Thursday, May 8, 2014

Men Opposed!

Men Opposed

The weather forecast warned that another winter storm was on its way. With all practicality and indication, the storm had already descended heavily upon our valley neighborhood. Three consecutive weekends of torrential rain had made me weak and depressed. I attempted to continue watching television. However, the thought of vegetating on the couch offered me limited solace from the bleakness of the day. There was really nothing worthwhile to watch anyway. The shows that dominated the airwaves ranged from the nap-inducing golf tournaments to the high-intensity football games. Another weekend of macho programming ensued. There was really nothing else to do on that wet weekend afternoon but to find something worthwhile to spend my time in.

As I darted to my bedroom to escape to dreamland, I saw my computer and decided to find company on the Internet instead. I searched for possible cures for the winter blues. Shopping it seemed, was the most popular antidote for boredom and despair. Nevertheless, I had no intentions of turning an otherwise bleak afternoon to an expensive one!  I clicked on a couple of women-related links, still hoping to find exciting but inexpensive ideas that would have alleviated my otherwise dull-drum filled day.

There was an interesting site about ways of enhancing the memory after the age of 35! I certainly needed to know useful tips regarding this matter, for it seemed that the ultra-photographic memory I once thought I had, has gone on a steady deterioration mode! My brain seems to be having a lot of difficulty retaining just about anything nowadays!

There were also a couple of links to herbal treatments for anything that ailed parts of the woman’s body I didn’t even know existed! And yes, there were also numerous links to websites that were dedicated to anything relating to menopause. Oh pardon me, I stand corrected not numerous, there were tons of them!

I was quite intrigued. I haven’t been feeling like my “normal” self lately. According to one of the websites that I visited, the symptoms of menopause can manifest themselves as early as ten years before the actual occurrence. Ten years! Perhaps the hypochondriac in me assumed, that I was being peri-menopausal! Somehow, an unknown powerful force just guided me through the hundreds of links. Just as soon as I clicked on one of the other highlighted links, my pre-pubescent son walked in and asked about what I was reading. I said I was reading about MENOPAUSE.

“Why are you opposed to men?” my son blurted.

I didn’t quite understand what he meant, so I asked him to repeat what he just said.

He asked me again, “Why are you opposing men?”

He then added, “Aren’t you reading about MEN OPPOSED?

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. I realized that indeed, what I was reading about might have very well been entitled, “Links to opposition to men in general!” Perhaps, it is quite fitting that the two terms sounded so similar! Perhaps, menopause is a phase in a woman’s life when she finally gets out of the confines of the male dominated society that has forced a definition of a subservient sense of self.  Perhaps, this was the stage in life when she finally comes to her own. Perhaps, as her ability to procreate ceases, her ability to recreate herself commences.  And so I pondered on how this stage of life has brought about a new meaning in my survival as a woman. I traced the history of how I have been defined in context to the MEN in my life.

To start with, on the day I was born, I was greeted by the universal mixed feelings of a father who although was ecstatic with his first born child, had a tinge of disappointment when the doctor declared, “It is a girl!”

Like all men who have become a father on every continent on this whole wide world, he secretly wished that he had a son instead. Okay, perhaps, I am getting carried away. I guess in legal terms, this statement is a hearsay, I don’t actually know if my father felt that way but throughout my childhood, although I never doubted his dedication to me, there were many times when I saw the pride in his eyes when he reveled in the accomplishments of someone else’s son.

Case in point: my father was a proud graduate of the most prestigious military academy in the country of my heritage. My impression was, along with allegiance and service to their country, each and every graduate of this elite military school had a personal dedication to protect the integrity of their beloved institution. I always felt that each one took on the serious responsibility of providing the next generation of the finest marching military men. What a better way to achieve their goal than to groom their sons to follow in their hallowed footsteps! This premise explains the fact that in our household, it always became front-page news when one of my father’s fellow alumni’s sons made it to the highly competitive military school. There was a collective sense of pride when one of their sons continued on the highly revered tradition.

