The real magic of Christmas and New Year
(published 12-22-10, Manila Standard Today)
I sometimes think of Christmas and New Year as fraternal twins, outwardly different but fostered by the same magic.
Christmas is the more popular sister, gay and frivolous, boisterous and scintillating. She is known for her excesses; spending money with abandon, gorging on treats and drinking herself silly with family and friends. The ultimate party girl -- that's Christmas.
She loves nothing better than organizing family reunions, office parties, choral concerts, and Nutcracker ballets. Christmas is generous to a fault and has made lavish gift-giving a global tradition.
Children of all ages wait for her with bated breath. They know Christmas is a weaver of dreams and a sorceress of great wizardry. She conjures all kinds of toys and fanciful tales of busy elves, reindeer that fly and a jolly old man with a long white beard and a belly full of jelly.
For most of the year Christmas stays hidden and unnoticed, and sadly, there are those who prefer not to see her at all. In fact if the liberal PC (politically-correct) extremists in the United States prevail, Christmas will one day be totally annihilated, replaced by an atheistimpostor named “Winter Holiday.” (I can only hope my home country does not also devolve into this asinine secularism.)
How many of us remember Christmas’ humble origins in Bethlehem,especially now that public display of the manger and the holy family is increasingly frowned upon? Instead, the commercial mystique surrounding Christmas has gone viral. Those merchants outside the temple whom Jesus tried to banish are back in full force hawking their merchandise through Google, Facebook, YouTube, Tweeter, iPad and iPhone. There are hundreds more of these Web-based infidels and their numbers are growing exponentially.
Even as I type these words I know the merchants are camped behind my computer screen ready to launch their assault through cyberspace. Their Internet sniffers have discovered I am looking for new tech toys for 12-year old Cole, clothes and accessories for Sharon and Carla, and a new winter coat for Jason.
My Inbox is deluged with special offers and holiday promotions, all geared toward my interests and online shopping history. I am powerless to resist such onslaught. I lay my neck on the block, prepared to bleed my hard-earned dollars with a big smile on my face.
Christmas does that to people—makes them act silly and reckless and impetuous. It is the time of the year for hugs and kisses and teary reunions, overblown sentiments, grand gestures and promises we can’t keep.
It’s good to know that after all the excitement, the frenzy and disruption that Christmas brings, New Year is soon upon us.
New Year is the more responsible sister who stays in the background while Christmas takes center stage. When it’s her turn, she is ushered in with a big bang, a lot of noise and a huge party for old times’ sake.
But after the champagne and the confetti, New Year rolls up her sleeves and resolutely tries to undo the harm done by her frivolous sister. Bills have to be paid down; unwanted pounds have to be shed, waistlines reduced and unsightly bulges gotten rid of. The house has to be put back the way it was before Christmas let loose her colored lights and balls, ribbons and wreaths, candles, bows
and mistletoes.
New Year goes shopping—not for gaily wrapped gifts, but for dozens of totes and boxes of all shapes and sizes. In the next few weeks she will sort, organize, label and put away Christmas and all her glittery accessories. In her own methodical way, New Year conspires to keep Christmas hidden until it’s time for her to break out and cast her magic spell all over again.
In the meantime there are lists to be made: The Best American Essays of 2010, The Year’s Top Inventions and Technological Gadgets, The Top Ten Stories of the Year; the worst- and best-dressed female entertainers; the best bumper stickers; and the best and worst Super Bowl ads of 2010. My favorite remains David Letterman’s top 10 reasons why there can never be a Filipino-American US president. Number one on the list—Air Force One does not allow overweight Balikbayan boxes.
But the list that really matters is our personal New Year’s resolutions. Traditional favorites include spending more time with family and friends, learning something new, breaking bad habits, and becoming more fit. I like what one comic once said, “Next year I will no longer waste my time relieving the past; instead I will spend it worrying about the future.”
No matter what, it is the challenge and the disappointment of unmet resolves and broken promises that gives Christmas that edgy, frenetic energy that some of us find so addictive. We celebrate the year’s imminent demise with great abandon and cheer knowing we have failed yet again, but it’s all right; New Year gives us another chance to make up and try once more.
It is this message of hope and renewal that ultimately transcends the growing crassness and commercialism of each holiday season. It is the real magic at the heart of Christmas and New Year.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
A parent’s worst nightmare
(published 12-06-10, Manila Standard Today)
I never thought I would outlive my child.
I delivered my son after hours of excruciating labor. I should have had an easy time; my stomach was small. But he was my first child and they say the first is always the most difficult to birth. I cried when I first laid eyes on him. Dexter was born with a cleft palate and a hair lip.
He was barely a week old when he underwent surgery on his palate. For the next several months we fed him through a medicine dropper. A baby’s first instinct is to suck and although Dex tried mightily, he couldn’t do it with a split upper lip. He cried all the time. I cried along with him.
Dexter had two more surgeries before he turned seven but even when the gap in his palate reappeared as he got older, he refused to be put under the knife again. Instead he became adept at swallowing his food right and keeping his nasal passages clear so he could breathe properly. He grew up to be a strikingly handsome young man.
Dex worked his way through college and saved what he could to buy an Acura Integra. He was crazy about that car. All his spare cash went into sprucing it up, upgrading it, and making sure the engine and tires were in top shape so he could race it. Because racing was his second love. On weekends or after school and work on weekdays, he would gather with other young people his age talking cars and racing when they could. I’d never seen my son happier.
But I worried he would get into an accident. In the evenings before allowing myself to sleep I would wait to hear the hum of his engine, the sharp click of his car door or the bass rhythm of his radio. One time we found him in the garage fast asleep at the wheel of his car. He said he came home very late and tired, coming straight from the race after work. That car would cost your life, I warned. Prophetic words.
One afternoon at work I got a panicked call from my daughter. The cops were at the house; Dexter was hurt; he had been taken to Madigan Hospital.
All the way to the hospital I was thinking Dex had finally done it—gotten into an accident on his car. I prayed he wasn’t hurt bad. I negotiated with the God the German nuns at the College of the Holy Spirit in Manila had taught me to worship. I’d never prayed more desperately.
But I was wrong. Dex had not been hurt in an accident. A petty criminal had taken a fancy to his Acura Integra. He carjacked Dex, shot him in the head when he refused to give up his car, and left him by the wayside. The doctors at the hospital trauma unit told me Dexter’s wound was “unsurvivable.” He was brain dead when I got there. My oldest child and only son. Gone.
I cannot describe all the emotions that roiled inside me at that moment. I remember sobbing and saying “No” over and over again—not my first born, my only boy, the child of my heart.
How could such a cruel thing have happened in the United States? We left the Philippines for the opportunity America offered and because we no longer felt safe in my native country. How ironic that my son had been killed in this quiet Northwest city called Tacoma that I had considered my second home, perfect for raising my family.
Dexter hadn’t been a member of any gang. He didn’t do drugs, didn’t frequent bars, didn’t own a gun, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. He worked; he went to school; and during his free time he raced his car. How could such innocent pursuits cut his life short so violently? How could any member of my family—all well-educated, God-fearing, peace-loving, hard-working citizens —be even remotely touched by evil? HOW COULD GOD ALLOW IT?
That day I parted with my maker irrevocably.
I’d like to say that the pain of losing my son has diminished over the years but I’d be lying. Any parent who has ever lost a child suddenly and violently will probably never recover from the trauma. But we learn to hide it better because other people—friends and family members included—are often uncomfortable (even impatient) with any display of raw emotions. They do not want to see us in pain; they want to cheer us on to recovery. I’ve heard it all: “Get over it. It’s been years. He’s in a better place. Don’t wallow in your grief. Time to move on.”
As if grief can be turned off like a tap.
I live alone now. My daughters are grown and out of the house. My husband of 30 years has moved to the east coast. I’m as content as can be expected but holidays are hard, especially around Christmas. Dexter loved the gaiety and fun, the shopping, the presents, good times with the family. He lives in my heart but it’s not the same. I miss him terribly.
I wonder if I will ever see him again.
(published 12-06-10, Manila Standard Today)
I never thought I would outlive my child.
I delivered my son after hours of excruciating labor. I should have had an easy time; my stomach was small. But he was my first child and they say the first is always the most difficult to birth. I cried when I first laid eyes on him. Dexter was born with a cleft palate and a hair lip.
He was barely a week old when he underwent surgery on his palate. For the next several months we fed him through a medicine dropper. A baby’s first instinct is to suck and although Dex tried mightily, he couldn’t do it with a split upper lip. He cried all the time. I cried along with him.
Dexter had two more surgeries before he turned seven but even when the gap in his palate reappeared as he got older, he refused to be put under the knife again. Instead he became adept at swallowing his food right and keeping his nasal passages clear so he could breathe properly. He grew up to be a strikingly handsome young man.
Dex worked his way through college and saved what he could to buy an Acura Integra. He was crazy about that car. All his spare cash went into sprucing it up, upgrading it, and making sure the engine and tires were in top shape so he could race it. Because racing was his second love. On weekends or after school and work on weekdays, he would gather with other young people his age talking cars and racing when they could. I’d never seen my son happier.
But I worried he would get into an accident. In the evenings before allowing myself to sleep I would wait to hear the hum of his engine, the sharp click of his car door or the bass rhythm of his radio. One time we found him in the garage fast asleep at the wheel of his car. He said he came home very late and tired, coming straight from the race after work. That car would cost your life, I warned. Prophetic words.
One afternoon at work I got a panicked call from my daughter. The cops were at the house; Dexter was hurt; he had been taken to Madigan Hospital.
All the way to the hospital I was thinking Dex had finally done it—gotten into an accident on his car. I prayed he wasn’t hurt bad. I negotiated with the God the German nuns at the College of the Holy Spirit in Manila had taught me to worship. I’d never prayed more desperately.
But I was wrong. Dex had not been hurt in an accident. A petty criminal had taken a fancy to his Acura Integra. He carjacked Dex, shot him in the head when he refused to give up his car, and left him by the wayside. The doctors at the hospital trauma unit told me Dexter’s wound was “unsurvivable.” He was brain dead when I got there. My oldest child and only son. Gone.
I cannot describe all the emotions that roiled inside me at that moment. I remember sobbing and saying “No” over and over again—not my first born, my only boy, the child of my heart.
How could such a cruel thing have happened in the United States? We left the Philippines for the opportunity America offered and because we no longer felt safe in my native country. How ironic that my son had been killed in this quiet Northwest city called Tacoma that I had considered my second home, perfect for raising my family.
Dexter hadn’t been a member of any gang. He didn’t do drugs, didn’t frequent bars, didn’t own a gun, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. He worked; he went to school; and during his free time he raced his car. How could such innocent pursuits cut his life short so violently? How could any member of my family—all well-educated, God-fearing, peace-loving, hard-working citizens —be even remotely touched by evil? HOW COULD GOD ALLOW IT?
