfound relationship with her Creator and was excited to share her eye opening experience with all those she cared most about. If there were anyone who deserved the purest kind of happiness that a spiritual experience brings into one’s existence, she definitely was the best candidate!  Being in her presence brought some degree of calmness in me, her religious fervor was contagious.

​As soon as she said hello, I had asked her about their plans to visit. She paused and said that the reason she called was that the church was sponsoring another weekend retreat and asked if I was interested in attending this time. I guess my mind was still exhausted from the hour-long walk because I asked about the details, when, where, what, etc. I told her I was going to check my schedule and would let her know. I couldn’t find the courage to say NO.

​I spent the next two days fretting about the call, I didn’t want to lie to her nor did I want to disappoint her. In truth although, my precious weekends were always overbooked, I had always found ways of rearranging activities to allow myself to participate in more desirable ones. Two days delaying the decision to tell her hasn’t convinced me that attending a church retreat would indeed be a desirable activity.

​I had come to a point in my life where I was being very selective with what I had wanted to spend my time in. I had also come to a point in my spirituality where I had become very selective of what I believed in. I realized that what I defined as desirable activities have defined who I have become.

Basically, desirable activities were defined as anything that didn’t impose any requirements on my part, anything that I was willing and able to do. Desirable activities inevitably time consuming events, allowed me to pursue those that bring passion to my otherwise mundane existence. I was in the phase of my life when I finally felt I deserved to live the life I was destined to live, sans cultural, religious and parental governing rules.

​I remember being eight years old singing hymns while attending the high noon mass at one the prestigious Catholic Churches.  Besides feeling dwarfed by the enormity of the church architecture, I have very distinct memories of the heat, my Sunday dress, the street vendors outside of the church and mostly the myriad of people attending the celebration of the mass.

There was one moment when all of time seemed to stop. Although I could still hear the parishioners singing, the electric fans whirling, the bells ringing in a far distance, amidst the crowded place of worship, something happened that would eventually set the tone of my search for spirituality.

All of a sudden, there was silence. I had a vision of myself standing alone in the middle of the empty pews. I was surrounded only by the thick walls and the bigger than life religious icons. A thin mist remained suspended in mid air providing a comfortable level of coolness. I remember questioning myself, why it was that I went to church that day?

I had no answer. As quick as the vision came, it went. Suddenly, the singing of the hymns became louder, I could once again feel the heat, and I once again became aware of those faithful people who surrounded me.  It was as if, for the first time in my life I had attended church and knew that I didn’t belong there. It was as if that day, I validated a belief that had been gnawing at my instinct, I knew that there had to be some higher sense of purpose. I knew that thus far, attending Sunday service hadn’t revealed that purpose to me.

 ​For years, I continued attending Sunday mass. I figured that was what was expected of any good religious girl. I attempted to find the sense of purpose that I seemed to have lost. Instead, every Sunday to pass the time, I came up with something to be amused about. Sometimes, I would wonder about the life stories of the people in front of me; on third Sundays, I would marvel at the stained glass windows and if I felt really creative, started counting the pieces. One really long church service, I counted the bald men in the first ten rows! After I moved to this country, Easter proved to be very amusing indeed, I would count all those who had come to the service wearing their wide-brimmed spring hats.

​As everything else in life, one can only do something without meaning for so long. One Sunday, I didn’t feel like going to church anymore and so I didn’t. For someone who had grown up in a culture that is so attached to its religion, the enormous feeling of guilt was hard to eradicate, eventually though, I felt very liberated. The day I stopped obligating myself to go to church was when I found the real meaning of spirituality. That very day, I finally found my GOD.  

​How do I then find the courage to tell my cousin that I no longer believed in judgement day? How do I explain that I no longer am terrified by concept of sin nor the deliverance of my soul from it? Without sounding sacrilegious, how do I tell her that I never really bought into the idea that I was born into this world with nothing but a physical body loaded with “original sin”?  For even the most corrupt justice system in this world presumes innocence until proven otherwise.

I never found solace in being taught that on my very birthday, the God who had created me had already branded me GUILTY before I could even begin to breathe. For how would one justify such existence of never being able to clean a slate that has already been permanently tainted in its inception? How do I tell her that, in my opinion, the concept of original sin was a scare tactic, employed by the founding fathers of the church to keep a short leash on their followers? How do I then, when the words “flames of hell” kept appearing in my psyche like the hot neon lights on Broadway?

​ How do I tell her that I found peace in believing that the Universe has her own way of balancing opposing forces to attain a natural state of harmony? The concept of the yin and yang made perfect sense to me. For isn’t t in the presence of evil can one know the purity of goodness? In the darkest of times can one see the slightest glimmer of hope? Amidst so much hatred can the least expression of love ultimately attempt to conquer all?   And isn’t it true that emptiness becomes only an issue when one had been fortunate to have already experienced a certain degree of fullness in one’s lifetime?

