My Blog

Crazy Days

I'd like to believe I'm a level-headed person.  Most of the time, I have a great sense of control over things that go inside my head, but I realized that I tend to lose it when everything is happening all at once in my life.  Thankfully, though, my coping mechanism to stress is not as dangerous as other people's; to say the least, mine is comical.

• Last night, I pulled an all-nighter doing my research paper.  I should have worked on it a long time ago, but the procrastinator in me convinced me I could do it overnight.  It didn't help too that on the day I decided to start writing--the day before the deadline--Charice Pempengco guested on Oprah, Dancing with the Stars had its semi-finals, and Samantha Who? had its season finale.  Thanks ABC!  By the time I finished my essay, I realized I only had two hours left to get some shut-eye.  A couple of hours after I dozed off, my alarm  clock damaged my eardrums.  I was tempted to sleep through my alarm, but my conscience wouldn't have any of it.  I got up feeling groggy--not even the cold/hot shower could make me fully awake.  After I dressed, I hurriedly left my room to have enough walk time to the bus stop.  I was half-way to the stop when I found out that what's in my hand was the TV remote control instead of my cell phone.
• A few years ago, I was so burnt out that I found teaching and going to school stupendously dreadful.  One time, on my way to school, I hailed a cab and when the driver asked me where I was heading, I heard myself say, "BC 25," the course I was teaching.  Confused, the driver asked again, "Where?"  I was about to say, "I mean EL33," another course I was handling.  Thankfully, my mouth said the right address my mind failed to process.
• A couple of weeks later, I boarded another tricycle cab and found myself riding with a chummy driver. On good times, I would have appreciated his friendliness, but at that time, I had so much on my plate that I wanted to zip his mouth.  As we were navigating our way around the narrow streets of Dumaguete, he asked me if we were to turn right.  Instead of confirming it, in my very dignified, teacher-like voice I said, "Very Good!"  The inappropriateness of my response quieted the driver, and we drove in awkward silence for two minutes--the longest two minutes I have ever felt.

The Joy of Journaling

Joan Didion once wrote about how, at a very young age, she was forced to form a habit which she later on credit as the one thing that got her to professional writing. In her article, On Keeping a Notebook, she recalled that as a young kid, she was given a notebook so she could sit still while her mother was doing other things. Other children her age at that time would have preferred toys, but the notebook worked out perfectly for Joan. It is probably the solitude the activity requires that drove her to opine that keepers of notebooks are lonely individuals.

How Joan discovered keeping a notebook is exactly the same way how I got acquainted with journaling. The time I got into writing couldn’t have come at a more opportune time than in my adolescence when I was painfully shy and dangerously insecure. Yes, writing shielded me from the loneliness I felt at that time, but after journaling for almost half my life, I realized that keeping a notebook isn’t only for lonely individuals: I’ve long reconciled with those personal issues that made me miserable, yet I still continue to maintain a journal. For me, journaling is the best writing activity I have ever done in my life.

First of all, journal writing is a very personal activity. I do not have to share it with anybody, so I do not have to concern myself with the mechanics of writing—grammar, spelling, etc. More than that, I can write my personal thoughts on some things without running the risk of being laughed at, or worse, judged. Furthermore, I can write about some things I may not be privy on sharing with other people, thinking my ideas too trivial or personal.

Second, journal writing allows me to preserve some precious memories—they may be sad or happy. I always find it rewarding to rummage through my old notebooks and read entries that bring me back to how things happened in my life. I totally agree with Annie Dillard when she wrote that we need to write “to rescue the beauty of experience form the destructiveness of change.”

Lastly, journal writing serves some kind of a practice for me. I am a firm believer that writing is a skill and that the more I write, the more natural writing will be for me. I know for a fact that writing is a skill, and so if I want to improve, the best way I could do it is through constant practice.

There have been many writing activities that I have found fun and fulfilling, but none of them comes close to the satisfaction I get from writing one entry in my journal. I guess, the joy of journaling is tops.