That day I parted with my maker irrevocably.
I’d like to say that the pain of losing my son has diminished over the years but I’d be lying. Any parent who has ever lost a child suddenly and violently will probably never recover from the trauma. But we learn to hide it better because other people—friends and family members included—are often uncomfortable (even impatient) with any display of raw emotions. They do not want to see us in pain; they want to cheer us on to recovery. I’ve heard it all: “Get over it. It’s been years. He’s in a better place. Don’t wallow in your grief. Time to move on.”
As if grief can be turned off like a tap.
I live alone now. My daughters are grown and out of the house. My husband of 30 years has moved to the east coast. I’m as content as can be expected but holidays are hard, especially around Christmas. Dexter loved the gaiety and fun, the shopping, the presents, good times with the family. He lives in my heart but it’s not the same. I miss him terribly.
I wonder if I will ever see him again.
Monday, November 8, 2010
For love of nature
(published 11-03-10, Manila Standard Today)
'Incredible,' murmured one of my hiking buddies as we stood gazing at the beauty around us. The place where we stood was called Paradise, located at Mt. Rainier National Park. Paradise is known for its spectacular mountain views, old-growth forests, subalpine flower meadows, and deep gorges and lakes.
To our left was a meadow of wildflowers: pink heather, white lilies, asters, magenta Indian paintbrush, shooting stars, and marsh marigolds. Towering all around us were mountains and rugged glaciers: Mount Rainier, the Emmons Glacier, Mount Adams, Mount Baker, Mount Saint Helens, and Mount Hood, all nestled up to the bluest of blue skies.
Mount Rainier is the centerpiece of the park and the highest mountain in Washington State. At just over a million years old, it is a relatively young volcano and only one of many in a complex of mountains called the Cascade Range, stretching all the way from California to British Columbia.
Mount Rainier is easily one of the most famous tourist attractions in the Pacific Northwest, with over two million people coming to visit each year. But although I’d called this area home for 20 years and lived only two hours away, this was the very first time I’d ever been to Mt. Rainier National Park. Here in the US, that’s tantamount to a mortal sin.
I never visited Mayon Volcano in Albay either, not once in all the years I lived in the Philippines. In fact, other than going up to Baguio on my honeymoon, I don’t recall going anywhere in the Philippines for pleasure.
Touring the country was not something my family did when I was young and perhaps because of that, it wasn’t something I did with my children either. I took them to Sidney and Seoul and Narita, to Honolulu and Chicago, but not once to Bohol or Palawan or Albay.
In the United States, most families plan their recreational time around camping and touring and visiting in-country. Parents load their children and pets in their SUVs and vans; retirees take their campers and they drive across the country, stopping at campsites and parks and natural habitats. This land is rich with natural beauty and Americans just can’t seem to get enough of it.
They rhapsodize over flowers and meadows and rivers and streams, clear blue skies, mountains and valleys and hills. I would listen to their stories, unimpressed; thinking I had all that and more while I was growing up in the Philippines.
When the sun beats down on you every day from the time you are old enough to remember and brilliant colored-flowers bloom in your garden all year round, I submit it’s understandable if you don’t get as overly excited as your American friends when the temperature hits 90 degrees and the sun is finally out.
Over here, they say it’s easy to pick out Filipinos among the crowd during hot summer days. We’re the ones sheltering under the shade of trees (or heaven forbid —carrying umbrellas) while our white friends are trying to soak up as much sun as possible to get a nice tan. I tell them we are born with this beautiful skin color so why mess with perfection?
Along with their love of nature, Americans indulge in all kinds of outdoor activities. They go biking, mountain climbing, para-sailing or kayaking in the summer. They backpack though mountain trails, jetski and swim in the lake, paddle through rapids and go whitewater rafting.
In the winter, I can hardly wait to burrow under layers of blankets and comforters while my friends are up in Whistler or Crystal Mountain skiing and snowboarding to their hearts’ content. Children in my neighborhood are out in the snow throwing snow balls and sliding down icy slopes on makeshift sleds. I’m in my fleece robe and fuzzy slippers in the comfort of my home scowling at their antics, muttering to myself, “What’s the matter with these people?”
Then came my epiphany that day in Paradise. All I could think of was the waste—all those years gone when I could have been enjoyed the beauty around me.
So nowadays I walk along the waterfront on Ruston Way to watch the sailboats on Commencement Bay. It’s also a good place to gaze at the panoramic views of the Olympic Mountains, Vashon Island, and Brown’s Point, and in the distance, the grandeur of Mt. Rainier and Mt. St. Helens.
Next year I’ll visit the Philippines. Mayon Volcano may be half the size of Mt. Rainier, but viewing up close its perfectly symmetrical cone shape will be well worth the trip.
The great American naturalist John Muir said it best: “Doubly happy is the (wo)man to whom lofty mountain tops are within reach, for the lights that shine there illuminate all that lies below.”
(published 11-03-10, Manila Standard Today)
'Incredible,' murmured one of my hiking buddies as we stood gazing at the beauty around us. The place where we stood was called Paradise, located at Mt. Rainier National Park. Paradise is known for its spectacular mountain views, old-growth forests, subalpine flower meadows, and deep gorges and lakes.
To our left was a meadow of wildflowers: pink heather, white lilies, asters, magenta Indian paintbrush, shooting stars, and marsh marigolds. Towering all around us were mountains and rugged glaciers: Mount Rainier, the Emmons Glacier, Mount Adams, Mount Baker, Mount Saint Helens, and Mount Hood, all nestled up to the bluest of blue skies.
Mount Rainier is the centerpiece of the park and the highest mountain in Washington State. At just over a million years old, it is a relatively young volcano and only one of many in a complex of mountains called the Cascade Range, stretching all the way from California to British Columbia.
Mount Rainier is easily one of the most famous tourist attractions in the Pacific Northwest, with over two million people coming to visit each year. But although I’d called this area home for 20 years and lived only two hours away, this was the very first time I’d ever been to Mt. Rainier National Park. Here in the US, that’s tantamount to a mortal sin.
I never visited Mayon Volcano in Albay either, not once in all the years I lived in the Philippines. In fact, other than going up to Baguio on my honeymoon, I don’t recall going anywhere in the Philippines for pleasure.
Touring the country was not something my family did when I was young and perhaps because of that, it wasn’t something I did with my children either. I took them to Sidney and Seoul and Narita, to Honolulu and Chicago, but not once to Bohol or Palawan or Albay.
In the United States, most families plan their recreational time around camping and touring and visiting in-country. Parents load their children and pets in their SUVs and vans; retirees take their campers and they drive across the country, stopping at campsites and parks and natural habitats. This land is rich with natural beauty and Americans just can’t seem to get enough of it.
They rhapsodize over flowers and meadows and rivers and streams, clear blue skies, mountains and valleys and hills. I would listen to their stories, unimpressed; thinking I had all that and more while I was growing up in the Philippines.
When the sun beats down on you every day from the time you are old enough to remember and brilliant colored-flowers bloom in your garden all year round, I submit it’s understandable if you don’t get as overly excited as your American friends when the temperature hits 90 degrees and the sun is finally out.
Over here, they say it’s easy to pick out Filipinos among the crowd during hot summer days. We’re the ones sheltering under the shade of trees (or heaven forbid —carrying umbrellas) while our white friends are trying to soak up as much sun as possible to get a nice tan. I tell them we are born with this beautiful skin color so why mess with perfection?
Along with their love of nature, Americans indulge in all kinds of outdoor activities. They go biking, mountain climbing, para-sailing or kayaking in the summer. They backpack though mountain trails, jetski and swim in the lake, paddle through rapids and go whitewater rafting.
In the winter, I can hardly wait to burrow under layers of blankets and comforters while my friends are up in Whistler or Crystal Mountain skiing and snowboarding to their hearts’ content. Children in my neighborhood are out in the snow throwing snow balls and sliding down icy slopes on makeshift sleds. I’m in my fleece robe and fuzzy slippers in the comfort of my home scowling at their antics, muttering to myself, “What’s the matter with these people?”
Then came my epiphany that day in Paradise. All I could think of was the waste—all those years gone when I could have been enjoyed the beauty around me.
So nowadays I walk along the waterfront on Ruston Way to watch the sailboats on Commencement Bay. It’s also a good place to gaze at the panoramic views of the Olympic Mountains, Vashon Island, and Brown’s Point, and in the distance, the grandeur of Mt. Rainier and Mt. St. Helens.
Next year I’ll visit the Philippines. Mayon Volcano may be half the size of Mt. Rainier, but viewing up close its perfectly symmetrical cone shape will be well worth the trip.
The great American naturalist John Muir said it best: “Doubly happy is the (wo)man to whom lofty mountain tops are within reach, for the lights that shine there illuminate all that lies below.”
Monday, October 4, 2010
When parents become babies
(Published 9/30/10, Manila Standard Today)
What do you do when the person you love who took care of you when you were young and taught you everything you know about raising your own children starts the slide back to infancy?
A year ago, my mother would sometimes forget small, inconsequential things. I didn’t think it was a big deal. At 84, her mind was otherwise as sharp as ever. I told her not to worry; I was starting to forget things, too. I’d forget where I left my keys or my reading glasses or whether I’d taken my vitamins that morning. I’d go to the basement and forget what I came down for. It’s no fun being 62, I complained. Mom laughed. Wait until you get to be my age, she said.
I should have been more observant. The signs were there. She used to read, though she didn’t have the same voracious appetite I have for the written word. I read at a fast pace, impatient to get to the end of the story. Mom read with the appreciation of an epicure, a gourmet savoring each word and turn of phrase, taking her time to digest the beauty of a passage before moving on to the next.
I don’t remember when she stopped reading and started merely collecting. It dawned on me one day that she had accumulated a motley collection of paperbacks, stacked neatly on her headboard: mysteries, romances, suspense thrillers—the kind of books she never read before. Huh, I thought. How weird is that?
Were the books a visual reminder to herself that she needed to start reading again? Was she challenging herself to be more open to other vistas of the imagination—those that would make her blood sing with thrill or revulsion or those whose intricate plots would engage her facile mind? Did she really mean to immerse herself in the spell-binding, heart-pumping, ass-kicking adventures of Zoe Sharp’s Charlie Fox or Lee Child’s Jack Reacher? WHAT was she thinking?
Of course she planned to read the books, she snapped. She didn’t put them there merely for decoration. The uncharacteristic asperity of her response surprised me. That alone should have clued me in.
In those early days she fooled herself into thinking that she was still all right. We all bought the myth. In truth, the books she collected—the books she never read—were the first of the signs that she was, in fact, “losing it.” To me they became a symbol of a door that had closed, a path no longer taken. Of a mind gone awry.