The day I stopped going to church, was the day I finally learned to pray and involve GOD in every minute of my everyday. In meditation, I have found a way to silence my mind. I have learned to be still during those precious in-between moments, as I transition on to the next “learning experience” that is presented my way.

In dealing with conflict, I have learned to be grateful for the innumerable opportunities to learn generosity, patience and compassion. The type of spirituality that I have found can be likened to a flowing liquid that is given form only by the vessel that contains it. In every moment of my life, I have found wisdom from people and things in the most unlikely places. And in each and every one of them, I felt the presence of the most venerable Supreme Being!

How do I tell her that the cathartic events in my life happened not as unusual momentous occasions but as mere coincidences in my 24-hour trivial days?

It happened one day, when I was obsessing about some of the choices I made, I felt was made in haste:  My first born son had a penchant for Harry Potter, so he begged me to see the movie on it’s first day of showing. I was a bit apprehensive since such popular movies seem to draw a large crowd on opening weekends. However, like always the begging prevailed and so we went. The darkness of the movie theatre seemed very conducive to napping, so I dozed off while Harry Potter was going about his adventures. I woke up in time to hear the Professor telling Harry, “It is not our abilities that show who we are, it is our choices.” Talk about serendipity! After that moment, I stopped judging myself.

I realized that the actual choices that I take are the cobblestones that shape the path that I am leading. So there are no right or wrong choices. I make the choices that I perceive to be the best given the circumstances I am in.  Choices indeed, define who I am. Understanding why I made them shed light on why this world came to be for me!

It happened one day when I had to confront the thought of forgiving the person who had generated so much anger and hatred in my heart. I sat on my bed sobbing and as I turned up the volume on the television to disguise my anguish, I heard this loud and clear vocal chorus: “Make me an instrument of your peace, where there is hatred let me bring you love.” The prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, the penultimate prose in dichotomy! Indeed!

It happened one day, when I had to bid my mother farewell for the last time, finding no strength to shed any more tears, I found my youngest son smiling at me and singing one of his songs, “Don’t give up, just go on!” On that very moment, it troubled me that the only person who was capable of loving me unconditionally was gone forever; it took one glance at my child to know that another one has come to take her place.

It happens everyday at the break of dawn when the initial rays of the sunrise seeps through the remnants of darkness from the previous night. It happens when, at a certain moment, a transformation occurs. It happens when the ultimate obscurity is suddenly replaced with the utmost clarity! It happens when mere coincidences prove to be divine interventions!

How do I tell my cousin that the sense of bliss that she is now experiencing I had a great dose of that Sunday not so long ago when I finally decided to stop marveling at the stained glass windows. The same bliss has continuously flowed into my existence since!

I reached for the phone and finally found the strength to make my call. “Hello, I’m sorry but I think I’ll pass.” There was silence on the other end of the line. All I heard was that, “it’s okay, I understand.”

Perhaps, this experience is indeed another of one of those lessons in the dichotomies of life. Somehow, sometimes against all odds, the fear of facing an anticipated judgement is greeted instead by unexpected gesture of compassion. Perhaps finding the courage to say  “NO”, allows one the levity to say,  “Hello World, YES indeed, this is who I am!”

Independence Day too!

The universal struggle for Independence

                                                                                   

My ten-year-old fifth grade son came home one day and announced that he is going to be Nathan Hale for his class’ Wax Museum Social Studies project. They were learning about the patriots and the people who did heroic acts at the beginning of the 1700s. First off, I asked him “What’s a Wax Museum?” He quickly replied in his all knowing manner “Duh, Mom, a Wax Museum is when you pretend to be a wax replica of someone important!” I should have quit while I was ahead. However, for a true-blooded relentless mother, keeping my mouth shut was truly an ordeal. Naturally, I pursued the issue. So I asked again, “Who is Nathan Hale anyway?” My question was answered by another question rather quickly, “Mom, don’t you know anything?”

           

            Utter Annoyance would be an understatement in describing the expression that this gifted child tried so hard to conceal. So again, I asked  “Who is Nathan Hale and why did you pick him?” “Well, he answered, “I had to pick three names from a hat, I got Wyatt Earp, Ethan Allen and Nathan Hale.” “I didn’t know any of them but the teacher said that Nathan Hale was a spy, so I thought it would be interesting to study him.”

            I started making mental notes about these people.  It would have been easier if he picked Wyatt Earp.  Kevin Costner made a movie about him. I was convinced at that point, the research on this particular project would have only entailed watching a rather lengthy movie.  Compared to the extensive researching that my son has done in his previous projects, he could have just breezed through this one!

 With regards to Ethan Allen, a nationwide furniture retail chain was named after him. Although I wasn’t really familiar with his personal contributions, he had what retailers called “name brand recognition”. Consequently, the level of difficulty in gathering information regarding this guy would probably be on the low side.