 

you know you need to lose weight when...

• you're having breakfast and all you can imagine is the food you're going to devour for lunch or supper
• you blame your washing machine, dryer or what have you for "shrinking" your favorite shirt
• you have an excuse for every food violation your appointed food police points out to you.  Common excuses:  the food is sugar-free, fat-free, etc.
• you grab any food you can at life's slightest provocation and claim that you're an "emotional eater"
• your three-year old nephew, with his limited vocabulary and a bit problematic syntax, perfectly enunciates the question, "you're tambok, right?"

cowboy for a night

i went to texas last weekend to attend my aunt's 60th birthday.  i knew that it was going to be a surprise party, but i didn't know that it was going to be that big a party. 

since the party was in texas, its theme couldn't be more obvious--cowboy/cowgirl.  had i known that i could attend such a party, i would have brought my boots from the philippines. 

the event was held in a restaurant called the ranch, and when i got to the place, my heart skipped a beat.  the place was so big, and its interior looks like a western studio.  on one side, there's the saloon; beside it, a facade of a bank.  on another side, the wall is covered with western-looking buildings.

that night, everybody came in their cowboy/cowgirl get-up.  i laughed so hard and i almost peed in my pants at the sight of so many filipino cowboys and cowgirls. 

everything fit into the theme.  the food was great, and the guests were entertained by a Nashville recording artist named, brett hammond.  i am not much of a country song listener, but i was told that he is one of the best in the industry.  since most of the guests were filipinos, my uncle also hired a filipino stand-up comedian: leonard obal.  his name should ring a bell since he was big in the philippines.  his claim to fame was his tandem with allan k. their long-running show called "si nura at si velma" was a huge hit in the philippines.  he brought the house down with his punchlines and sketches.  i, myself, had my fifteen-minute of fame.  for his finale, leonard needed someone to exchange lines with, and so my relatives volunteered me.  consequently, i got to work closely with leonard: we did a hurried reading of the script and technical rehearsal.  it was so fun.

Every Sway of His Hip, A Bruise to an Image

Note: This is the first essay I wrote in California.

He struts in his very loud get-up: fuchsia spandex shorts, an orange ultra-fit top, layered by an equally screaming colored polo tied as a midriff.  He sees a group of boys, bats his eyelashes as flirtatiously as possible, and shrieks, “Ay, mga lalaki! (Oh, boys!)”  And then he smacks his lips and makes an expression like a lion ready to devour its prey.

            This image is pretty much consistent in all Roderick Paulate’s—a popular Filipino comedian—portrayal of gays in films, and it never fails to elicit boisterous laughter from the crowd.  On the surface, it seems like a very innocuous shot at humor, but this and a lot more bruise the gay image.  Suffice it to say, Roderick Paulate films do not put the gay image in the positive light as they breed and support gay stereotypes.

            Even though Roderick Paulate’s portrayal of the gay man has not been the most ideal, it is worth noting that he has contributed something to the gay community.  Prior to his rise as a “gay icon,” gays were just in the periphery—in society and shockingly much so in the movie industry.  There were very few Filipino movies that touched on homosexuality, and gay characters were limited to being the best friend of the heroine/leading lady or to being the town or village beautician.  Society’s view of gays as a minority or the other couldn’t be more pronounced than in the film industry.  For a long time, there had been an absence of a strong gay presence on screen.  All that was changed in the late ‘80s to the early ‘90s.

            The late 1980’s saw the mercurial rise of Roderick Paulate as a bankable star who capitalized on his ability to portray gays with much gusto.  Among his hit films are Petrang Kabayo at ang Pilyang Kuting (Petra the Horse and the Naughty Kitten), Si Goryo at Si Tekla (Goryo and Tekla), Petrang Kabayo 2: Ang Ganda-ganda Mo (Petra the Horse: You’re so Beautiful), etc. As a consequence of Paulate’s popularity, the Philippine gay community has suddenly gotten a voice, a representation in mainstream cinema.  However, his representation has drawn flak, for his depiction of gays is deemed by many to be stereotypical.

