"I find hope in the darkest of days, and focus in the brightest.  I do not judge the universe."

-Dalai Lama

I can't help but be a little philosophical these days.  Well, to be honest, for the past few months.

Since I've been deployed to New York, I've come almost face to face; nose to nose with my past, my present, and my future; who I was and who I am and who I hope to be.  Bear with me.

I find that I have these persnickety and persistent thoughts - all revolving around when I first moved to NYC almost 10 years ago, and the events that followed.  It's like I can't shake it, I can't help but run into it - and after last night's events, I am compelled to finally try to find the proper perspective and reflection.  Because it almost feels to me like it did in the days and months following September 11th.

I've been more involved with the organization where I was a Fellow in 2001.  I have been living in the building just south of the WTC site.  I pass my friend's old and still empty apartment two blocks south of the site where I used to spend a lot of time in the years leading up to that fateful day in September.  It was the Tribeca Film Fest this past week - and I took full advantage of it, seeing a movie every night, realizing the origins of the festival itself every time.  I participated in Coro Fellow Selection Day, peering over the East River at the skyline I grew to love and feel was as important to me as my own skin.  Every day, I look up, with fascination, at the Freedom Tower, getting taller and taller each week.

And I have been living in my past for the last two months, almost as if watching it through a looking-glass, the perspective of almost a decade crashing on top of me as I've been forced to reflect on who I was and who I've become.  And inevitably, who I want to be.

I will admit I can never complain about my assignment.  I think I have the best in the world, spending time in the best city in the world.  And I've thoroughly enjoyed living here full-time again, feeling like I just put on my favorite old coat for two months.  You know, that really warm and comfortable feeling when you just feel like all is well and life is good, despite how hectic the last two months have been.  I've retreated back to my New York shell, walking briskly up and down the streets, muttering under my breath to the tourists, reveling in taking the train or riding my bike to work every day.

But this time, more than any other time, I have been more and more keenly aware of September 11th and it's reverberations in my life.  I can't explain it any better than I have before, other than perhaps being right here, so close I can smell and hear the workers on the site, that may be creeping into my subconscious.  I was just a few blocks south of here last year for a few months and I didn't have that kind of feeling now.  Perhaps the spirits are interjecting.

I'm not sure I can explain this.  Other than I could be going through that phase where in my 30's, I feel like I'm looking back at my life and it's trajectory and where I am and how I got here and if it's where I want to be.  But it's odd and ironic that I find myself here once again and face to face with something I'd consider to be one of the most influential in my life, that changed and scarred me and it's just everywhere I turn.

So put this frame of mind around what I'm about to explore next.  Because this is already what I was grappling with when I heard the news that Osama Bin Laden was dead.  After having the most perfect, quintessential, New York Sunday.

It was definitely a strange feeling.  Lightheaded, elated, almost like the floor was yanked out.  Surreal.  And as the news started to sink in, I realized where I was sitting.  And it seemed right to crack open a beer.  And then it seemed the emotions just started flowing and I started to tear up.  It became clear to me that I needed to go around the corner and be at Ground Zero as soon as I heard what the president had to say.

I literally was waiting for him to finish so I could go.  I was out the door as soon as he was done.  I even grabbed the wrong keys as I left, realizing it halfway through the elevator down and after calling the super and grabbing the keys, I was on my way. 

Hopping up Albany street, I turned to head up Trinity and as I turned left, I saw three firemen, standing silently in a doorway, turned towards Ground Zero.  A small group of people had gathered at the corner beyond them - I could just make out their silhouettes against the lights of the site. I jogged over to Church and just turned left.  Some cars had started to honk.  An ambulance turned on the lights and drove by with the windows down and EMT's were fist pumping into the night.  A solitary man stood wearing a hoodie (it had gotten pretty cold) and holding a candle in front of Century 21.  As I got closer to the Millennium Hilton, I could see a crowd begin to form.  Meeting Jess outside, we hugged and held on for a bit.  We just knew we couldn't figure out what we were feeling.  And we headed toward the small group that had assembled.

People had started to chant, "USA, USA."  In general, they were just excited, but it started out small and almost quiet.  Before we knew it, people were just coming from everywhere.  TV crews started to assemble.  After collecting Steve, we found a place to stand and just observe what was happening.  The crowd was getting bigger.  And louder.  And the "USA" chants kept going.  The American anthem started to be sung and flags started to fly.  It was almost as if you blinked and suddenly you were surrounded by hundreds of people, the crowd swelling together, people pushing to get to the "front", though no one really knew what the "front" was. 