 On the other hand, I have lived in America for over 20 years, not once have I ever heard of the name of Nathan Hale. I was a bit concerned about this and I then expressed my thoughts to this thirty five-year-old man caught in a ten-year-old body. As always, his reply came swiftly. “Who is Kevin Costner anyway?” “Honestly Mother, don’t you know anything?” I wasn’t quite sure about which thought bothered me more, the fact that I obviously didn't have any idea who Nathan Hale was or the fact that the actors that defined my generation are now considered obsolete!

            Reluctantly, I conceded, I really didn't know anything about these people. In fact, I really didn’t know anything much about the American History. Except for two college credit courses and occasionally viewing the History Channel, my exposure to the history of what we now call the United States of America is slightly over nil. I had to admit that my knowledge level is lower than that of a novice! The only logical explanation must be the “Immigrant excuse”. So I told my formidable “opponent”, to make a mental note that I was indeed an immigrant and any expectations of me knowing all the historic details of this adopted country of mine is just beyond the realm of possibility.

 “Well then”, he said, “do you know who the Filipino patriots are?” Amazingly, that question stumped me more that the Nathan Hale one. The mental pages went blank. Did I know who the patriots of my birth country were? I kept the competitive juices running. In my attempt to come up with an intelligent answer, an overwhelming sense of humility suddenly came rushing through my brain, for how could I go on arguing with this brilliant child if in my heart I knew that the only truthful answer was NO!

I started a mental roll call. “Well”, I said,  “there is Jose Rizal, he is the Philippine National Hero.” “So how did he become a hero?” my son asked.  Dr. Jose Rizal was a doctor who studied in Spain and wrote two popular novels that gave inspiration to the revolutionaries who were fighting for independence. The Spaniards eventually executed him and he has a monument in Luneta Park in Manila. Then there was Andres Bonifacio, he was the leader of the revolutionaries, and he tore his “cedula” (tax identification card) and armed with a mere “bolo” (locally crafted machete), he led the fight against the gun trotting Spaniards. There was even this man named Apolinario Mabini, he was known to be the “Dakilang Lumpo”, literally meaning the “Noble Lame”. Then there was also this formidable woman named Gabriela Silang who fought side by side along with her husband and the rest of the men in the fight of the Filipinos to be independent from Spanish occupation.

The only thing this eloquently opinionated boy could say was, “Interesting!” Then he added, “Why would the Filipinos call one of their heroes the “Lame”?”. “That term seems inappropriate don’t you think?” Indeed, I agreed, nowadays, that would be termed politically incorrect.  To honor someone’s greatness at the same time tag on a harsh judgement seems like the ultimate oxymoron!

My son spent next week researching the life and times of the man named Nathan Hale. Apparently, Nathan Hale was a scholar and the greatest volunteer spy in America’s fight for independence from the British. Before the week was over, my son was half way through writing his report. He came to me and said that it was quite interesting that Nathan Hale and Jose Rizal had a lot of things on common. Nathan Hale too was executed. His life was commemorated with had a bronze statue monument built in New York City. “Isn’t it strange”, he said, “ that these heroes from different countries were both fighting for independence and they both died the same way?”  “People aren’t so different after all!” he added.  Indeed, I thought.  For although there might not have been  a lot of commonality between these two men given their background and cultures, their conviction, their passion and their tremendous desire to stand for what they believed in, were essentially identical! Their struggle for freedom eventually lead them to making the most precious of all sacrifices, giving up their own mortality.

By the 4^th of July weekend, my son finished writing his report on Nathan Hale. I on the other hand had spent many a days surfing through the Internet for information regarding the Filipino Patriots I was not so familiar with. I turned off the Internet connection and started reading through my son’s patriot’s biography. I was pretty impressed with how my son presented the facts regarding young Nathan Hale. Suddenly, it dawned on me, if my son had existed during the time of the American Revolution or even before it, my son would have never known the greatness that Nathan Hale had done for his country’s fight for freedom. The thoughts started streaming through my mind. If I had lived during the Philippine Revolution, given the same set of convictions as Gabriela Silang, I would have willingly fought beside her. Perhaps, that would have been a lifetime so greatly lived. However, like my son, I wouldn’t have known the incredible spirit that drove such a courageous woman to fight with the men as an equal.

 But for a glitch in the universal time continuum, my ten-year-old son and I are right now looking at each other’s eyes. Our individual lifelines have brought us here, at this very moment, in the most modern of times! We had both gotten to know the patriots who have come before us. We have learned what drove their spirits and the precious gift they have all given us both, the opportunity to live a life in freedom.

 For if it were not for the Nathan Hales, the Jose Rizals and the Gabriela Silangs of this world, there wouldn’t be a lot of liberties my son and I would be allowed to do. Like being able to speak out own minds, believe in our own spirituality and pledge our allegiance to the country of our choice.

Spanning lifetimes and class structures, people’s biographies seem to exist in parallels. Given various periods in history, people fought for the same ideals, sacrificed their lives for the same principles. A patriot’s battle had freed enslaved souls through the centuries, in all of the corners of this earth.