            Although Paulate has given gays the visibility they lacked a few years back, gays have yet to receive acceptance and respect from society.  Despite the media mileage, gays have remained the other and their visibility, championed by Paulate, has inadvertently made them the butt of ridicule, thanks to Paulate’s reliance on gay stereotypes for extra cheap laughs.  Common stereotypes his portrayals support include “the screaming faggot”, the promiscuous gay, and the hopelessly-romantic-but-oftentimes-broken-hearted gay.

            In all his films, Paulate’s gay protagonists come in two volumes: loud and louder.  His characterizations always exaggerate “sward speak” or gay language, and he excessively plays with his speech, delivering a nasal and shrill sound.  His sentences are punctuated with Oh, diva! [O, di ba? (Isn’t that right?)] and Bongga! (Groovy!)  His gay characters are perpetually screaming: they laugh the loudest and they shriek at the slightest provocation.  Hence, the stereotype of the “screaming faggot” is cultivated.

            Another stereotype Paulate plays so well is the promiscuous gay.  At the sight of men, Paulate’s gay characters predictably perk up and incessantly and unabashedly flirt with them.  Most of the time, these flirtations result in two things: either his characters are rejected or worse, beaten up black and blue. What’s sickening is that these situations are intentionally played to be funny.  The audience laughs at the gay men’s coquettish ways, and they seem not to mind the protagonists being beaten to a pulp because they seem to be bastusin, deserving of whatever beating they get.  The depiction that gays always flirt every chance they get is not accurate and does nothing to improve the gay image.

            Not one of the many Paulate characters ends up with a lover.  The characters always have prospects, but these prospects almost always have eyes set for the gay protagonist’s younger sister or friend.  Nothing much is revealed of the gay protagonists’ love lives except that they hope to be loved and they oftentimes feel the sting of rejection.  This portrayal seems to suggest that gays are incapable of forming meaningful relationships.

            Despite these underrated portrayal of gays, Paulate’s characters always have redeeming values such as their unconditional love for their families, their generous and kindred spirit, etc.  However, these are outweighed by the ridiculous situations and image created for gays.  Inadvertently, Roderick Paulate’s characters have become models of what a man or a boy shouldn’t be.  Thus, it’s become common to hear comments like, “What are you whining about?  You sound like Roderick!  Are you gay?”

Indeed, Paulate’s films recognize the presence of gays in the community, but they also reflect and support the startling reality of where the gays stand.  As long as gays and their experiences are made fun of, they will always remain the other.

            What if one of Paulate’s films highlights this particular scene? He struts in his designer jeans and shirt.  He sees Vic, his secret love.  He walks towards him, and recites what he has altered from a line in Notting Hill: “Vic, I am just a boy, standing in front of a boy…asking him to love me.”  How many people can possibly sit still without laughing and appreciate it for what it is—a genuine expression of affection?

Softening of the He-bitch!

I could never claim that I am a people person.  I can't make a good first impression on people, and I don't warm up to people easily.  Well sometimes I do, but most of the time, I don't.  However, I noticed that despite my seemingly standoffish nature, there are still people kind enough to get to know me better and treat me the way I want people to treat me.

When I was about to leave home for college, my biggest fear was to deal with people outside my family circle.  Growing up, I was everybody's baby, and going away from home meant that that privilege would have to be waived.  I was terrified of the thought that people might treat me roughly.  That fear was soon put to rest as I've so far met the most wonderful people on earth.

When I arrived in Baguio for my freshman year, I sensed that a lot of people were looking out for me.  My classmates were absolutely supportive and the upperclass students helped me cope with the difficulty of being away from home.  Baguio life was far different from my life in San Carlos.  I was expected to wash dishes, help clean the dormitory, clean toilets, wait tables--things that I never had to do growing up.  But looking back, I realized that people gave me the least strenuous jobs.  Hmmm...I feel so lucky.