Perhaps, it was because I could never be one of those sons that I felt sensitive about this particular aspect of our family life. I knew some of those venerated sons and compared to me, they were nothing but sloppy, pimpled faced and academically inept male individuals. All these embodiment of the textbook definition of losers had going for them was the proper alumni last name!   I felt that I could have taken any of them down, emotionally, academically and some with all modesty, perhaps even physically.

Although, I always thought that “all that I was” deserved a little more credit, in reality they didn't have to be more than just a boy to deserve the much coveted adoration from the generation that sired them!  In essence, short of having an actual sex change, the truth was, there was nothing I could have ever done or could ever do that would change the fact, that my mere gender disqualified me from having given my father his shot to fulfill the goal that each and every military man of his beloved alma mater so desperately wanted to achieve!

Even my name had to be that of my father’s choosing. I was named after my grandmother, his dearly adored mother.  Like millions of generations of women before me, I carried my father’s last name, the very name passed on by his father before him. My father was the junior son of a senior father. The day after I was born, my parents started planning on having a child who could be named with the Roman numeral “III” attached to it! Unfortunately or perhaps by mere coincidence, the siblings never came and I grew up as an only child. I never heard it said out loud, nevertheless, on numerous occasions, it was inferred that with me, the last name would go into eternal oblivion!

My elders counted their potential progeny as a direct proportion to the number of grandsons they had, as if granddaughters didn’t actually count for anything! There was an unmentionable truth that boys were generally more welcomed than girls. Ironic though, that in my family where the majority of the four generations of the women earned graduate degrees, in most cases, more educationally advanced than their male counterparts, there was still a thin veil of an unspoken feeling of inadequacy. I felt that there was a collective sense of inferiority complex, not due to anything that was directly related to academic excellence, but because we as women, will bear children who will never carry the much-revered family name.

Through my teen-age years, I grew up with numerous rambunctious male cousins who were allowed to just be who they were. After all, boys will always be boys. Another of those unmentionable truths that hyperactive boys were generally more tolerated than the dainty girls. I was personally offended by the rules that applied exclusively for girls. The boys were never questioned about coming home at late night hours. I resented the fact that although I had as much energy as the boys and had always wanted to play outside as long as they did, like any good girl in the neighborhood, I was required to go home way before the sun set. As much as I was popular with the other kids in our neighborhood, I was only known as the younger girl cousin of the pubescent boys who by then, had the reputation to mesmerize the girls at the same time terrorize their parents!

The concept of boys was a none-issue in the all-girls Catholic grade school I attended. In high school though, my mother had the great sense of sending me to a co-ed institution thinking that it would provide me a more psychologically balanced adolescent experience. She enrolled me in a school with a highly academic advanced math and science programs. I competed with the smartest of the smartest, regardless of gender! Even then, there was an underlying inequality on how girls were perceived. The intelligent girls were always labeled as studious, hard working and bookish. As if girls were endowed with only half a brain that they needed to study harder than their male counterparts to compensate for the dumber half!

            The few boys who landed on the honor roll however were tagged as brilliant and borderline geniuses! Even though it bothered me that girls were always afforded a secondary billing, I never complained, for at that time, I had begun to start liking the boys too much to argue about their worth!

The story remained pretty much the same as I transitioned to the college campus. By then, my academic success was directly proportional to whether I had a significant relationship during the semester or not. I had to redefine educational excellence not only with regards to my family’s expectations of me, in addition, I had to inject into that equation, my perception of how valuable my success was, in relation to my significant other’s meaning of it and how it affected his life.

As a woman in her 20’s, I contained my existence to the search for Mr. Right, or so it would seem. Although my descendants will never be able to carry the family name, they were highly anticipated, nevertheless.  An appropriate wedding was to be a part of my foreseeable future.  The fact that a marriage was to be a part of my destiny was a foregone conclusion and I didn't have any control over being able to transform it to a hopeful assumption! An inescapable requirement to fulfill! As a result, I ended up always second-guessing myself. Although the flames of ambition burned through every fiber in my being, I was always cautioned by my elders to be wary of being too successful, in the fear that too many professional accolades traditionally scares the good men away!