A certain Filipina’s love for her husband and country drove her to muster all the strength that she had, not only to fight her captors but more importantly to break the stereotypical gender limitations and judgement that her culture and religion had so unjustly bestowed upon her. Gabriela’s story could very well have been any woman’s story! Ask any woman!

After perusing through thousands of pages of self-help books and years of customizing my own spirituality, I had a great defining moment!  I realized that as a person, I had always struggled with the search for the answer to the penultimate question, “What is it that I came here to this universe to do?”

In my life’s journey neither the pride of completing a formal education nor the satisfaction of having a successful career seem to have completely put that question to rest. Alas, even motherhood did not seem to quell the need for searching. However, from this experience I realized that perhaps, a lifetime’s worth is not measured for the definition that was given to it, but the effort that was given to making someone else’s passage more meaningful.

Perhaps that the essence of one’s lifetime doesn’t lie on whether you find what it is that you came here to do, but merely to know that you are paving the way for someone to be able to live their lifetime in a much less restrictive set of rules!  Perhaps, what the patriot’s were fighting for was not for his or her own liberties but for the freedom of those who would come after them. Perhaps, the quest for meaning isn’t as important as the willingness and generosity to lead the way for some other soul to find their way. Such a liberating concept indeed!

 I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling of reverence for all those who have come before me. For how would certain people named Nathan Hale, Jose Rizal or Gabriela Silang have known that in another realm of reality, in a different time of existence, there will be two people in the 21^st century, finding inspiration from the struggles that defined their biographies.

For someone who has been obsessing about the finding the real meaning of life, I couldn't help but appreciate the irony of how this gigantic realization has been presented to me. Who would have known that the source of the greatest cathartic experience in my life would be derived from be a discussion about a fifth grade social studies project!

 ***

           

            

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Winn-ER son!!!

In HIS EYES

He screamed with all his might as he heralded his arrival into this world. The man standing beside the doctor was speechless as he stared at his newborn son! At that very moment, the presence of this life form in front of him has made him a father once again. A father to a second son!

The nurse practitioner checked him out and after counting his fingers and toes, she declared with much delight, “He’s perfect!”

He came with a full set of deep dark brown hair crowning the most perfect baby head, framing the most perfect baby face.  He came in the most perfect way, perhaps, the only thing he needed at the time of his arrival, was a perfect haircut!

He was named after one of the greatest Bolivian Soccer players, a superstar athlete, his parents never even knew existed until a couple of minutes before his journey to the outer world commenced. Until the very hour he was to be born, his parents were still undecided on what to name him. They had known that “it” was going to be a boy. The World Cup of 1994 was on and they watched as this Bolivian wonderboy of soccer scored a goal, his name flashed all over the Hospital TV monitor. Erwin “Plantini” Sanchez, his name was, that world-class soccer player, so Erwin the baby’s name was to be.

His mother had always wanted the name “Nathaniel”, “meaning a precious gift from God.” So it had come to pass that this mighty creature was to be named Erwin Nathaniel. It might have been coincidental or perhaps a touch of fate, the baby’s name derived from a champion, ERWIN added to it the middle initial N had become the anagram of the word WINNER! Both parents smiled as they realized this, indeed the greatest beginning one could hope for!

Erwin passed all his physical milestones with flying colors. In some, like crawling and walking, he shattered the record that his older brother set.  He did all of his “firsts” earlier than what was considered “normal range”.  He was a climber with a great sense of balance. This sure-footed toddler always mounted his landings! His parents thought that a future gymnast was definitely in their midst.

Even his first words came earlier than when his older brother uttered his, no baby talk, clearly and distinctly he said “bubbles”. He would also call “daddy” whenever he wanted to be tickled.

            Sometime between 18 months old and his second birthday, Erwin had become quieter. Although still extremely active, his speech development seemed to have been stalled. The once “talkative” baby had suddenly stopped talking. His vocabulary didn’t increase. In fact, the extent of his verbal language seemed to have lessened considerably. Everyone noticed that he had become introspective. He had become for most parts, an observer rather than a participant. The vibrant twinkle in his eyes had been replaced with intense focus on anything that he chose to gaze upon.

When his second birthday passed and then his third, his parents knew for a fact that there had to be something “wrong” with their wonderboy!  For although he seemed to comprehend everything that was being communicated to him, he didn’t seem to have the ability to express what it was that he needed to say. So began his parent’s quest for answers. They insisted for him to be tested, but his pediatricians didn’t think there was anything to be worried about. After all, he was a boy and in general, boys tend to develop language at a later stage.

His parents viewed videos taken of his older brother when he was two and a half. The first-born son was already speaking in sentences and engaging in conversations at that age. Erwin’s spoken language was limited to a couple of words.  Pointing and grunting had made up for his lack of words. Again, his parents attempted to ask the pediatricians to have him tested. Once again, the experts said that there was not much indication that there was anything wrong with him. Besides, they were a Filipino family and from what the professionals knew, bilingual children usually developed language later too.