When I started teaching at Silliman, I didn't know what to expect in my department.  When I was a student, I heard talks about how difficult the people were supposed to be at the department.  The running joke was that if you belonged to that department, something must be wrong with you.   Well, I can't prove or disprove that joke, but one thing's for sure, I've only met the most interesting people there.  And definitely, I have found my second home in the department.

Here in California, I feel that a lot of people really make an effort to make me feel at home.  People call me constantly asking me how I am doing and others pick me up at my place to bring me to places.  At school, I've befriended the cashier at the cafeteria.  I remember that we clicked because one time, I bought a slice of cream cheese cake at the cafeteria and she was raving about how good my choice was.  Anyway, since then, we have been making small talks whenever I am buying something.  Last Friday, she gave me a slice of the same cake and she said she wanted me to have it since it's the weekend and it would take me two days before I could buy another slice.  Sweet.

random thoughts

I can still remember my History teacher in high school telling our class how the US has become the melting pot of different cultures. Nothing could have illustrated his point better than my experience the other day in my English 100 class at Skyline College.  It took me a while to observe that the person on my right was an African-American guy, on my left was a Latino, and sandwiched between them is my glorious brown self.  It tickled me to think that the three of us made a good model for our discussion that day as we were talking about the other in class. Nothing spelled minority better than our presence in the classroom.

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I finished my first essay for my class here last Tuesday, and I had it "workshopped" with my classmate and my teacher.  Its title is, Every Sway of His Hip, A Bruise to an Image, and it is about how Filipino gay movies have promoted gay stereotypes.  My peer editor and my teacher said they liked how I made my essay, and nothing could have made me happier that day.  Others asked to read my paper and they too agreed that it was well-written.  Naturally, I'm flattered, but something's nagging me.  When some of them realized that I have just been here in the US for a month, they seemed to be surprised that I could write that well.  Hmmm...what's up with that?  Or am I just being overly sensitive?

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I am about to finish watching a Korean drama entitled, Coffee Prince.  Its premise is quite interesting and might raise some gender related issues. Anyway, it is about a girl who pretends to be a boy to keep her job at a coffee shop.  She falls in love with the owner of the shop who is as straight as an arrow.  As both of them spend more time together, the coffee shop owner finds himself drawn to the girl who pretends to be a boy.  Problem: The coffee shop owner finds it uncomfortable falling in love with a boy who really is a girl, and so he suffers a lot deciding whether or not to follow his heart.  Unsuccessful at stifling his feelings for the girl pretending to be a boy, he gives in to his emotions and goes into a relationship with a person whom he thinks is a boy.  Hmmmm...There are so many questions I want to ask Freud about this.

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lost in translation

language, in general, is very fascinating.  it unites a nation, but at the same time, it can also ruin relationships. there have been many instances when a language muddles the meaning of what the speaker intended to say simply because the speaker gets lost in the translation of a language not his/her own.  the following are examples, which do not necessarily ruin relationships but drive my point that language can send the wrong message...