It started out peaceful enough, but then the crowd started getting rowdy.  Somehow, there was a successful moment of silence before things started to get a little more surreal.  Someone started and everyone joined in loudly as the crowd started to sing, "Na, na, na, na - na, na, na, na - hey, hey hey, goodbye." 

And suddenly, I wasn't feeling very celebratory anymore.  I was actually pretty upset.

It occurred to me in that moment that we were celebrating death.  We were celebrating the perpetuation of the cycle of violence.  I was so conflicted about being happy we finally accomplished the mission we had set out for but here we were, at Ground Zero, singing, "Hey, hey, hey, goodbye"?  That just seemed wrong.  Out of place.  Disrespectful.  Not to Bin Laden.  To Ground Zero.  That seemed intolerable to me.  Sure, celebrations were needed and necessary - almost cathartic, but so did reflection and respect.  Especially in that space and in the shadows of where the towers once stood.  I felt almost sick when I started to think about it again.  But yet, there I stood, waiting to see what would happen next.

I suddenly was transported to nine years ago, having a conversation with my roommate and fellow Fellow, Vivian, upon the announcement that we would go to war with Afghanistan.  I remember saying to her that I was upset we were going to war.  That I understood it, that I was glad we were going with NATO and a world force, but that "war was not the answer, it should have been the last resort."

Vivian just looked at me and said, "Well, what else should we do?  They came after us, isn't this what happens next?  What do you think should happen now?"

And I had nothing.  I know I hated GWB, but that had nothing to do with this.  I could only blankly say, "I'm just waiting for the day that we stop reacting to violence with violence.  I'm not sure what else to do and I pray they know all the details we will never know and they will be smart about this, but what just happened here, this kind of destruction and death - war will be more of that.  And when will it ever just stop?"

I think of what she said then and it suddenly echoed in my ears.  What else should we do now?  And then the "F*ck Bin Laden" chant started and I just went blank.  Steve turned to Jess and I and just said helplessly, "And there it is.  They're coming after us."  And I suddenly was very, very disappointed.  A few minutes later, two guys climbed a streetlight, which, under normal circumstances, would have had the police scrambling to get them down. And I felt jubilant again because they weren't making any moves towards the people crawling up there at all as one of them had an American flag and started waving it.  One was handed a sign that said, "Obama 1, Osama 0" and the crowd went wild.  I even screamed for it. 

Later, when I left, taking a very roundabout way back home, I came across a Fire Chief, lighting a candle under a picture of the fallen Firemen from the firehouse he was standing in front of, speaking quietly to a young man who was asking about the experience.  Along the wall, there was a brass fresco commemorating the fallen and that day.  Busboys were getting off of work and bringing flowers to lay under the memorial.  The firemen who had been standing there just hours before when I first passed were gone.  And I could feel the emptiness starting to take over again.

Just like that, all night.  Back and forth between excited.  Upset.  Celebratory.  Disappointed.  Confused. Conflicted.  Empty.  And swelling with emotion.  All at once.  I felt like I either wanted to scream or cry or just sit in silence.  I couldn't figure out which.  But I also couldn't tear myself away from the scene or our place on the street, that as long as I was there, I was doing the right thing, being a part of this.

And it hit me that I was looking for reflection.  To pay my respects to the dead.  To honor those serving our country.  And dear God, for some piece - any piece - of closure I could possibly get.  Going home would feel like a capitulation, I was a part of this moment and fate had brought me here, the same way it had brought me to Metrotech Brooklyn so I was there at 8:30 am, just before the first alarms started to go off.  Something felt right about begin there, no matter what was going through my head.  And my soul.  Because all I know is an ache started in my chest that hasn't gone away yet.

It hit me today that I've had this feeling before.  And it was 10 years ago, in the days and aftermath of 9/11 that started the week after it happened and Matt and I stood at Ground Zero, looking at the mangled wreckage and the firemen and rescue operation.  That strange ache that would start in my chest and move to my throat and back and forth.  It was back.  And yeah, it was different reasons then than now, but here I was, still conflicted, still wanting peace and respect, but so proud of how we responded, proud of community, proud of our country.

This is the hurt that has yet to heal.  I didn't even really know anyone all that well who died that day.  I just know the effect it had on the people around me, the people close to me, the city I lived in, the country I love and I am finding, 10 years later, that I'm still trying to figure out the full effect it had on me.

Some of it was good.  Really good. The fire that it lit to commit myself to the recovery of this city, the feeling of community, of resiliency, of the human spirit.  The devotion to the work I have committed myself to.  And yet, the wounds still hurt, they are still deep, and still raw. 

We all have our stories of that day.  We all have stories of last night.  We all have different feelings, different hurts, different perspectives about everything related to it.  All are valid.  All are real.