Frustrated with the system that won’t allow them to have their son assessed, Erwin’s parents took on a “vigilante” way of approaching this issue. Numerous hours were spent researching, finding anything that might provide a definition to what was wrong with their son. They were determined to find a way to put a label on this “thing” that seemed to be limiting their son’s ability to speak his brilliant mind!

On the next baby well care check-up, his mother brought massive documentation that she found on the Internet and presented them to the pediatrician. There were a couple of diagnoses that could fit the symptoms that their son had.  Nothing definitive though, except somewhere in the hundred pages or so of computer printout, it indicated that due to his severe language delay, her son was somewhere between someone having mild auditory problems to someone having severe neurological abnormality.

The pediatrician finally agreed to authorize some tests to be conducted. And thus Erwin’s evaluation “saga” began.  It started with a simple audiology test. The results were conclusive, he could hear! The tests escalated to having to meet professionals that all had the letters “ists” in their titles: Audiologists, Psychologists, Psychiatrists, Neurologists, Pathologists and all other kinds of therapists, Speech and otherwise! There seemed to be a non-ending supply of so-called experts who were willing to pass on a diagnosis to this precocious toddler!

After the dust settled, there were numerous high profile signatures attached to the twenty-five-page document that comprised Erwin’s diagnosis. “PDD-NOS, Pervasive Development Disorder, Not Otherwise Specified” was the official label to this “thing” that made this little boy so different from his peers. From the research that the parents did, they knew that this was some sort of a “basket” diagnosis. In layman’s terms, simply meant, the experts didn’t have any idea on what was wrong with him exactly, thus the Not Otherwise Specified hyphenated qualifier tagged to it.

  The coordinator that managed the whole evaluation sat with Erwin’s parents and started with a disclaimer: although he didn’t exhibit all the symptoms associated with the diagnosis, he did exhibit some. Because of his severe language delay, he had been categorized as having symptoms of Autism.  PDD-NOS was under the umbrella of the Autism spectrum of diagnoses. The coordinator further warned them that if they desired to seek any kind of service at all, a diagnosis MUST be rendered!

A diagnosis MUST be handed, so a diagnosis MUST be accepted. Erwin was officially labeled with the dreaded “A” word!  With enormous mixed feelings, Erwin’s parents wasted no time in finding a proper school placement for him, which in simple language meant, another round of unending tests! As if the rigorous hospital evaluations weren’t enough, another set of professional “ISTS” had the need to add on their signatures to the already binder thick diagnosis report.

A month shy of his fourth birthday, a placement was finally found, Erwin started going to a special education class that geared their curriculum to children much like him, living in silence, interacting in a world that didn’t seem to cater to who they were.

            His parents, in their desperate desire to custom fit the world for their language-challenged son, began to put up their defenses for the world that seemed to judge them for having borne a somewhat “peculiar” child. The misinformed family members passed on harsh judgments of equating the diagnosis with some sort of punishment for their past transgressions, whatever those might have been! Their heritage that took pride and put much emphasis in the legacy of excellence, didn’t quite know how to deal with such an “imperfect” child. However, in the parallel universe that Erwin was trekking on, he showed them an impeccable sense of perception, an innate knowing of what is and what would be. On that first day of school, as he took his mother’s hand, although no words were uttered, his mother heard what his heart was saying, she heard it loud and clear, “Come follow me, let me lead the way!”

A constant justification of his quirkiness ensued. Every little abnormality was blamed on his diagnosis, in retrospect though the so called-abnormalities were just simply characteristics of any new arrival trying to get to know his brand new world!

The issue about the “lack of eye contact” has always been a point of contention. Erwin’s gaze never lacked for contact. On the contrary, he remains focused on the gaze of those speaking to him. He continues to be engrossed in the moment and attempts to absorb everything that the other person tries to impart. He listens with intent to those who care enough to share their wisdom with him. In his parents’ native culture where “looking in the eye” is an indication of lack of respect, Erwin’s steady gaze has actually proven to be more of a judgment for the lack of decorum. On more than one occasion, when his elders commented about his eye contact, they didn’t complain about the quirkiness of it all, on the contrary they were critical of his parents for allowing him to be too confrontational, which was apparently very un-Filipino! Undeniably, it is with enormous regret that these elders who have spent their whole lives wallowing in their own miseries fail to see that with Erwin’s innate generosity, he offers nothing but his total undivided attention, something, most of them so rarely receive from anyone else!

            As his parents reluctantly accepted his diagnosis and the limitations that were associated with it, they were prepared to live a life in the midst of a child’s disability. They didn’t know where to find the courage to face such an uncertain future. They were bracing for the worst that was yet to come, instead as luck would have it, they found themselves entrenched in a world where days were highlighted with small wonders. They found themselves in a world where defiance to expert assessment was enough testament to merit miracles. His parents found themselves amazed as Erwin gradually showed them the enchantment of his world!