• last year, i tutored a korean student who later became my very good friend.  in one of our sessions, i told her that she must be careful in pronouncing breath and breathe.  i taught her that the former is a noun and the latter a verb.  assuring me that she understood, she proudly said, "oh, i love to eat chicken breath."  toink...
• in another session with another tutee, we were looking at a picture of a horse on our text book.  i asked my tutee if he had ever ridden one, and he said, "i have never ridden a whore."  i couldn't resist it; i had to ask, "are you sure?"
• a few years ago, i received an invitation to a graduation recital from a former student.  i was amused to see that the invitation card she gave me had a bold line that reads, "your present is my pleasure."  a misprint?  hmmmm...
• a good friend of mine told this story and he swore that this really happened to him and to the other seminarians.  according to my friend, they attended some kind of an acting workshop.  their facilitator instructed them to act out whatever thing he said.  the instructor said, "tree" and all of them stood still, arms outstretched, pretending to be trees.  the instructor said, "worm" and all of them wriggled on the floor.  then suddenly, the instructor shouted, "langgam."  other participants started crawling.  guess what?  my friend and the other seminarians from visayas started to flap their hands as hard as they could, desperate to act like birds.  the instructor burst into a big laugh and asked, "Bisaya kayo ano?"  Innocently, my friend asked, "How did you know sir?  Is it because of how we walk?'
• The other day, I sat in the Filipino class where I will be doing my teaching assistantship in.  The students are Filipino-Americans whose knowledge of the Filipino language is almost zero, so the teacher was kind enough to do a lot of translation.  while the teacher was talking in english, i played in my head the translation of what he was saying.  his example was, "the apple is red."  in my mind, i translated it to "pula ang mansanas."  then the teacher said, "the apple is rich in iron."  automatically, what registered in my head is the translation: "ang mansanas ay mayaman sa bakal."  i sensed something wrong with my sentense.  true enough, i literally translated "iron" to "bakal."  boy was i glad i didn't say it loud.

Life in California

I arrived in California on August 9 thinking that the place would be a lot like home.  I was right and wrong.  I was right because everywhere, you look, there will always be a kababayan.  I can’t help thinking that the white is a minority here in California.  On the other hand, the place is so unlike the Philippines.  For one, the weather is a lot cooler.  It reminds me of Baguio weather, only much, much cooler.  When the weather gets so hot in the Philippines, people go to malls or restaurants to escape the heat; here restaurants and malls are well-heated to help people feel better from the freezing cold outside.

My new place is in San Bruno, in a little neighborhood called Berkshire.  I have an in-law type of accommodation, so I pretty much have everything.  I have a little kitchen with a refrigerator, stove, and oven; a toilet, which is just the right size; and a bedroom with a king-sized bed.  I must admit I can’t complain about my place; it’s pretty neat.

If San Francisco is cool, San Bruno is freezing.  My place is on a hill, so it fogs early mornings and evenings.  My first night here was hilarious.  I didn’t know how to turn on the heater, so I was shivering from evening to morning-- and to think I had two comforters.

One good thing about California is that it has a lot of restaurants to choose from.  On my first day here, I dined at Goldilocks, Chow King, and Jollibee.  Crazy, huh?  Well, I went to these places because I really miss Filipino food.  The next thing I realized is that California has lots of Filipino food enough to make you sick of it, if that’s ever possible.  Asian cuisines are a dime a dozen here.

California is also a very active place.  I was told that a lot of things happen here.  Just yesterday, I attended the Pistahan Festival of the Filipino community.  It was a treat seeing a lot of our kababayans on parade.  After that, there was  a big fair at the park.  I picnicked with my advisor’s circle of friends and there we ate Filipino food and watched a show.  I got a kick seeing Martin Niev era LIVE.  When he had a concert in Dumaguete, I didn’t watch it because even if I like him as a singer, I thought watching him LIVE would be excruciating: he can be so OA, you know.  Boy, was I wrong.  He’s hilarious.  After his performance came Bernardo Bernardo.  He brought the house down with his funny, sometimes risqué, punch lines.  He sang Elvis and Anka tunes.  I didn’t know he can sing so well.  He can  give our young singers a run for their money.

I still have a lot to learn about California.  Sure I was able to see the Golden Bridge and Lombard’s Crookedest Street, but I know there’s more to explore.

A Great Adventure

I have always wanted to travel alone, but I had never been prepared for what happened to me last August 6.  In a be-careful-what-you-wish-for kind of way, I flew to the University of Notre Dame in Indiana alone.  Initially, the plan was for me to fly to Chicago and meet the other foreign language assistants from all over the world at the Chicago O’Hare Airport on August 5.  Somebody was assigned to pick us up there because the airport was a three-hour bus ride away from the University.  However, since I couldn’t  book a flight on the said date, I was told to make my own travel arrangement. Given no other option, I had to brace myself for an adventure of a lifetime.