Yet, I still think, "What happens next?"  And like the night of 9/11, all I can do is pray.  And wait and see.  And find a way to live with the ache that has returned with a vengeance. 

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

A BRAND-SPANKIN' NEW YEAR...

Okay.  Color me sentimental.  Here I sit, waiting patiently for my new iPad to restore to it's factory settings after a misguided attempt to jailbreak it.  So I am thinking that it's already January.  Didn't this past year just fly by?

I'd argue I've had an interesting year.  By many different milestones.  I can't even begin to fathom where to begin or really that I want to get too far into it.  But let's see...

I finally joined Team in Training, a goal I set for myself four years ago when my dad passed away from a pre-leukemia disease.  Instead of making excuses as to why the timing didn't work, I just made it happen.  Since then, I have done two centuries and a metric century ride (63 miles) and ridden over a thousand training miles to do it.  Kick ass.  That may be one of the highlights of the year.


Many friends were married this year.  That was a ton of fun and wonderful to be a part of so many happy days.  


I got to go to Ireland!  Finally!  I don't care if it was cold as a witch's teet.  I went, dammit.


My house continues to stand.  That's pretty darn important.


Those are good highlights.


The ones that broke even - well...


Work.  Saved some jobs, lost some jobs.  Won some elections, lost some elections.  At the end of the day, we fought and fought hard and this year will be harder.  


Yeah, I'm still single.  But I've learned a TON this year.  I've been adored, lied to, wooed and confused.  More than anything, I can honestly say that I'm not going to settle.  That seems to have been my problem a few times this year.  I've made some friends - some really good ones, in fact - and I've lost a few.  But this is life and the universe has interesting lessons to learn.  If you care to listen.  


Despite going on some fantastic vacations, I feel ridiculously tired.  I know it's a mix of work, stress, keeping myself busy on the wheel so I don't fall off - whether it's work, going to the gym, keeping up with training, etc, but honestly - is this the price I pay every year I get older?  Because this is some bullshit.  Mama needs a week off to do NOTHING.  I mean, nothing.  This may be an intention in the New Year.


See, I stay away from resolutions.  I like what my friend Vivian coined as "intentions".  It has a better ring.

For instance: I intend to get and stay fit in the new year.  I intend to think positively and spread good will into the universe and not get bogged down by negative emotions, situations - and people.  I intend to fight with all my will for the working families I represent.  I intend to remember that every day is a chance to do something good, a chance to simply live and enjoy.  I intend to get into bikram yoga again and possibly try my hand at some martial arts.  I intend to ride Tahoe.  Again.  I intend to be more free, to be more true to myself.  I intend to write music again.  I intend to paint instead of sit in front of the TV.  I intend to spend more time with my friends and my family and the people that love me, not chase after people who aren't worth my energy and disrespect me.  I am intending to live a very full and positive year.  Come to think of it, that's been my intention for a long long time.  And despite a few, um... setbacks here are there, I think I've succeeded at that goal, anyway.


Intentions are not wicked.  Don't be tricked into thinking so.  But not following through on an intention or bobbling one slightly has a much better and more positive feel than failing at a resolution.  It's not that I don't have the resolve to do these things.  It's that sometimes, situations make it hard to follow through all the way.  But my intention remains.  This is why I love the term.


But in the meantime, I'm just surprised at how quickly this year seems to have gone.  It seems that way since I turned 30.  I know, I know.  It's a tad ridiculous, but while I've had an epic year, I also am just amazed we're into another one.  Here's to seeing whether my intentions stick.  In the meantime, happy new year to all!  Let's make it a good one!

A very quick week...

This always happens. The beginning of our vacation here is slow. We usually take our time getting adjusted. Then we make plans and the last days are suddenly upon us and the rest of the vacation is a blur.

We returned from Ilocos Sur late Tuesday night. The next day, we had plans to go to a resort in Pansol, Laguna. I know. Tough me. What was even better is that it used mineral springs from the mountains so no chlorine, which I am allergic to. Sweet.

Thursday we had lunch plans and we ended up using Thursday and Friday to wrap up loose ends, finish up some shopping, get a hair cut, go to the cemetery one last time before leaving, etc. I spent the last two nights cooking for the family, showing them how to make some non-Filipino food - and having a blast while doing it.

It has been a long couple of days, with little sleep in between and still recovering from this little sinus cold I have. I have to say that this trip, which I wasn't actually looking forward to the travel part (I was pretty exhausted and has been home a total of two days before crossing over several time zones), has been nothing short of spectacular as far as vacations go and for spending some time with family, which always has a tendency to ground me.