My mother was not what you would consider an active person. She was the sedentary type, preferring activities around the house rather than outdoor exertions of any kind. Perhaps that explains why her gradual slowing down went largely unnoticed at first. But one day I realized she had stopped dusting and rearranging her collection of blue china. You could tell by the time and attention she used to lavish on this task that this was absolutely something she loved to do. And now she couldn’t be bothered with it?
Then came the day we had to rush her to the hospital for heart complications. Her decline rapidly escalated from there. She was always too tired and weak and her doctor’s appointments taxed her to the limit. She stopped coming to family parties, and the last time she did, she appeared tentative and uncertain, like a reluctant foreign guest who didn’t really want to be there.
Each week there was one more thing she wouldn’t/couldn’t do any more. Her activities and the area around the house that she inhabited became progressively limited. She spent most of her days watching TV until she stopped doing that altogether. She vacated her room, encamped on the couch, and lay there the whole day except for meals and bathroom breaks. Soon after, she hardly even got up for those.
I thought nothing was worse than the loss of my mother’s short-term memory, the loss of herself. She couldn’t remember what she was thinking from minute to minute; if she ate, what she ate, if she took her medicine …….who I was.
But every time we changed her diapers and helped her into fresh clothes, I prayed she would have one of those forgetful moments; that she would not remember that assault on her privacy, the loss of her dignity. Please don’t let her know she has been reduced to this inchoate, helpless, needy baby, I would plead silently.
Mom was the gentlest, kindest, most loving person you can ever imagine. Her one wish was that she would die in her sleep. On Saturday, Sept. 18, God took her by the hand and very gently led her into that good night.
Ms. Villa lives in Tacoma, Washington and blogs at www.belmavilla.blogspot.com.
(Published 9/30/10, Manila Standard Today)
What do you do when the person you love who took care of you when you were young and taught you everything you know about raising your own children starts the slide back to infancy?
A year ago, my mother would sometimes forget small, inconsequential things. I didn’t think it was a big deal. At 84, her mind was otherwise as sharp as ever. I told her not to worry; I was starting to forget things, too. I’d forget where I left my keys or my reading glasses or whether I’d taken my vitamins that morning. I’d go to the basement and forget what I came down for. It’s no fun being 62, I complained. Mom laughed. Wait until you get to be my age, she said.
I should have been more observant. The signs were there. She used to read, though she didn’t have the same voracious appetite I have for the written word. I read at a fast pace, impatient to get to the end of the story. Mom read with the appreciation of an epicure, a gourmet savoring each word and turn of phrase, taking her time to digest the beauty of a passage before moving on to the next.
I don’t remember when she stopped reading and started merely collecting. It dawned on me one day that she had accumulated a motley collection of paperbacks, stacked neatly on her headboard: mysteries, romances, suspense thrillers—the kind of books she never read before. Huh, I thought. How weird is that?
Were the books a visual reminder to herself that she needed to start reading again? Was she challenging herself to be more open to other vistas of the imagination—those that would make her blood sing with thrill or revulsion or those whose intricate plots would engage her facile mind? Did she really mean to immerse herself in the spell-binding, heart-pumping, ass-kicking adventures of Zoe Sharp’s Charlie Fox or Lee Child’s Jack Reacher? WHAT was she thinking?
Of course she planned to read the books, she snapped. She didn’t put them there merely for decoration. The uncharacteristic asperity of her response surprised me. That alone should have clued me in.
In those early days she fooled herself into thinking that she was still all right. We all bought the myth. In truth, the books she collected—the books she never read—were the first of the signs that she was, in fact, “losing it.” To me they became a symbol of a door that had closed, a path no longer taken. Of a mind gone awry.
My mother was not what you would consider an active person. She was the sedentary type, preferring activities around the house rather than outdoor exertions of any kind. Perhaps that explains why her gradual slowing down went largely unnoticed at first. But one day I realized she had stopped dusting and rearranging her collection of blue china. You could tell by the time and attention she used to lavish on this task that this was absolutely something she loved to do. And now she couldn’t be bothered with it?
Then came the day we had to rush her to the hospital for heart complications. Her decline rapidly escalated from there. She was always too tired and weak and her doctor’s appointments taxed her to the limit. She stopped coming to family parties, and the last time she did, she appeared tentative and uncertain, like a reluctant foreign guest who didn’t really want to be there.
Each week there was one more thing she wouldn’t/couldn’t do any more. Her activities and the area around the house that she inhabited became progressively limited. She spent most of her days watching TV until she stopped doing that altogether. She vacated her room, encamped on the couch, and lay there the whole day except for meals and bathroom breaks. Soon after, she hardly even got up for those.
I thought nothing was worse than the loss of my mother’s short-term memory, the loss of herself. She couldn’t remember what she was thinking from minute to minute; if she ate, what she ate, if she took her medicine …….who I was.
But every time we changed her diapers and helped her into fresh clothes, I prayed she would have one of those forgetful moments; that she would not remember that assault on her privacy, the loss of her dignity. Please don’t let her know she has been reduced to this inchoate, helpless, needy baby, I would plead silently.
Mom was the gentlest, kindest, most loving person you can ever imagine. Her one wish was that she would die in her sleep. On Saturday, Sept. 18, God took her by the hand and very gently led her into that good night.
Ms. Villa lives in Tacoma, Washington and blogs at www.belmavilla.blogspot.com.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
If there really is a God….
Why does he allow us, his children, to grow old and infirm to the point where we lose our dignity as human beings; where we become like babies, dependent on others to feed us and clothe us and take us to the bathroom? Why would he want those who love us to see us diminished and humbled, a creature to be pitied? How cruel is that? Why can’t we all have our lives end on a high note?
What is the lesson that is supposed to be learned here?
Why does he allow us, his children, to grow old and infirm to the point where we lose our dignity as human beings; where we become like babies, dependent on others to feed us and clothe us and take us to the bathroom? Why would he want those who love us to see us diminished and humbled, a creature to be pitied? How cruel is that? Why can’t we all have our lives end on a high note?
What is the lesson that is supposed to be learned here?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Hard times in the United States
(Published 9/7/10, Manila Standard Today)
‘It’s not a perfect society, but it’s good. It’s better than my own country.”
(From a recent survey of US immigrants conducted by the nonpartisan group Public Agenda.)
America. I think it’s the greatest place to live, and millions of immigrants like me seem to agree. America’s allure remains so strong that some are willing to risk life and limb to enter its borders for a chance to live here. According to new Census Bureau data, the size of America’s foreign-born population has tripled since 1970 and now stands at 31 million.
What’s the reason behind this continuing influx of hopeful US immigrants?
It’s a combination of factors: economic, social, political, religious. “Opportunity for a better life,” is the major reason, but underlying that is the most basic need of all to have a decent roof over one’s head and food in the belly. To go to bed at night knowing there will be toast or cereal in the morning - if not bacon and eggs, too.
America, immigrants have found, is the best antidote to hunger.
Even through the bad times like now. You know the story. Economic crisis. Revenue deficits. Recession. Plummeting stocks. Massive layoffs. Enron. And in our own Evergreen State, a $2.4 billion budget shortfall.
The situation is so bad that services to children, the aged and the poor will be trimmed, our public colleges will stop accepting unfunded enrollments and some of our parks and libraries will have to close. Roads will not be built; sidewalks will not be fixed or streets lit. Businesses will close, and unemployment will continue to rise.
Can anything be more frightening and devastating?
Things could be much, much worse.
I come from a Third World country where I observed firsthand the poverty and misery that thousands of families and children endure daily, with little hope in sight. As inflight supervisor for an international airline, I flew to countries much worse than mine, where there are no parks or playgrounds for children, where roads are muddy tracks and medical services are not available for the poor.
Many transplants to this country have grim stories to tell. In some regions of the world, going hungry is not a euphemism. It doesn’t mean Thanksgiving without turkey and mashed potatoes, or Christmas without savory delicacies. It means you have harvested your last corn and have scraped your rice barrel empty. It means sharing what little food is left among the children and going without any yourself.
You are grateful to have a job that pays $2 a day. You don’t have a car. You don’t know anyone in your neighborhood who owns one. The company you work for does not provide medical, dental or life insurance. Social Security, 401(k)s, Medicare, SSI and unemployment benefits are unheard of.
You work and scrape and save in the hope of putting enough aside to send your children to college, because there are no government subsidies for the poor, no financial aid programs, scholarships or tuition waivers. Families and students, rich or poor, have to pay the total cost of a college education - or they can forget about it.
The poor never really get a chance for a better life. Hence, America is the utopian dream that is passed on from one family to another, from one generation to the next.
And having arrived here, if you are not picky and have the will and the strength to work, there is work to be had. If your earnings are not sufficient, there is help available.
Can’t pay your utilities? The city has special rainy-day funds for such emergencies. No toys for the children? Need clothes? The Salvation Army is right around the corner.
Soup kitchens and food banks supplement food stamps. There are free medical services and local shelters for the homeless. Needy students go to college for free and get extra help with board and lodging.
Poverty in America is not a shameful thing. It is a magic incantation that opens doors and coffers.
There is much more that I can say about the almost limitless bounty we have in this country and how fortunate we are, but I think you’ve got the message. Even if the current recession were to drag on, we would still be better situated than most countries, and immigrants will continue to knock on our doors.
Belma Villa of Tacoma, Washington used to be a guest columnist for the Perspectives page of the Tacoma News Tribune. This piece is an updated version of an original article published in 2003.
(Published 9/7/10, Manila Standard Today)
‘It’s not a perfect society, but it’s good. It’s better than my own country.”
(From a recent survey of US immigrants conducted by the nonpartisan group Public Agenda.)
America. I think it’s the greatest place to live, and millions of immigrants like me seem to agree. America’s allure remains so strong that some are willing to risk life and limb to enter its borders for a chance to live here. According to new Census Bureau data, the size of America’s foreign-born population has tripled since 1970 and now stands at 31 million.
What’s the reason behind this continuing influx of hopeful US immigrants?
It’s a combination of factors: economic, social, political, religious. “Opportunity for a better life,” is the major reason, but underlying that is the most basic need of all to have a decent roof over one’s head and food in the belly. To go to bed at night knowing there will be toast or cereal in the morning - if not bacon and eggs, too.
America, immigrants have found, is the best antidote to hunger.
Even through the bad times like now. You know the story. Economic crisis. Revenue deficits. Recession. Plummeting stocks. Massive layoffs. Enron. And in our own Evergreen State, a $2.4 billion budget shortfall.
The situation is so bad that services to children, the aged and the poor will be trimmed, our public colleges will stop accepting unfunded enrollments and some of our parks and libraries will have to close. Roads will not be built; sidewalks will not be fixed or streets lit. Businesses will close, and unemployment will continue to rise.
Can anything be more frightening and devastating?
Things could be much, much worse.