Being in their son’s presence brought a large dose of calmness, the intensity of which they had never experienced in their over-scheduled world. Erwin had a deep sense of serenity in his eyes that his parents, continually mesmerized by his gaze, couldn’t help but re-learn to trust, trust in their instincts and trust in the knowledge that this magnificent being came here for the all the right reasons. Many a times, circumstances proved that he came here to teach them, challenge their beliefs and in the process, enhance their world.

Gradually, his parents learned to abandon the knee-jerk defensive reaction to shield him from the outside world. For those who are fortunate enough to be in his presence, Erwin’s limitless ability for compassion, his ability to systematically ignore the mundane and his heightened awareness of the essential opened up a more majestic view of the universe.

 Inasmuch as his parents wanted to put up the highest barrier for his protection from the meanness of their world, Erwin’s compassion wouldn’t allow them to isolate him from the so-called “normal” world. Instead, in dealing with the rigors of living in a world that labeled him “abnormal”, he responded with the only kind of love he was capable of giving. The kind that was pure, untainted and unadulterated, the only kind that could bring down all the emotional barriers between him and the people who insisted for him to be just like them.

Words like betrayal and fear didn’t exist in his world. Instead, he had an elevated level of unwavering trust. Every time he graciously reaches out for your hand, he declares, “I trust you with everything that I am!”

For his “normal” parents who have been callously pained by all too many betrayals of trust, this intense honesty that their son was capable of expressing was a much-needed antidote for their seemingly dishonest, poisoned world!

In Erwin’s world there was no such thing as “idle chat”. Each word uttered, carefully selected. Each word spoken, sincerely meant. Each moment of silence, spent in retrospection! Never does he waste any sentences to pass judgment on others, nor does he waste any thoughts on ostracizing those, whose convictions are not like his. Instead, he has a strong sense of “feeling” the presence of those around him. For those who are generous with their resources, emotions and otherwise, he is attracted to, for those whose energies are completely self-absorbed, he instinctively repels from. However, unlike most of us who mask our instincts, to mold the “repulsive” person in our own image of them, Erwin and many who are like him have a great sense of respect for those who just want to “be.” Without prejudice and not an ounce of effort to change anyone, they step aside and with their whole being declare, “I respect you enough to let you, be you!” In his world of non-verbal communication, there is no other kind of acceptance but that of the unconditional one!

The silence in Erwin’s parallel universe is a far cry from the noise-ridden airwaves that dominate the “normal” person’s day. Perhaps, it is this precious gift of silence that allows him to focus on the essential bonuses that make his world wonderful.  The vibrant colors of the rainbow, the fluttering wings of the butterfly, the fascinating marching ants, the amazing feeling of having a drop of rain land on the tip of your tongue and last but not least, the natural rhythm of a humming and nurturing universe…these things, his parents have forgotten to appreciate until he came and served as a reminder.

 In his world of silent prayer, every sentence describing the sensationally simple is an expression of gratitude. In his world of silent meditation, adjectives like beautiful, amazing and wonderful when learned are used with a great sense of appreciation. How many of us have used these adjectives to describe our world lately? Perhaps, but a few!

As Erwin’s parents attempted to re-define their own world with what he has brought into their lives, they both realized that perhaps, the world they so wanted their child to fit in didn’t seem worthy enough for such a graceful, magnificent soul! Perhaps, this enchanting world of silence is how they wish their own world would be.  Perhaps, the attributes of this wonderfully non-judgmental world where truth and love reign was how their own world ought to be! 

Just as the season changed, the parallel world that his parents existed in was altered dramatically too. Their season of transformation had begun. For undoubtedly, Erwin’s reason for being is to provide a glimpse of perfection in their seemingly imperfect world!

So instead of mourning for the loss of their son’s future, instead of grieving for the loss of their dreams, Erwin’s parents have learned to celebrate his diversity from the norm. They have learned to “let go”, let go of their fears, let go of the expectations that society insist on imposing upon them. They have once again learned to trust, trust in the generosity of a loving, supportive and an abundant universe. They have once again learned to live in the truth, truth that is communicated not in the myriad of words but with the enormity of feelings.  With the help of a gentle touch from their incredible son, they have begun to view their own world in diamond shaped angles, where the light emanates nothing but brilliance!

There is something so endearingly familiar with this story. Perhaps because I am one of the fortunate few who have been in the presence of Erwin’s magnificence. I have lived in his midst and felt the greatest testament to what is. I have looked into his eyes and seen his lust for life.  I have been gazed upon by his eyes and viewed the reflection of his passion for the wonderfully mundane!

I was there when he arrived perfectly packaged!  I am his mother, the one who wanted him to be named, Nathaniel,  “The precious gift from God”. Indeed, a bequest derived from divine perfection!

Like any woman who has borne a child in this planet we fondly call Mother Earth, I am apprehensive about my son’s future. However, I do not dwell on that thought for I realized early on that there really is no such thing as a “secure” future. I have been witness to fully endowed lives that have been lived half-full.  I now find myself in the midst of lives that have been professionally labeled as “limited”, however made extraordinary by the sheer determination to survive. For it is not important what you have been given, it is what you do with what has been given to you that is essential!