When I arrived at the Ninoy International Airport, my heartbeat was so fast I thought I was heading for a heart attack.  I prayed so hard that should I die, God shouldn’t allow it to be at the Manila airport.  At the very least, I bargained with God, I ought to die in Narita, Japan.  I reasoned that should I die there, I could have at least a stamp on my passport.  Of course, God is a lot kinder than that.  Thank heavens, I am still here.

My trip wasn’t as nerve wracking as I expected it to be.  I guess, it was a pleasant one because I met some interesting people.  On my way to Narita, I met a teacher who has been teaching in the US for more than five years.  He was such a nice fellow that even if we didn’t talk much—he was bent on getting some shut eye, and I bent on finishing the last installment of Harry Potter—we got to know more about each other more than acquaintances usually do.  Going to Detroit, I met a Filipino couple who was on the way to attend their son’s graduation in Florida.  In the more than eleven-hour flight, I got to know about their and their children’s lives.  The wife complimented how pleasant I was to talk with and she added that she didn’t bother talking to her seatmate on the Narita flight because the passenger looked snobbish.  Her comment got me thinking: Was I on my round-eye mode again or was I obviously lost and desperate that she wanted to reach out to me?  Going to Chicago was not that bad.  It was a shorter flight and thank God I was able to sleep for a few hours.  However, before landing, my heart went bam-bam-bam again knowing that I had to find the bus shuttle for Indiana.  Chicago O’Hare is so huge, it looked like the Makati Business Center.  I was so sure I was going to miss the bus; however, a few angels helped me find my way.  On the bus, I met Roberta, a plus-sized American woman who was very chatty with me.  I was so glad to be seated next to her because she was really nice to talk with.  Problem was, I was so tired that half the time she was talking, my eyes were ready to fall.  I caught myself more than once dozing off during our conversation and when bolted to attention, I covered it with a feigned laughter or an “oh, yeah” to give her an assurance that I was still with her.  One time, I woke up with her talking about her friends.  I gave a hearty laugh and the next words I heard from her were: “They’re dead.”  Oops…

When I got to the University, the site floored me.  I have never seen such a beautiful campus.  It’s so, so, so big.  Imagine this: it has a huge church at the center of the campus, two big lakes, a bookstore, a bar (as in pub).  Its students’ center has Burger King, Sbarro, Starbucks, etc.  I told one of the teachers there that the campus reminded me of Hogwarts, and he said that there is a connection between the campus and Notre Dame.  He claimed that the Great Hall in the Harry Potter movie was patterned after their South Dining Hall.

The sessions that we had were really insightful.  But on the last day, I was so bushed.  I didn’t get much sleep the night before because my body clock was still adjusting to the change of time.  Besides that, evenings there are unusually bright. ogwartsHH  Eight pm there is as bright as 5 pm in the Philippines.  The last session that we had was on dealing with stress.  We were taught breathing exercises.  However while doing the exercises, I fell asleep.  The FLTA from Tanzania had to pat me on the back, and when I woke up, I was just in time for the lecturer’s salutation.

The following day, I set off for California.  My flight was at 9:00 am so I had to take the 4:10 bus to the Airport to catch my flight.  I really planned to check out early because the bus station was several steps away from the Pasquerilla East Dorm, where we were billeted.  I knew that my three bags would slow me down, so I went out from the dorm more than an hour before the scheduled bus ride.  Lo and behold, I lost my way to the bus station.  I had been going around the campus and the station was nowhere in sight.  It was a foggy morning, but I was so wet from sweat, carrying the luggage and half-running.  At 4 am, I was still looking for the bus.  Knowing that I only had ten minutes, I was really resigned to the fact I wouldn’t be able to board the bus.  I was so exhausted, and my arms were excruciatingly sore from pulling my bags.  I remember praying so hard, and just in the nick of time, I found the station.  Five minutes after, I was grinning from ear to ear.  Everything went as planned.