In my late 20’s when neither an engagement nor a wedding had been announced on my behalf, the elders began to show a heightened sense of anxiety.  It really didn't matter if I had become the youngest and only female engineer in my department. Never mind, that I managed to break pass the barrier of the proverbial “glass ceiling”. There was never a mention of any expression of pride for a job well done! There were no celebratory events to express any appreciation for one hometown girl who seemed to have conquered the highly competitive and intricate engineering world. There were numerous references however, on cousin’s weddings and friends’ children’s fiances!

 I was especially amused and rightly annoyed when my mother would add and emphasize the “younger than you” qualifier, as if getting married was supposed to be a chronologically scheduled event!

When finally I found the Prince Charming who would put an end to my perceived miserable single life, everyone rejoiced! Or should I say, everyone heaved a heavy collective sigh of relief! Never mind if I was in the midst of an important project, the completion of which would propel my career to heights I could only imagine! I finally had an engagement to announce and a wedding day to look forward to. Apparently, according to the elders again, those were the two major milestones a woman my age prepared for and focused on her whole life, everything else came secondary!

The highly anticipated wedding day finally came and on that day, I officially became the Mrs. of Mr. Right. Although I was content in just keeping the name my father handed on to me, surprisingly my mother was the one who said that if I did, I would be disrespecting my husband’s family. Taking on the name of the man you married apparently was a sign of allegiance, a symbol of dedication to the new family you are seeking membership in. As if pledging my whole life and my entire future to this man weren't enough, I had to suffer through the pains of changing my name on all pertinent documents that society required me to identify myself. Just when I thought I had finally gotten comfortable with “who” I had become as a person, the so-called societal etiquette forced me to take on another identity!

I had to change the only name I ever known and responded to ever since the day I was born! To this very day, when people call me as a “Mrs.” used in conjunction with my husband’s last name, I still do not respond, partly because I still haven’t gotten used to it, partly because I still think people are referring to my mother-in-law instead!

The months following my wedding day, everyone in our family meticulously monitored the pattering of “little feet”.  After the announcement that I was finally on the “family way”, my parents focused on the arrival of the anxiously awaited grandchild. Once again, it didn't seem to make a dent on my family’s psyche that I was being groomed to become the main engineering manager at work. A feat only few brave women have dared to pursue!

As it is always the case when an intersection in life is reached, multiple paths suddenly become available for passage! At that point in my life, the ultimate reward for a lifelong work of servitude to my chosen profession was being compromised by two little words: maternity leave.

For some reason as soon as everyone found out about my impending motherhood, the professional expectations suddenly diminished. I was looked at by my peers not as an equal, but a walking excuse to express the pent-up “oohs and ahs”, they desperately needed to get out of their systems. Even my superior, whom I admired because of his tenacity, suddenly became so fatherly. The boss that I respected with all the integrity I had left in my bulging body, had been transformed to an expectant grandfather figure, all giggly and goo-goo eyed!!!

In a world where the feat of bearing a son was enormous, the respect that is afforded to someone who had actually given birth to one is completely over the top! Giving birth to a first-born son was indeed an ultimate achievement. With the birth of my child, I was alleviated to a higher level of regard. I had delivered the descendant who would assure the continuous survival of the families that brought my husband and I into this world!

Perhaps it was the hopeful elation of becoming a mother that I gave me a strong sense of redemption from my past transgressions. Most likely though, it was the surge of post-partum hormones that gave me the feeling of renewal. I felt that I was forgiven for everything wrong that I had ever done in the life. Having borne a son was my all-purpose eraser to clean out my slate. All of the frustration that anyone ever felt about me suddenly vanished! I was after all, the mother of an heir-apparent to all the good that was ever garnered by the two families that genetically merged upon the conception of my son!

With the utmost of pride, I had provided my mother her much anticipated and much deserved “bragging rights” every grandmother was entitled to. More importantly, I had provided my father the right to enliven the hope of having to redeem his stake on having a descendant in the roster of graduates of his much-adored military school.