I come from a Third World country where I observed firsthand the poverty and misery that thousands of families and children endure daily, with little hope in sight. As inflight supervisor for an international airline, I flew to countries much worse than mine, where there are no parks or playgrounds for children, where roads are muddy tracks and medical services are not available for the poor.
Many transplants to this country have grim stories to tell. In some regions of the world, going hungry is not a euphemism. It doesn’t mean Thanksgiving without turkey and mashed potatoes, or Christmas without savory delicacies. It means you have harvested your last corn and have scraped your rice barrel empty. It means sharing what little food is left among the children and going without any yourself.
You are grateful to have a job that pays $2 a day. You don’t have a car. You don’t know anyone in your neighborhood who owns one. The company you work for does not provide medical, dental or life insurance. Social Security, 401(k)s, Medicare, SSI and unemployment benefits are unheard of.
You work and scrape and save in the hope of putting enough aside to send your children to college, because there are no government subsidies for the poor, no financial aid programs, scholarships or tuition waivers. Families and students, rich or poor, have to pay the total cost of a college education - or they can forget about it.
The poor never really get a chance for a better life. Hence, America is the utopian dream that is passed on from one family to another, from one generation to the next.
And having arrived here, if you are not picky and have the will and the strength to work, there is work to be had. If your earnings are not sufficient, there is help available.
Can’t pay your utilities? The city has special rainy-day funds for such emergencies. No toys for the children? Need clothes? The Salvation Army is right around the corner.
Soup kitchens and food banks supplement food stamps. There are free medical services and local shelters for the homeless. Needy students go to college for free and get extra help with board and lodging.
Poverty in America is not a shameful thing. It is a magic incantation that opens doors and coffers.
There is much more that I can say about the almost limitless bounty we have in this country and how fortunate we are, but I think you’ve got the message. Even if the current recession were to drag on, we would still be better situated than most countries, and immigrants will continue to knock on our doors.
Belma Villa of Tacoma, Washington used to be a guest columnist for the Perspectives page of the Tacoma News Tribune. This piece is an updated version of an original article published in 2003.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
If there really is a God….
Why didn’t he/she/they just make us all the same so that we don’t compare and envy, belittle and demean, ostracize and criticize, fight and kill those who are different from us? If there was no race but one, if all of us are born with the same skin color, same height, same frame, same body weight – then perhaps there will be no genocide or fratricide, even suicide. There will be no need for various agencies and commissions purporting to advance diversity and race relations; no diet plans or health clubs, no slim fast or weight watchers.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be just one among the crowd?
But then how would you measure excellence if there is no one to compare with? What would you reach for if the yardstick is the same for everybody? What would be the need for words that end in “er” or “est?” Bigger/biggest, smarter/smartest, kinder/kindest. Everybody will be the same. We will be like automatons, robots; nothing new to discover because we will be like everybody else; nothing there to peak one’s interest or curiosity.
Perhaps the very things that make us different; that provoke and challenge us; that make us think and question – perhaps that’s the proof that there is a God, and boy, does he have a sense of humor.
Why didn’t he/she/they just make us all the same so that we don’t compare and envy, belittle and demean, ostracize and criticize, fight and kill those who are different from us? If there was no race but one, if all of us are born with the same skin color, same height, same frame, same body weight – then perhaps there will be no genocide or fratricide, even suicide. There will be no need for various agencies and commissions purporting to advance diversity and race relations; no diet plans or health clubs, no slim fast or weight watchers.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be just one among the crowd?
But then how would you measure excellence if there is no one to compare with? What would you reach for if the yardstick is the same for everybody? What would be the need for words that end in “er” or “est?” Bigger/biggest, smarter/smartest, kinder/kindest. Everybody will be the same. We will be like automatons, robots; nothing new to discover because we will be like everybody else; nothing there to peak one’s interest or curiosity.
Perhaps the very things that make us different; that provoke and challenge us; that make us think and question – perhaps that’s the proof that there is a God, and boy, does he have a sense of humor.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Musings of a senior citizen
Turning 62 in the US
(Published 8/5/10, Manila Standard Today)
Life has changed for me ever since I became a bona fide, full-fledged, card-carrying senior citizen here in the United States. I’m embarrassed to admit I got to this point not in my usual logical, rational, methodical style. I arrived kicking and screaming, protesting to all who cared that “I’m not that old; I’m still relevant. I have years to go before I retire.” Yadayadayada. Which really doesn’t change anything. I’m 62. Game over.
The process of getting old is somewhat like losing a loved one. You move from denial to anger to sorrow, and finally, inevitably—to acceptance. One day you look at the face staring back at you from the bathroom mirror, the one with the droopy mouth, sagging chin and gray hair and you know the younger you has crossed over—permanently. Even John Edward and his pals from the “other side” cannot bring that one back. But it doesn’t mean paradise is totally lost. The game’s changed, that’s all.
Consider the perks.
Discount heaven. If you ride a bus, take a train, get on a flight, buy or rent a car, stay at a hotel, join a tour, see a play, go to a concert, buy season tickets to the theater or the ballgame, watch a movie, get your prescriptions, stock up on groceries, splurge on a new wardrobe – if you even as much as breathe, you get rewarded simply by admitting the sad fact that you have indeed reached the magic threshold of 62 years. With the plunging US economy (thanks as always, Barack), 10 percent off almost everything is not insignificant. Think about the contributions you can make to your grandchild’s GET account. “Shop here and save your 10 percent discount for future college costs.” Tugs at the heartstrings, doesn’t it?
And there’s more. You also get a discount if you want a haircut, a manicure and a pedicure, an in-house tan, and a few hours of pampering at your favorite spa. You get a discount if you order Chinese takeout, have beer and pizza delivered, go to a bar, and dine out every day of your life. Don’t worry if the unwanted pounds you thought were just there for a quick visit decide to camp out permanently on your belly, hips and thighs. You can take your pick from a dozen or so diet plans and health clubs that promise to make you lose 50 pounds so you can reclaim your youth and vitality. You might even end up looking like Raquel Welch who’s nearly 70 but looks like the bombshell she was 50 years ago. (Except for the teeth, which are just too large, fakey white and unnaturally straight. And—I forget which commercial—flirting with boys young enough to be her grandsons? Totally gross!)
Geriatric services. Getting old in the USA is almost like having a terminal disease. There are doctors and nurses and other medical personnel who specialize in it to help you cope with its gradual spread and prepare you for its inevitability. Early signs of the disease include thinning hair, hearing loss, memory lapses, reduced motor skills, frequent anxiety attacks, inability to tolerate rap music and similar discordant noises, and increasing dependence on your grandchild to program your TV and DVD player, Bluetooth headphones, digital camera, video recorder, Netbook, iPad, iPhone and its various apps. (When did life get so complicated?) Other indications to watch out for include an increasing dependence on your vehicle’s GPS to drive from your residence to your daughter’s home, all of five miles away.
If you don’t know what most of these devices are and couldn’t care less, it could mean one of two things: (1) your disease is far more advanced than suspected and there’s no known cure for it, or; (2) you’re just a stubborn old fool who thinks life was perfect before the dawning of electronic geegaws, Facebook, YouTube and other wachamacallits.
Life’s a joker. I remember when I was 10, 11 and 12, I couldn’t wait to be 13. Then I couldn’t wait to be 21, which was so close to perfect I wanted to freeze that time and inhabit it forever. Unfortunately, time does march on inexorably no matter how hard you try to pull it back. When you start receiving insistent mail from AARP and offers of funeral/memorial services and glossy retirement home brochures flood your mailbox, you know it’s all over.
But you can choose to go down fighting. A few nips and tucks here and there. Botox, liposuction, tummy tuck, face, breast and buttocks lift. (Think Raquel.) Thread lift to pull your sagging jaw line and crepey neck; creams and lotions that promise “to restore the elasticity and youthful glow of your skin.” Vitamins and supplements to make you look and feel young again, and soon for us women, a pill similar to Viagra. A big hurrah for equality. I can hardly wait for the creatively suggestive commercials that will soon populate my TV. (Where’s the remote?)
BTW, is there a significance to the fact that in the America, we are carded at least twice in our lives? I’ve mulled this over and here’s my theory. We are carded at 21 to prove we are old enough to drink our way under the table. That’s a no-brainer. But at 62, I think it’s some kind of a gatepost. You can choose to go forward and be a wiser, kinder, more loving person for the remaining years of your life; or you can stop right there, turn around, and simply rewind your life back to those halcyon days of your youth. Take your pick. And don’t forget your ID.
(Published 8/5/10, Manila Standard Today)
Life has changed for me ever since I became a bona fide, full-fledged, card-carrying senior citizen here in the United States. I’m embarrassed to admit I got to this point not in my usual logical, rational, methodical style. I arrived kicking and screaming, protesting to all who cared that “I’m not that old; I’m still relevant. I have years to go before I retire.” Yadayadayada. Which really doesn’t change anything. I’m 62. Game over.
The process of getting old is somewhat like losing a loved one. You move from denial to anger to sorrow, and finally, inevitably—to acceptance. One day you look at the face staring back at you from the bathroom mirror, the one with the droopy mouth, sagging chin and gray hair and you know the younger you has crossed over—permanently. Even John Edward and his pals from the “other side” cannot bring that one back. But it doesn’t mean paradise is totally lost. The game’s changed, that’s all.
Consider the perks.
Discount heaven. If you ride a bus, take a train, get on a flight, buy or rent a car, stay at a hotel, join a tour, see a play, go to a concert, buy season tickets to the theater or the ballgame, watch a movie, get your prescriptions, stock up on groceries, splurge on a new wardrobe – if you even as much as breathe, you get rewarded simply by admitting the sad fact that you have indeed reached the magic threshold of 62 years. With the plunging US economy (thanks as always, Barack), 10 percent off almost everything is not insignificant. Think about the contributions you can make to your grandchild’s GET account. “Shop here and save your 10 percent discount for future college costs.” Tugs at the heartstrings, doesn’t it?
And there’s more. You also get a discount if you want a haircut, a manicure and a pedicure, an in-house tan, and a few hours of pampering at your favorite spa. You get a discount if you order Chinese takeout, have beer and pizza delivered, go to a bar, and dine out every day of your life. Don’t worry if the unwanted pounds you thought were just there for a quick visit decide to camp out permanently on your belly, hips and thighs. You can take your pick from a dozen or so diet plans and health clubs that promise to make you lose 50 pounds so you can reclaim your youth and vitality. You might even end up looking like Raquel Welch who’s nearly 70 but looks like the bombshell she was 50 years ago. (Except for the teeth, which are just too large, fakey white and unnaturally straight. And—I forget which commercial—flirting with boys young enough to be her grandsons? Totally gross!)