The day they branded my son as deficient was the day I likened my motherhood to Alice who landed in Wonderland! Before my son’s diagnosis, I was never intent on learning about the biographies of the “eccentrically” great, the likes of Albert Einstein, Michelangelo and Andy Warhol. Their documented lives chronicle symptoms of Autism. In addition to their greatness, they all shared the traits of having been late-talkers as children and all three were extremely uncomfortable in crowds as adults. The most striking characteristic they had in common was the intensity of their focus to their chosen vocation. For if you think about it, what “normal” person can spend years atop a church, away from the maddening devotees, to create such a masterpiece as the Sistine Chapel ceiling?  What “common” man can visualize the flawless beauty of the statue of David in an ordinary slab of Italian marble?  What regular patent clerk can get intrigued enough to figure out the Theory of Relativity? On the same trend of thinking, which “average Joe” can find the existential meaning of life by painting a giant version of a Campbell’s soup can?

I do not have currencies by the millions to start a foundation to find a cure for what ails my child. I am but a lowly suburban mother who has dedicated her time and energy to easing her child’s transition to the rigors of normal society. I am a woman who in the process has found the most vital piece of her humanity, the one that defined the purpose by which she chose to be in this lifetime in the first place.

I do not have a grand illusion of educating the masses about my son’s “disabilities” in order to justify his existence or that of mine. I do however have a dire need to share my experience. I would like to put whatever wisdom I might have garnered from this process, somewhere in this world’s consciousness. I would like the rest of the “normal” world to know that there is a parallel universe where a multitude of “non-normal” exist, where mundane rules do not apply and where boundaries are perceived as nothing but indicators of achievement.

History has generously provided us with their splendor. Their eccentricity has produced most of what we now treasure as masterpieces. Unfortunately for them though, the only entrance ticket that the normal society is willing to accept is for these so-called misfits to be nothing less than absolute geniuses.

Perhaps, in being able to chronicle my son’s life, I can pay homage to the millions of children who have been branded like him and their parents who have been harshly judged like us.  Perhaps, in rejoicing in my son’s astonishing endeavors despite the disability that limits him, I can somehow express the deepest of gratitude to the teachers, caseworkers, therapists and all of the people who have offered their compassion along the way. Perhaps, in being able to slightly open the door to such a world, those who may choose to enter might have a glimpse of divinity!

I do not know where my enigmatic son’s roller-coaster path of enchantment will eventually lead us, but so far, it has been a heck of a ride!

Old Favorite- Embracing the 'Kayumanggi' in Me

Embracing the Kayumanggi in “Me”

I needed to have some business portraits made. After almost two years of searching for my next great “step”, I finally stumbled into something that might bring vitality into my otherwise mundane existence. So I headed out to a studio. The last time a professional photographer took my pictures was on my wedding day, twelve years ago. I glanced at the mirror image before me and I thought, not bad, a couple of years older, a few pounds heavier, nothing really strikingly disturbing, and nothing that a couple of high tech studio lighting could not fix.

A couple of days later, I got my proofs back. First thought that came to mind: could this be me? Who was this person? There was no way that this middle aged matronly looking woman could be me! I stared at the proofs for what seemed to be a lifetime. Is this who I have become?  Oh my God, I have become my Mother!

My son asked to see the proofs. He smiled and said, “It’s nice MOM!” With an even bigger smile he said “You look like Lolo (grandpa) with long hair!” I didn't really know how to react. A part of me wanted to hug him, a bigger part of me wanted to strangle him!

I continued the day fulfilling the requirements of my life. But somehow, I tried to find the answer to the nagging question: Who was that woman in the picture? I tried to find solace by looking up old photographs. It is debatable whether this brought answers or generated more questions. I found some pictures taken at my debutante’s ball. Whatever happened to the image of the bubbly and vivacious 18-year-old, I knew and loved? I looked at my business portrait once again. What I saw before me as an image although not personal, was indeed very familiar.

The stance, the demeanor and the maturity all seemed to remind me of someone I knew, but I couldn’t quite identify exactly. It suddenly occurred to me, that the familial feeling was generated from remembering the middle aged Filipino women in wedding parties, I so amusingly chastised. “Them”, whose number of fingers didn’t seem to be enough for all the pieces of jewelry they wore. “Them”, who always seemed to manage to wear sequined outfits. “Them”, who seemed to come alive when the “Achy Breaky heart” slide music came about the loudspeakers. Then it hit me like a ton of chocolate covered bricks… I have become one of “them”!

Once again, I stared at the image before me, and asked myself who this person really was. I obviously didn’t know who she was, nor have I thought much about her lately.   I spent the rest of the night tracing this woman’s life passage. I referred to her as “this woman”, as a third person, I still couldn’t quite reconcile her image with mine.