There was even more emotional accolades bestowed upon me when a little less than 24 months after, I had given birth to another son! And like the British line of royal succession, I had provided a second male heir. For that reason alone, I was officially regarded and treated with the entire royal trappings of being a “Queen Mother!”

After the princes came “barging” into my life, even I had a change of heart. The desire to shatter the glass ceiling was replaced with enormous yearning to carefully not shatter baby glass bottles! I too, wanted to forget the long hours of satisfying professional banter I had become very familiar with. I too, wanted to turn my back on the years of sweating deadlines, the very source of much-needed excitement in my life for what seemed to be a whole lifetime! Suddenly, the complicated had become trivial and mundane. Fulfillment came in changing soiled diapers and burping babies! My brain which endured years of highly technical training to decipher intricate engineering jargons could no longer comprehend beyond the words: “Once upon a time!”

Perhaps, looking back, I admit to having issues about being afforded accolades that were dependent on the value given to my life by the male species that surrounded me. Perhaps, the irony of now finding “myself” amidst the lives of three men is nature’s ultimate expression of humor and hopefully, gratitude. Perhaps, having sons are nature’s way of providing a generous commendation for a life lived in boring obedience to all that was expected and all that was deemed by society as right! Perhaps, having these two wonderful bouncing baby boys is the world’s sign of approval for all of the times I was tempted by the exciting and dangerous life of disobedience but never found the courage to give in to any of it!

After a lifetime of asserting my place in the world of men, I have been given an opportunity to help define the lives and times of two of the most precious male creatures that ever graced this planet! 

Perhaps, having been given such honor, I no longer find myself in the realm of being fearful of the expectation of the people I share the same last name with. I no longer feel accountable to anyone for all the failed expectations that were associated with being a born a girl. Two of my highly acclaimed achievements have now overshadowed all of the others that I thought were ignored while growing up!  I no longer mind all the “never minds” that have been the generic reaction to my accomplishments. I am now the mother, in-charge and in-control of the future of two valuable male heirs. And although I was never acknowledged for being worthy enough to chart the course of my life, the fact that I was able to deliver two sons have transformed my elders to hand a bequest of undying trust and confidence for maneuvering the course of their beloved grandsons’ lives!!!

I have come full circle in this quest for definition of one’s worth. The little girl who once felt rebellious of the extra amenities that the boys automatically got just by being boys, has grown up to be the mother of two sons, trying her very best to afford her sons the extra amenities that boys automatically get just by being boys! There is a certain level of wisdom attained in being able to live the other half of an argument that I so vehemently fought against for so long! 

Indeed, it is payback time, for the first time, I am able to define myself outside the context of the men who have been present in my life. I now find myself in a position to define some of their lives in the context of mine. Perhaps, indeed, the onset of middle age has allowed me the perspective to be MEN OPPOSED, to finally stand outside the shadows of the men whose very title have deprived me to be known for the total person I am. Perhaps, it is time to stop allowing society to accord me recognition only in relation to those male figures in my life. Perhaps, it is time to acknowledge that I am no longer just the female being that has been marked by the male dominated world as an existence in apostrophes: father’s daughter, boy’s girlfriend, man’s wife and son’s mother. Perhaps, it is time that I declare my own name and identity sans the possessive extensions…just me, just a woman, worthy, no more, no less!

Menopause is traditionally defined as being the cessation of menses. Perhaps, as I approach this glorious stage of life, I am now able to find myself in a position where absolute wholeness is obtained from the cessation of my dependence to the senses of men!

            As the afternoon progressed, the torrential rain ended and the storm was on its way to a new destination. I peeked through my window and saw the sun setting through the horizon. A dramatic glimmer of orange light has replaced the dark shadowy sky. I felt very graciously hopeful. Indeed a new beginning has begun!



Saturday, January 4, 2014

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!”

Friday, January 3, 2014

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 4th 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 21st 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!