Geriatric services. Getting old in the USA is almost like having a terminal disease. There are doctors and nurses and other medical personnel who specialize in it to help you cope with its gradual spread and prepare you for its inevitability. Early signs of the disease include thinning hair, hearing loss, memory lapses, reduced motor skills, frequent anxiety attacks, inability to tolerate rap music and similar discordant noises, and increasing dependence on your grandchild to program your TV and DVD player, Bluetooth headphones, digital camera, video recorder, Netbook, iPad, iPhone and its various apps. (When did life get so complicated?) Other indications to watch out for include an increasing dependence on your vehicle’s GPS to drive from your residence to your daughter’s home, all of five miles away.
If you don’t know what most of these devices are and couldn’t care less, it could mean one of two things: (1) your disease is far more advanced than suspected and there’s no known cure for it, or; (2) you’re just a stubborn old fool who thinks life was perfect before the dawning of electronic geegaws, Facebook, YouTube and other wachamacallits.
Life’s a joker. I remember when I was 10, 11 and 12, I couldn’t wait to be 13. Then I couldn’t wait to be 21, which was so close to perfect I wanted to freeze that time and inhabit it forever. Unfortunately, time does march on inexorably no matter how hard you try to pull it back. When you start receiving insistent mail from AARP and offers of funeral/memorial services and glossy retirement home brochures flood your mailbox, you know it’s all over.
But you can choose to go down fighting. A few nips and tucks here and there. Botox, liposuction, tummy tuck, face, breast and buttocks lift. (Think Raquel.) Thread lift to pull your sagging jaw line and crepey neck; creams and lotions that promise “to restore the elasticity and youthful glow of your skin.” Vitamins and supplements to make you look and feel young again, and soon for us women, a pill similar to Viagra. A big hurrah for equality. I can hardly wait for the creatively suggestive commercials that will soon populate my TV. (Where’s the remote?)
BTW, is there a significance to the fact that in the America, we are carded at least twice in our lives? I’ve mulled this over and here’s my theory. We are carded at 21 to prove we are old enough to drink our way under the table. That’s a no-brainer. But at 62, I think it’s some kind of a gatepost. You can choose to go forward and be a wiser, kinder, more loving person for the remaining years of your life; or you can stop right there, turn around, and simply rewind your life back to those halcyon days of your youth. Take your pick. And don’t forget your ID.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Today's musings - On the Petersons
I love my daughter’s home. I love its airy expanse, its creamy carpeting, and the wide glass windows that allow the light to filter through so the house is always filled with light. The house is surrounded by trees and flowering plants on three sides, with a wooden deck that wraps around the back from the master suite to the dining area. The French glass doors from the kitchen leading to the deck enhance the illusion of outside living indoors. At this time of the year, chez Peterson is our family Paradise.
The first to greet me at the door are Pudgy and Bear. Pudgy is my daughter’s pug puppy; his name suits him to perfection. He’s chunky and heavy (35 pounds) and round as a butter ball perched on four stubby legs. For some reason I cannot fathom, my daughter is crazy about him. Bear, my grandson’s frisky Chihuahua, is about a foot high, weighs all of five pounds, and the farthest thing from a bear that you can imagine. Except Bear doesn’t know that, judging by the way he bullies Pudgy relentlessly. No one gets through the Peterson door without running the gauntlet of Pudgy and Bear’s excited barks, frantically waving tails, and slovering tongues. The two of them together serve as a highly effective early warning, door alarm system.
My 13-year old grandson Cole hears the commotion and comes up from his room in the basement. He has lingering signs of the flu, but even sleepy eyed and slightly sallow from spending the last two days in bed, he is still a strikingly handsome boy. He has his father’s fair complexion and physique and his mother’s fine features and black glossy hair. With his dark slanted eyes, trendy hair (bangs nearly covering his eyes) and cool teen attire (obviously not my lingo), I’d be surprised if he’s not already creating quite a stir among the giggling population in his middle school. We’re growing another heartbreaker here for sure.
And here comes Jason, my son-in-law. He gives me his usual enigmatic smile and leads me upstairs straight into the kitchen where Shasha is performing magical things with pots and pans. I have had the pleasure of calling this young man son for close to 14 years now, but I have yet to break through his reserve. If there is one thing I will change about Jason, it’s that he would talk more. He will do things for me: prune the shrubs and tree in my yard, pull up the weeds and gather up all the detritus in his wake without prompting; climb up the ladder to put new batteries in my smoke alarm; figure out the strange noise coming from my car; carry things for me; put up with me and my strange ways and laugh good naturedly at my stumbling Filipino tongue that still gets tripped up in his language -- but I have yet to spend five solid minutes of conversation with him. I tell him the strong silent type isn’t necessarily always a good thing but he just smiles.
We have called my daughter Sharon “Shasha” or Sha for short, since the day she was one and her two-year old brother Dexter called her by that name. She gives me a smile and a warm hug, dishes up bacon and omelet and warms a pot of nilaga. “What is this?” I ask. “Are we having breakfast or lunch”? “Breakfast,” she says, “but I want you to have some of my nilaga.” She is beautiful, this daughter of mine, as well as an excellent cook. I hardly ever go to Maresol anymore, one of the few Filipino places (you can’t really call them restaurants) I infrequently visit to appease my craving for the food that nurtured me through adulthood. Shasha whips up sinigang, nilaga, tinola and bibingka with as much ease and panache as pot roast, baked salmon, frittatas, quiche, and French toast casserole. This is one trait she definitely inherited from her father whose love for cooking has become both an avocation and a career.
I came to visit that day to get help with my blog. I wanted to make it more appealing and easier on the eye and I knew from past experience that what would take me days to figure out would be merely minutes of creative fiddling for Shasha. Cole is soon helping out, too, and Pudgy and Bear are right on his heels. Jason pokes his head in and hands me a beautiful bouquet of roses and hydrangea from his garden.
On my way out, mission accomplished and feeling well fed, I take time to appreciate the inviting way the large living room opens up into the dining area, so perfect for entertaining and family get togethers. It’s a very welcoming home, one that invites you to curl up in a couch awhile or to linger by the tall windows and gaze at the spectacular view of the Narrows Bridge and Puget Sound. But today, I am struck by an unassailable truth. The Peterson home conjures up warmth and food and family and love because its occupants, both human and animal, have made it so.
The first to greet me at the door are Pudgy and Bear. Pudgy is my daughter’s pug puppy; his name suits him to perfection. He’s chunky and heavy (35 pounds) and round as a butter ball perched on four stubby legs. For some reason I cannot fathom, my daughter is crazy about him. Bear, my grandson’s frisky Chihuahua, is about a foot high, weighs all of five pounds, and the farthest thing from a bear that you can imagine. Except Bear doesn’t know that, judging by the way he bullies Pudgy relentlessly. No one gets through the Peterson door without running the gauntlet of Pudgy and Bear’s excited barks, frantically waving tails, and slovering tongues. The two of them together serve as a highly effective early warning, door alarm system.
My 13-year old grandson Cole hears the commotion and comes up from his room in the basement. He has lingering signs of the flu, but even sleepy eyed and slightly sallow from spending the last two days in bed, he is still a strikingly handsome boy. He has his father’s fair complexion and physique and his mother’s fine features and black glossy hair. With his dark slanted eyes, trendy hair (bangs nearly covering his eyes) and cool teen attire (obviously not my lingo), I’d be surprised if he’s not already creating quite a stir among the giggling population in his middle school. We’re growing another heartbreaker here for sure.
And here comes Jason, my son-in-law. He gives me his usual enigmatic smile and leads me upstairs straight into the kitchen where Shasha is performing magical things with pots and pans. I have had the pleasure of calling this young man son for close to 14 years now, but I have yet to break through his reserve. If there is one thing I will change about Jason, it’s that he would talk more. He will do things for me: prune the shrubs and tree in my yard, pull up the weeds and gather up all the detritus in his wake without prompting; climb up the ladder to put new batteries in my smoke alarm; figure out the strange noise coming from my car; carry things for me; put up with me and my strange ways and laugh good naturedly at my stumbling Filipino tongue that still gets tripped up in his language -- but I have yet to spend five solid minutes of conversation with him. I tell him the strong silent type isn’t necessarily always a good thing but he just smiles.
We have called my daughter Sharon “Shasha” or Sha for short, since the day she was one and her two-year old brother Dexter called her by that name. She gives me a smile and a warm hug, dishes up bacon and omelet and warms a pot of nilaga. “What is this?” I ask. “Are we having breakfast or lunch”? “Breakfast,” she says, “but I want you to have some of my nilaga.” She is beautiful, this daughter of mine, as well as an excellent cook. I hardly ever go to Maresol anymore, one of the few Filipino places (you can’t really call them restaurants) I infrequently visit to appease my craving for the food that nurtured me through adulthood. Shasha whips up sinigang, nilaga, tinola and bibingka with as much ease and panache as pot roast, baked salmon, frittatas, quiche, and French toast casserole. This is one trait she definitely inherited from her father whose love for cooking has become both an avocation and a career.
I came to visit that day to get help with my blog. I wanted to make it more appealing and easier on the eye and I knew from past experience that what would take me days to figure out would be merely minutes of creative fiddling for Shasha. Cole is soon helping out, too, and Pudgy and Bear are right on his heels. Jason pokes his head in and hands me a beautiful bouquet of roses and hydrangea from his garden.
On my way out, mission accomplished and feeling well fed, I take time to appreciate the inviting way the large living room opens up into the dining area, so perfect for entertaining and family get togethers. It’s a very welcoming home, one that invites you to curl up in a couch awhile or to linger by the tall windows and gaze at the spectacular view of the Narrows Bridge and Puget Sound. But today, I am struck by an unassailable truth. The Peterson home conjures up warmth and food and family and love because its occupants, both human and animal, have made it so.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Her Past is her Present (my mom’s story)
Published 7-16-10, Manila Standard Today
My mother was a stunning beauty in her youth. With her dark, thick wavy hair, fair complexion and bluish gray eyes, she was often compared to the young Liz Taylor. Her looks were so striking that people literally stopped in their tracks to stare at her in admiration. She was christened Helen but most folks simply called her “Mestiza.” Tisay.
As the youngest child and only girl in a family of doting parents and four older brothers, mom lived a sheltered and privileged life. My Irish/Scottish-American grandfather sailed to the Philippines with Commodore Dewey on his flagship The Olympia and fought the Spaniards in the Battle of Manila Bay in May 1898. Thus he became part of our history that saw Spain’s more than 300 years of reign in the Philippines come to an end. He fell in love with a Spanish-Filipino beauty named Cornelia so when The Olympia sailed from Manila, he stayed behind and made the Philippines his new home.