As a young girl, this woman in the portrait felt different but tried to fit into a culture where conformity was the gauge of normalcy. She grew up amidst the dichotomy of a third world economy of the filthy rich and the desperately poor. The elite personified by the “Mestizo” class, where anyone who had a tinge of Caucasian blood and money belonged. The ruling class made up of half-breeds speaking in various combinations of foreign languages that made the natives constantly ill at ease.

On the other side of the spectrum were the “natives”, also referred to by the 300-year-colonizing Spaniards as the “Indios”. Practically, a class where anyone who had a tinge of Malay feature and/or darker melanin coloring by default belonged! In essence, the majority of the citizenry of this tropical-nation was considered “Indio”.

This young girl never understood why being “kayumanggi” (dark skinned) in a whole archipelago of “kayumanggis” was detrimental to one’s self-esteem. Because she wasn’t “maputi” (light skinned), she was automatically disqualified from being a member of the “A” list. Short of having the aquiline nose and the creamy white skin, the rite of passage that seemed to allow one to become a card carrying member of the elite class was to ridicule anything Filipino. With her generation the terminology of the social classes was altered.  “Sosyal”, was the term used to refer to those who could relate to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. “Baduy”, on the other hand was an ultra-derogatory label used for anything or anyone that was remotely associated with the indigenous culture that defined the Philippine Islands! The words “proud” and “being Filipino” were seldom used in the same sentence!

The reruns of American primetime television shaped this young girl’s ideals of family and life in general. The values of the “Eight is Enough” and “Little House on the Prairie”, the fashion sense of the “Charlie’s Angels”, the musical acumen of Donny and Marie Osmond. Even now, as “this woman” attempts to retrieve memories of Filipino television in the 70’s, she could only come up with one: RPN 9 Evening News with Harry Gasser!

This young woman could have participated in endless discussions about the OSCAR winning movies of those years, having watched and enjoyed most of them. However, ask her anything about the Filipino movies during that time and her mind suddenly transitions to Alzheimer’s mode: blank! Totally blank!

She felt early on that she didn’t quite belong in her native country. As a teen-ager, her goal to achieve perfection in her self-image was brainwashed by American movies and television. As a young woman, her ideal everything was anything American. So the United States where Americans lived and breathed seemed to be the most logical place for her to be in. So she went.

In America, she found her “voice”. In America, she belonged. In America, her “kayumanggi” looks weren’t looked down upon. On the contrary, her looks were considered exotic! In America, she was given a once in a lifetime chance to “have it all!”

In this new land, her hard earned education and perseverance bought her a piece of the American dream: a mortgage, a husband, 2 kids and a retirement plan.

 In America, women and minority were given certain privileges, in theory at least. The opportunities were abound! She had blossomed into a woman by then and her ethnicity was in the minority. So she felt confident at last! That is, until her path lead her to Daly City, California where everything Filipino was anything but the minority! 

At this point in her life, having lived in America for what seemed to be a lifetime, she was homesick for anything Filipino. She gravitated towards Filipino food, Filipino friends and to her surprise, Filipino movies. She even found herself totally engrossed in Filipino politics. In short, she dared to become the Filipino she never was.

Her circle of friends’ also expatriates in America spent many a night reminiscing what it was like “home”. They recounted memories of street merchants who invented the meaning of “fast food” delivery. Indiana Jones like adventures navigating through the floodwaters of Manila were often told.  Each one had amusing tales to tell! And despite the proliferation of the mega fast food chains in the streets of the America, the cravings for “merienda” kept them going back to the most sacred of places: Goldilocks!

The island memories became a source of warmth in the cold winter nights and rays of sunlight a midst the thick fog that enveloped the hills of this land in the Bay Area they all now called home!

The irony of it all was, this young woman who was too Americanized to be a Filipino in the Philippines has become too Filipino to be an American in America! Her journey has come full circle, years of denying her heritage in her homeland has been replaced with an unconditional acceptance that a gigantic part of the person she has become was attributed to the culture she so personally revolted against.

Now, as she traverses another phase of her journey, she struggles to survive the challenges of parenting her first generation Filipino-American children. In the land of the plenty, she champions the character building benefits of having grown up deprived. In the land of diversity, she attempts to keep her homogeneous heritage alive. In this land of immigrants, she advocates the tenacity and the unparalleled work ethic of the migrant spirit. And surprisingly, in this land of the Americans, she recalls fond memories of a home so nurturing that in the midst of numerous sleepless nights she wonders why she left it in the first place!

As I attempted to find peace in my elusive slumber, I once again glanced at the image of the woman in front of me. Reality settled in and I sighed at her sight, indeed, I have become her! And although her experience might have been influenced by exposure to foreign entities, her choices and the decision to be…is definitely, undoubtedly and most especially, proudly Filipino!

2014!

New year new blog site!

A younger and more dynamic self created bigmamadiva.blogspot.com a couple years ago. The older and a much less dynamic one can't remember the email associated with that blog, so a new one has been created!