When she was 18, one of my mom’s brothers brought home a friend from college. He was the dashing scion of an old Castilian family that had settled in the Philippines in the early years of their migration in search of spices from the Orient. Having served as bodyguards to King Philip II of Spain, the Toledo brothers were rewarded for their loyalty to the throne with huge parcels of land in the newly conquered territory. The Toledo’s thus came to own one of the biggest and wealthiest haciendas in northern Luzon.
Who knows how long my mom and dad’s courtship would have lasted if those were normal times? But they met in 1944, towards the end of World War II. The Japanese had overrun Manila; and as an American, my grandfather was one of the first to be taken from his home and locked up. The Japanese soldiers were savage conquerors and a menace to young Filipino girls. It became quickly apparent that my mother had to be spirited away from Manila, ideally under the protection of a husband and his powerful clan. And that’s how Helen Maude Laird became Helen Laird Toledo and eventually, the mother of two sons and four daughters.
A few years after the war, Dad decided to strike out on his own, away from the hacienda in Pampanga. He carved out twenty hectares in the jungles of Mindoro and planted it with a variety of bananas, pineapple and calamansi. The farm was located in a remote and isolated mountain area but I don’t remember feeling lonely there or bored or scared. Our closest neighbors were the Mangyans, natives of Mindoro. They came to the farm to trade wild boar’s meat and fresh venison for rice, salt, and gaily colored beads, which both men and women proudly strung around their necks. In truth I think they came for Mom’s cassava cake, which smelled wonderful as it baked in the open fire. Mom had learned to keep house and cook, and best of all – bake the most scrumptious cakes and sweets this side of the universe.
But all good things come to an end. As soon as we reached school age, we were sent to town to live with Grandma and Grandpa Laird while we attended elementary school. It was a time of learning and adjustment, and for me, the beginning of a love affair with books and all things American.
Pretty quick we were packed off again, this time to Manila with Mom, to continue our education: the boys to San Beda College and the College of the Holy Spirit for us girls. I went to the University of the Philippines after that, got married, and raised three children of my own.
The Marcos regime was coming apart at that time and life in the city was getting increasingly perilous. We felt an urgent need to leave, not just the city, but the country. Luckily, we discovered that in those early years when we lived with our grandparents, Grandpa had filed a petition for U.S. citizenship for all of us. His foresight proved heaven sent; it allowed us to immigrate to the United States after a simple swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. embassy in Manila.
Nearly two decades later, Mom and I pore over old photo albums and reminisce about the past. She laughs softly, impishly, and for a brief moment I glimpse the beautiful, vibrant girl she once was. Mercifully, her long-term memory seems unaffected by the insidious cobweb that increasingly smothers her daily life now.
Mom doesn’t cook or bake anymore. She leaves her magazines untouched on the coffee table. She no longer listens to Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra and even the huge flat-screen TV in her bedroom has lost its power to engage her. She lies in bed or sits in her rocking chair, face slack, eyes dreamy and distant.
My mother’s past is her present. The threads that bind her to the here and now grow increasingly tenuous as she spends more and more of her time in the Philippines of her youth. In the not too distant future, she will look at us, her children— the center of her world— and see only strangers. Until then, we treasure each moment she remains, still Helen, mother extraordinaire.
***************************
Published 7-16-10, Manila Standard Today
My mother was a stunning beauty in her youth. With her dark, thick wavy hair, fair complexion and bluish gray eyes, she was often compared to the young Liz Taylor. Her looks were so striking that people literally stopped in their tracks to stare at her in admiration. She was christened Helen but most folks simply called her “Mestiza.” Tisay.
As the youngest child and only girl in a family of doting parents and four older brothers, mom lived a sheltered and privileged life. My Irish/Scottish-American grandfather sailed to the Philippines with Commodore Dewey on his flagship The Olympia and fought the Spaniards in the Battle of Manila Bay in May 1898. Thus he became part of our history that saw Spain’s more than 300 years of reign in the Philippines come to an end. He fell in love with a Spanish-Filipino beauty named Cornelia so when The Olympia sailed from Manila, he stayed behind and made the Philippines his new home.
When she was 18, one of my mom’s brothers brought home a friend from college. He was the dashing scion of an old Castilian family that had settled in the Philippines in the early years of their migration in search of spices from the Orient. Having served as bodyguards to King Philip II of Spain, the Toledo brothers were rewarded for their loyalty to the throne with huge parcels of land in the newly conquered territory. The Toledo’s thus came to own one of the biggest and wealthiest haciendas in northern Luzon.
Who knows how long my mom and dad’s courtship would have lasted if those were normal times? But they met in 1944, towards the end of World War II. The Japanese had overrun Manila; and as an American, my grandfather was one of the first to be taken from his home and locked up. The Japanese soldiers were savage conquerors and a menace to young Filipino girls. It became quickly apparent that my mother had to be spirited away from Manila, ideally under the protection of a husband and his powerful clan. And that’s how Helen Maude Laird became Helen Laird Toledo and eventually, the mother of two sons and four daughters.
A few years after the war, Dad decided to strike out on his own, away from the hacienda in Pampanga. He carved out twenty hectares in the jungles of Mindoro and planted it with a variety of bananas, pineapple and calamansi. The farm was located in a remote and isolated mountain area but I don’t remember feeling lonely there or bored or scared. Our closest neighbors were the Mangyans, natives of Mindoro. They came to the farm to trade wild boar’s meat and fresh venison for rice, salt, and gaily colored beads, which both men and women proudly strung around their necks. In truth I think they came for Mom’s cassava cake, which smelled wonderful as it baked in the open fire. Mom had learned to keep house and cook, and best of all – bake the most scrumptious cakes and sweets this side of the universe.
But all good things come to an end. As soon as we reached school age, we were sent to town to live with Grandma and Grandpa Laird while we attended elementary school. It was a time of learning and adjustment, and for me, the beginning of a love affair with books and all things American.
Pretty quick we were packed off again, this time to Manila with Mom, to continue our education: the boys to San Beda College and the College of the Holy Spirit for us girls. I went to the University of the Philippines after that, got married, and raised three children of my own.
The Marcos regime was coming apart at that time and life in the city was getting increasingly perilous. We felt an urgent need to leave, not just the city, but the country. Luckily, we discovered that in those early years when we lived with our grandparents, Grandpa had filed a petition for U.S. citizenship for all of us. His foresight proved heaven sent; it allowed us to immigrate to the United States after a simple swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. embassy in Manila.
Nearly two decades later, Mom and I pore over old photo albums and reminisce about the past. She laughs softly, impishly, and for a brief moment I glimpse the beautiful, vibrant girl she once was. Mercifully, her long-term memory seems unaffected by the insidious cobweb that increasingly smothers her daily life now.
Mom doesn’t cook or bake anymore. She leaves her magazines untouched on the coffee table. She no longer listens to Bing Crosby or Frank Sinatra and even the huge flat-screen TV in her bedroom has lost its power to engage her. She lies in bed or sits in her rocking chair, face slack, eyes dreamy and distant.
My mother’s past is her present. The threads that bind her to the here and now grow increasingly tenuous as she spends more and more of her time in the Philippines of her youth. In the not too distant future, she will look at us, her children— the center of her world— and see only strangers. Until then, we treasure each moment she remains, still Helen, mother extraordinaire.
***************************
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Surviving away from home
Published 6/25/10, Manila Standard Today
Years ago, my friends and I left the Philippines for America and Canada. We graduated the same year from the University of the Philippines with a baccalaureate degree in English. Three of us went on to graduate school, one earned her doctorate degree, and two took additional courses in other fields. All of us held good jobs and responsible positions. We crossed the Pacific, not as supplicants, but as victors carrying our spoils to the new country.
This is our story.
As newbies, finding a place to live initially meant staying with family or friends. “My sister Jo and I lived with an aunt and her twelve children. We babysat our younger cousins, and I was also the designated dishwasher. The second year found me sharing a one-bedroom apartment with four other people. We slept in sleeping bags, and had make-shift furniture. We pooled our meager salaries. (Daisy Ann)
Letty and her husband first lived with his mother’s friend in California. “We paid a minimal fee for what used to be a storage room, so small it was difficult to move about. On the plus side, there was a computer I could use and our landlord cooked Filipino food.”
God bless the Filipino extended family plan! My sister and her husband welcomed me to their home, along with my three children, our mom and youngest sister. Fortunately, it was a three-story house. My children and I made the basement our temporary home. We were, literally, “the people under the stairs.”
CeeCee lived with her sister and husband and took care of her six-month old niece. She continued living with them until she was able to buy her own condo unit. Celia had similar living arrangements. “I lived with Ate Rusty, her husband and 2 kids, ages two and four. It was quite a change from having my own room in the Philippines to sleeping on the couch for almost a year, and on the floor when we had guests.”
Greta and her husband rented their own, but she faced other challenges. “I came to Washington as a GI wife. We had a one-bedroom apartment close to Fort Lewis; no telephone and no car. For months I was a stay-at-home mom and wife. The highlight of my day was checking the mail, walking to the corner store with my three-year old daughter Shen, and welcoming my husband at the end of the workday.”
The next hurdle was securing a job but we didn’t think that would be too big a problem. But there were unpleasant surprises along the way, and a few scary moments.
Letty applied for secretarial and clerical positions but “nobody would hire me even if my typing speed was 85 wpm and I scored high on tests.” She finally secured a part-time teaching job at the local college. When the full-time position opened, her application was turned down because “my degrees were from a non-regionally accredited, US-based institution.” Ironically, Letty is the one person in our group with a doctorate degree and a university-level teaching experience.
So yes, there was discrimination. Daisy Ann said her dead-end work experiences made her realize that “having a B.A. in English from a foreign country shut down, rather than opened doors.” But she plowed on and kept her sense of humor. She quit her first job as an Avon lady when a customer sicced her 6- foot, 200-plus pound husband on her. She acquired a series of seasonal jobs, then started student teaching at a neighboring high school. She quickly opted for elementary level after “…having to look up at six-foot students who called me ‘Babe’ and commented loudly, ‘Ain't she cute?’”
Greta got the first job she applied for, but she had no car and there were no buses where she lived. She ended up staying with friends during the week and riding with them to and from work. She wrote, “My immediate supervisor was a kind-hearted Korean lady who made me rest at the back of the records room during breaks. She even gave me driving lessons. She used to say, ‘In America, you don't need a husband. You just need a telephone and a car.’ "
Celia needed an invisibility cloak; she was a bona fide TNT working illegally in New York. “Sometimes there were rumors that Immigration officers were checking the subway. I would leave home at 6 even if my work didn't start until 9, thinking I could avoid them (they didn’t start work until 8:30). In the afternoon I would walk 20 blocks to a bigger subway station hoping for safety in numbers. One time I was with my family buying tickets when I spotted a US Immigration officer. I bolted for my brother-in-law’s car and cowered in the back seat. It was a July afternoon and the car was baking hot but I was too petrified to move.”
All through those first few months, Celia was so sure she would get caught and sent back so she kept her maleta ready, but in true Filipino fashion, stuffed it with pasalubong. Happily, she met Francis, and he made her legal in a couple of ways. But she missed her comfortable life in Batangas. “It was brutal to come home after a long day at the office knowing you still had to do the laundry or the dishes. Appliances are great but someone still has to push the vacuum cleaner and unload the dishwasher. It was a one-man show. You made your own coffee; you fetched your own water. No maids. No yaya.”
CeeCee remembers waiting for the bus in the rain and the snow, dreaming of the easy life she had back home. We all suffered through the same withdrawal symptoms. It was debilitating at first, then we got past the hump and it was all behind us.
We call the US and Canada home now. The Philippines is like a parent we left behind – viewed with much affection and amused tolerance, and thankfully, from a great distance.
Published 6/25/10, Manila Standard Today
Years ago, my friends and I left the Philippines for America and Canada. We graduated the same year from the University of the Philippines with a baccalaureate degree in English. Three of us went on to graduate school, one earned her doctorate degree, and two took additional courses in other fields. All of us held good jobs and responsible positions. We crossed the Pacific, not as supplicants, but as victors carrying our spoils to the new country.
This is our story.
As newbies, finding a place to live initially meant staying with family or friends. “My sister Jo and I lived with an aunt and her twelve children. We babysat our younger cousins, and I was also the designated dishwasher. The second year found me sharing a one-bedroom apartment with four other people. We slept in sleeping bags, and had make-shift furniture. We pooled our meager salaries. (Daisy Ann)
Letty and her husband first lived with his mother’s friend in California. “We paid a minimal fee for what used to be a storage room, so small it was difficult to move about. On the plus side, there was a computer I could use and our landlord cooked Filipino food.”
God bless the Filipino extended family plan! My sister and her husband welcomed me to their home, along with my three children, our mom and youngest sister. Fortunately, it was a three-story house. My children and I made the basement our temporary home. We were, literally, “the people under the stairs.”
CeeCee lived with her sister and husband and took care of her six-month old niece. She continued living with them until she was able to buy her own condo unit. Celia had similar living arrangements. “I lived with Ate Rusty, her husband and 2 kids, ages two and four. It was quite a change from having my own room in the Philippines to sleeping on the couch for almost a year, and on the floor when we had guests.”
Greta and her husband rented their own, but she faced other challenges. “I came to Washington as a GI wife. We had a one-bedroom apartment close to Fort Lewis; no telephone and no car. For months I was a stay-at-home mom and wife. The highlight of my day was checking the mail, walking to the corner store with my three-year old daughter Shen, and welcoming my husband at the end of the workday.”
The next hurdle was securing a job but we didn’t think that would be too big a problem. But there were unpleasant surprises along the way, and a few scary moments.
Letty applied for secretarial and clerical positions but “nobody would hire me even if my typing speed was 85 wpm and I scored high on tests.” She finally secured a part-time teaching job at the local college. When the full-time position opened, her application was turned down because “my degrees were from a non-regionally accredited, US-based institution.” Ironically, Letty is the one person in our group with a doctorate degree and a university-level teaching experience.
So yes, there was discrimination. Daisy Ann said her dead-end work experiences made her realize that “having a B.A. in English from a foreign country shut down, rather than opened doors.” But she plowed on and kept her sense of humor. She quit her first job as an Avon lady when a customer sicced her 6- foot, 200-plus pound husband on her. She acquired a series of seasonal jobs, then started student teaching at a neighboring high school. She quickly opted for elementary level after “…having to look up at six-foot students who called me ‘Babe’ and commented loudly, ‘Ain't she cute?’”
Greta got the first job she applied for, but she had no car and there were no buses where she lived. She ended up staying with friends during the week and riding with them to and from work. She wrote, “My immediate supervisor was a kind-hearted Korean lady who made me rest at the back of the records room during breaks. She even gave me driving lessons. She used to say, ‘In America, you don't need a husband. You just need a telephone and a car.’ "
Celia needed an invisibility cloak; she was a bona fide TNT working illegally in New York. “Sometimes there were rumors that Immigration officers were checking the subway. I would leave home at 6 even if my work didn't start until 9, thinking I could avoid them (they didn’t start work until 8:30). In the afternoon I would walk 20 blocks to a bigger subway station hoping for safety in numbers. One time I was with my family buying tickets when I spotted a US Immigration officer. I bolted for my brother-in-law’s car and cowered in the back seat. It was a July afternoon and the car was baking hot but I was too petrified to move.”
All through those first few months, Celia was so sure she would get caught and sent back so she kept her maleta ready, but in true Filipino fashion, stuffed it with pasalubong. Happily, she met Francis, and he made her legal in a couple of ways. But she missed her comfortable life in Batangas. “It was brutal to come home after a long day at the office knowing you still had to do the laundry or the dishes. Appliances are great but someone still has to push the vacuum cleaner and unload the dishwasher. It was a one-man show. You made your own coffee; you fetched your own water. No maids. No yaya.”
CeeCee remembers waiting for the bus in the rain and the snow, dreaming of the easy life she had back home. We all suffered through the same withdrawal symptoms. It was debilitating at first, then we got past the hump and it was all behind us.
We call the US and Canada home now. The Philippines is like a parent we left behind – viewed with much affection and amused tolerance, and thankfully, from a great distance.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Pinoy Pop Culture
Pop culture and Filipino traits, published in Manila Standard Today, 6/8/2010
“Invitation to a presentation on Filipino popular culture.” The notice sat in my Inbox, tantalizing me with its possibilities. I was ripe for it. The last time I was home was nearly two decades ago. The desire to check out the old country and my people has been steadily getting stronger by the day. This almost atavistic yearning started last year when I got re-connected through cyberspace with my college friends from the University of the Philippines. I also suspect this growing need to re-examine my roots is just one more sign of my advancing years, but I’ll reserve those ruminations for another time.
Bottom line, the invitation sent by a local community college about a presentation on Filipino pop culture couldn’t have been more timely. I was curious to know the kinds of things that preoccupy modern-day Filipinos. Are they into rap music and reality TV, I wondered. Do they text their BFFs as much as my daughters do and is basketball still the all-time favorite sport? Are komiks still popular? What about karaoke?
The presenter was a white male in his late 60s and he did not appear particularly delighted to see me there. “You don’t look like a Filipino, so you must be married to one,” I said smartly. “When did you live in the Philippines”? His expression soured. He had visited several times but hadn’t actually lived there. “But you must have stayed long enough to be able to speak knowledgeably about the culture,” I coaxed hopefully. He said there was one time he stayed at least a couple of months. My heart sank. I would have left right then but my inner voice said I should give him the benefit of a doubt. “Are you here to vet me?” he asked. I shook my head; smiled reassuringly. “I’m here to learn, and I promise to keep quiet.” One minute into his presentation, I broke my word.
The problem started with his definition of popular culture. He said the easiest way to describe it was to make a comparison. It was not “fine art”; it was more like “vulgar art.” I took exception to that. We were discussing Filipino popular culture after all. I suggested that “casual” or “informal” or “trendy” would do just as well without the negative connotation that “vulgar” brings. He shrugged. By the time his entire presentation was over, I realized my comment had been a bit premature, and that perhaps, his description had been more accurate than mine.
The presentation was made up of slides and actual film and television clips. It was focused on three aspects of Filipino culture: the most popular male and female movie stars, the most popular TV show, and the Filipino concept of beauty. He flashed pictures of Dolphy and Nora Aunor and told us they were the reigning stars of the Filipino film industry. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. Dolphy must be at least a hundred years old and La Aunor is no spring chicken either. They couldn’t still be in the movie business, could they? I was on the verge of asking this “expert” on Filipino pop culture the last time he had actually set foot on Philippine soil, but I got distracted by the third picture on the slide.
It was a caricature of a face. I couldn’t even tell its gender. Pokwang, we were told, is the female star of the most popular TV show in the Philippines, which goes by the equally ridiculous name of “Wowowee.” I stared in dismay as the presenter proceeded to play a clip from the show, so we could “better appreciate and understand the Filipino culture.” The show is a montage of songs, dances and silly games facilitated by a host with another unpronounceable name and his side-kick Pokwang, plus a troupe of scantily clad “Kembot” girls and “Amazonas.” Everybody—including the entire audience made up of Filipinos of all ages from all walks of life: students, matrons, grandparents, mothers with babies—shimmied, swayed, and bumped suggestively while singing with gusto at the top of their voices, clearly enjoying themselves. I cringed in my chair and prayed for the clip to end.
Mr. Presenter helpfully pointed out that the Kembot girls (taller than average, fair-skinned Mestizas) personify the Filipinos’ concept of beauty. I conceded the point. It was true even back then but was it too much to ask that he do his homework so the snickering kids in the back of the room wouldn’t go away thinking Kembot girls represent the norm?
Thankfully, the show ended, but before I could breathe normally again, we were shown another clip, this time from a movie starring Dolphy and Panchito. The film had no sub-titles so the students in the room could not really appreciate Dolphy’s brand of humor. In fact, you had to be a Tagalog-speaking Filipino to understand the subtleties of the language, otherwise; the movie was just one big slapstick routine. Our very own Abbott and Costello, culminating in a scene that showed Dolphy pulling Panchito along with two of his fingers hooked into the other’s nostrils. Inane, tasteless, low class, vulgar. “Bakya.” I sighed. Definitely not fine art.
As a people we are known for our generosity, our hospitality, our deep sense of loyalty and camaraderie, and respect for our elders. Here in the US, I know of Filipinos who work two, three jobs rather than rely on government handouts. We are a proud race, valued for our hard work, initiative and enterprise. It’s easy to lose sight of all these wonderful traits in the face of mindless gyrations, tasteless jokes and shameful display that pass for popular entertainment in our culture.
“Invitation to a presentation on Filipino popular culture.” The notice sat in my Inbox, tantalizing me with its possibilities. I was ripe for it. The last time I was home was nearly two decades ago. The desire to check out the old country and my people has been steadily getting stronger by the day. This almost atavistic yearning started last year when I got re-connected through cyberspace with my college friends from the University of the Philippines. I also suspect this growing need to re-examine my roots is just one more sign of my advancing years, but I’ll reserve those ruminations for another time.
Bottom line, the invitation sent by a local community college about a presentation on Filipino pop culture couldn’t have been more timely. I was curious to know the kinds of things that preoccupy modern-day Filipinos. Are they into rap music and reality TV, I wondered. Do they text their BFFs as much as my daughters do and is basketball still the all-time favorite sport? Are komiks still popular? What about karaoke?
The presenter was a white male in his late 60s and he did not appear particularly delighted to see me there. “You don’t look like a Filipino, so you must be married to one,” I said smartly. “When did you live in the Philippines”? His expression soured. He had visited several times but hadn’t actually lived there. “But you must have stayed long enough to be able to speak knowledgeably about the culture,” I coaxed hopefully. He said there was one time he stayed at least a couple of months. My heart sank. I would have left right then but my inner voice said I should give him the benefit of a doubt. “Are you here to vet me?” he asked. I shook my head; smiled reassuringly. “I’m here to learn, and I promise to keep quiet.” One minute into his presentation, I broke my word.
The problem started with his definition of popular culture. He said the easiest way to describe it was to make a comparison. It was not “fine art”; it was more like “vulgar art.” I took exception to that. We were discussing Filipino popular culture after all. I suggested that “casual” or “informal” or “trendy” would do just as well without the negative connotation that “vulgar” brings. He shrugged. By the time his entire presentation was over, I realized my comment had been a bit premature, and that perhaps, his description had been more accurate than mine.
The presentation was made up of slides and actual film and television clips. It was focused on three aspects of Filipino culture: the most popular male and female movie stars, the most popular TV show, and the Filipino concept of beauty. He flashed pictures of Dolphy and Nora Aunor and told us they were the reigning stars of the Filipino film industry. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. Dolphy must be at least a hundred years old and La Aunor is no spring chicken either. They couldn’t still be in the movie business, could they? I was on the verge of asking this “expert” on Filipino pop culture the last time he had actually set foot on Philippine soil, but I got distracted by the third picture on the slide.
It was a caricature of a face. I couldn’t even tell its gender. Pokwang, we were told, is the female star of the most popular TV show in the Philippines, which goes by the equally ridiculous name of “Wowowee.” I stared in dismay as the presenter proceeded to play a clip from the show, so we could “better appreciate and understand the Filipino culture.” The show is a montage of songs, dances and silly games facilitated by a host with another unpronounceable name and his side-kick Pokwang, plus a troupe of scantily clad “Kembot” girls and “Amazonas.” Everybody—including the entire audience made up of Filipinos of all ages from all walks of life: students, matrons, grandparents, mothers with babies—shimmied, swayed, and bumped suggestively while singing with gusto at the top of their voices, clearly enjoying themselves. I cringed in my chair and prayed for the clip to end.
Mr. Presenter helpfully pointed out that the Kembot girls (taller than average, fair-skinned Mestizas) personify the Filipinos’ concept of beauty. I conceded the point. It was true even back then but was it too much to ask that he do his homework so the snickering kids in the back of the room wouldn’t go away thinking Kembot girls represent the norm?
Thankfully, the show ended, but before I could breathe normally again, we were shown another clip, this time from a movie starring Dolphy and Panchito. The film had no sub-titles so the students in the room could not really appreciate Dolphy’s brand of humor. In fact, you had to be a Tagalog-speaking Filipino to understand the subtleties of the language, otherwise; the movie was just one big slapstick routine. Our very own Abbott and Costello, culminating in a scene that showed Dolphy pulling Panchito along with two of his fingers hooked into the other’s nostrils. Inane, tasteless, low class, vulgar. “Bakya.” I sighed. Definitely not fine art.
As a people we are known for our generosity, our hospitality, our deep sense of loyalty and camaraderie, and respect for our elders. Here in the US, I know of Filipinos who work two, three jobs rather than rely on government handouts. We are a proud race, valued for our hard work, initiative and enterprise. It’s easy to lose sight of all these wonderful traits in the face of mindless gyrations, tasteless jokes and shameful display that pass for popular entertainment in our culture.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Job survival tips for Filipinos in America
Published 5-13-10, Manila Standard Today
I was so naïve. I thought I had completely aced my first job interview in the United States. With just a few credits shy of a master’s degree from the University of the Philippines, almost 20 years of in-flight service with Philippine Airlines, and my exclusive convent school English from the College of the Holy Spirit, I walked into that first job interview with the confident smile of a shoo-in candidate. The job after all, was nothing more than an entry-level position for a small firm. They were lucky to have someone of my qualifications apply for the job.
My confidence seemed to be justified. The interviewers were pleasant and nodded encouragingly as I answered their questions. They thanked me most sincerely and promised to call in just a few days. I left the interview pumping my right arm in victory, high-fiving my grinning reflection in the restroom mirror. Immigrating to the States had been the right decision, after all. A couple of months settling in and here I was, ready to conquer the US corporate world. Piece of cake.
I spent the following week waiting for the phone to ring. The next week, I did the same. Could they have lost my contact information? I called. I left messages. Neither one of the friendly managers who had interviewed me was available. They seemed to be in meetings all the time. Then I received the letter. They were very impressed with my qualifications but had decided to offer the position to someone else who was a “better fit for the organization.”
Undeterred, I continued with my job search. I got interviewed by amazingly cordial people but invariably received almost exact facsimiles of the “thanks but no thanks/you’re great and wonderful and your qualifications are through the roof but…” They drove me nuts. I grew nostalgic for the less tactful, often dismissive way applicants are treated in the Philippines. Back there, I always knew where I stood after a job interview. They either liked me or not. No false smiles or feigned interest.
Fast forward to 2010. I’ve been steadily employed for many years, changed jobs a number of times, and picked up a few nuggets of wisdom along the way. Here’s what I learned.
America is a country that takes political correctness to the extreme. Because you are a minority (your skin is brown and you speak with an accent), hiring managers will bend over backwards not to give you the appearance of discrimination or bias, for which they can be sued. (America is probably the most litigious country on the planet.) They will be exceedingly polite and friendly but they will not hire you, unless the job you are seeking involves mopping floors, taking care of the elderly, flipping burgers, or laboring in the farms east of the Cascades.
If you have dreams of climbing the US corporate ladder, you will need to take two important steps to get your foot in the proverbial door. First step, enroll in one of the colleges or vocational schools in your area. A two-year associate degree from Tacoma Community College or a certificate of completion from Gene Juarez Beauty School carries more weight than a doctorate degree from an unknown university from a foreign country that most prospective US employers have never heard of. It doesn’t matter that it’s the premier higher education institution in your part of the world. They don’t know it, therefore; they don’t trust it.
Second, find a volunteer position where you can gain local work experience. Your goal is to soak in the culture and learn to speak the language the way the natives do. The quicker you get it, the more marketable you become. America is big on fairness and equal opportunity but when you look and sound foreign, employers will be leery about hiring you. The most critical soft attribute that human resource managers here seek is the applicant’s “suitability” for the job. Most things being equal, the individual who most closely fits the culture of the organization is the one who gets hired. If you are familiar with the way things are done here, the American work ethos, the culture, the unspoken rules, your brown skin and accent will cease to be barriers.
In fact, once you’re hired, those things that make you foreign will also be your strengths. In America’s politically correct world, members of the minority are a protected class. Unless you do something illegal or nefarious, your colleagues and bosses will treat you most cordially and very respectfully. You should be magnanimous and do the same.
(Note from the editor: Belma Villa gained these experiences in Washington State and the Pacific Northwest from 1990 to the present. She published monthly articles as a guest columnist for The News Tribune in Tacoma, Washington in 2003. She also wrote short stories for a weekly magazine when she was still living in the Philippines. She is now with the Washington Higher Education Coordinating Board.)
Published 5-13-10, Manila Standard Today
I was so naïve. I thought I had completely aced my first job interview in the United States. With just a few credits shy of a master’s degree from the University of the Philippines, almost 20 years of in-flight service with Philippine Airlines, and my exclusive convent school English from the College of the Holy Spirit, I walked into that first job interview with the confident smile of a shoo-in candidate. The job after all, was nothing more than an entry-level position for a small firm. They were lucky to have someone of my qualifications apply for the job.
My confidence seemed to be justified. The interviewers were pleasant and nodded encouragingly as I answered their questions. They thanked me most sincerely and promised to call in just a few days. I left the interview pumping my right arm in victory, high-fiving my grinning reflection in the restroom mirror. Immigrating to the States had been the right decision, after all. A couple of months settling in and here I was, ready to conquer the US corporate world. Piece of cake.
I spent the following week waiting for the phone to ring. The next week, I did the same. Could they have lost my contact information? I called. I left messages. Neither one of the friendly managers who had interviewed me was available. They seemed to be in meetings all the time. Then I received the letter. They were very impressed with my qualifications but had decided to offer the position to someone else who was a “better fit for the organization.”
Undeterred, I continued with my job search. I got interviewed by amazingly cordial people but invariably received almost exact facsimiles of the “thanks but no thanks/you’re great and wonderful and your qualifications are through the roof but…” They drove me nuts. I grew nostalgic for the less tactful, often dismissive way applicants are treated in the Philippines. Back there, I always knew where I stood after a job interview. They either liked me or not. No false smiles or feigned interest.
Fast forward to 2010. I’ve been steadily employed for many years, changed jobs a number of times, and picked up a few nuggets of wisdom along the way. Here’s what I learned.
America is a country that takes political correctness to the extreme. Because you are a minority (your skin is brown and you speak with an accent), hiring managers will bend over backwards not to give you the appearance of discrimination or bias, for which they can be sued. (America is probably the most litigious country on the planet.) They will be exceedingly polite and friendly but they will not hire you, unless the job you are seeking involves mopping floors, taking care of the elderly, flipping burgers, or laboring in the farms east of the Cascades.
If you have dreams of climbing the US corporate ladder, you will need to take two important steps to get your foot in the proverbial door. First step, enroll in one of the colleges or vocational schools in your area. A two-year associate degree from Tacoma Community College or a certificate of completion from Gene Juarez Beauty School carries more weight than a doctorate degree from an unknown university from a foreign country that most prospective US employers have never heard of. It doesn’t matter that it’s the premier higher education institution in your part of the world. They don’t know it, therefore; they don’t trust it.
Second, find a volunteer position where you can gain local work experience. Your goal is to soak in the culture and learn to speak the language the way the natives do. The quicker you get it, the more marketable you become. America is big on fairness and equal opportunity but when you look and sound foreign, employers will be leery about hiring you. The most critical soft attribute that human resource managers here seek is the applicant’s “suitability” for the job. Most things being equal, the individual who most closely fits the culture of the organization is the one who gets hired. If you are familiar with the way things are done here, the American work ethos, the culture, the unspoken rules, your brown skin and accent will cease to be barriers.
In fact, once you’re hired, those things that make you foreign will also be your strengths. In America’s politically correct world, members of the minority are a protected class. Unless you do something illegal or nefarious, your colleagues and bosses will treat you most cordially and very respectfully. You should be magnanimous and do the same.
(Note from the editor: Belma Villa gained these experiences in Washington State and the Pacific Northwest from 1990 to the present. She published monthly articles as a guest columnist for The News Tribune in Tacoma, Washington in 2003. She also wrote short stories for a weekly magazine when she was still living in the Philippines. She is now with the Washington Higher Education Coordinating Board.)
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