I find myself sitting in the airport in Manila after five checkpoints and arguing with the guard to let me bring some Philippine wine home and feeling somewhat blue at having to go back. And exhausted because we haven't slept and arrived at the airport at 2:30 for a 6:30 flight. With all this damn security, I now remember why (two hours later).

Several folks have commented on going back to see and experience your roots and it is a phenomenally rewarding experience. This time, I heard stories from my grandmother I had never heard about the Japanese occupation during WWII and what it was like. I'm planning on helping my family put together a documentary for the town about the experience. I experienced a lot of religion here, but that's par for the course. For the first time in five years and four trips, I can say having to come here for a visit and not a funeral has been freeing for once. And has made it much more enjoyable.

And thankful and humble again. To remember where we came from, how thankful I must be for the life I've been given and have had the opportunity to live and my family that continues to grow in love and support. So even though I missed thanksgiving back home, I assure you, I sure felt it here.

Back home. And while I won't be blogging with such intensity, I will keep going because god knows I ain't getting another break anytime soon!

Mabuhay!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Metro Manila, Philippines

I'm an adult...

In the eyes of the Catholic church, anyway.

Amazing considering my history in the church - of blasphemy at three. In my defense, I thought that Jesus sat behind the altar and was psyched because people came to his heezy every weekend. Literally. So me calling out the third time they rang the bell during the consecration, "Jesus Christ, pick up the phone!" was quite literal. His house, answer the phone. Simple. All it cost us was not going to that church anymore. Again, terrible threes, not twos.

I was confirmed in the maternal hometown of my mother, like the generation before me. My grandmother stood behind me as my witness. It was actually pretty picturesque. In theory, really.

Because as I've said before, Filipinos are really SUPER Catholic. And me growing to the ripe age of 31 without a confirmation was a bit of an anomaly. An anomaly that needed to be fixed if I was to properly be a Godmother to my cousin who is going to be confirmed. My mom and I had talked about getting confirmed in the Philippines for years, but never had much of an impetus to do it. Until now. So talks began before I arrived here two weeks ago.

Eventually, the talks yielded fruit and the parish priest that presided over my aunts funeral just three years ago got special dispensation from the
bishop, who was conveniently in Rome. Anyway, the day before my impending confirmation, I realized something may actually required of me and I didn't (don't) speak Ilocano. I questioned my grandmother.

She looked at me sideways. "Do you know the Lord's Prayer?"

I scoffed. "Yes."

"Well what about the Hail Mary?"

Incredulous look. "Of course, Mamang, I went to Catholic school for seven years, I know all those prayers!"

"What about the Apostles' Creed?"

"Yes, of course I...um." I blinked. "How does that one go again?"

She looked at me like a wayward child. "We believe in God, the..."

"Father almighty," I chimed in, "Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen..."

"NO! That's not it! I believe in the Holy Spirit, of Jesus Christ..."

I stopped her. "Huh? That's not the one I know."

This quickly lead to a frantic search for a prayer book in the house. She pointed out the Creed to me. "Wait," I realized. "I know the Nicene Creed, the longer version of this." Which lead to a longer conversation about the difference and then the actual trying to write down the Creed from memory.

"This is so much easier to recite in church," I groaned.

"Because you hear the next word and know where it goes. The problem is putting it in order," my mother tried to helpfully intone.

I looked at my grandmother. "I can't recite the shorter Apostles' Creed without getting it messed up with the Nicene and I can't remember the exact order. But I know the story really, really well. Can't I just relate the story roughly and let the priest slap me a few times on the cheek and be done with it?"

"Ay apo!" (Ilocano for "Oh my God!")

I quickly walked out of the room.

My uncle had joked that getting confirmed was as simple as standing in church, have the priest slap me once and I'd be done. Apparently, it wasn't going to be that easy.

An hour later, my grandmother came to me and said, "I told Father that in America, they recite the Nicene Creed and he agreed that would be fine. He said they are going to start using it next year so you're going t introduce the Nicene Creed to San Juan."

"Oh?" Neat.

She walked away with a smile on her face. Yikes.

What didn't really help me was that I had also managed to get sick. I was taking NyQuil PM and Advil to break the fever. Regardless, I found myself awake at 5 am and walking to church 40 minutes later in the darkness with my mother and grandmother, amidst the sounds of roosters starting to wake. It was still cool enough, thank God. We got to the church as daylight was starting to break. We were directed to a small chapel off the large church. I was struck by it's simplicity, rather, it's rustic look. Exposed brick from what must have been the original church wall surrounded me, a roof extended beyond the dilapidated stone walls, held by iron rods. A beautiful cross hung in the front, made completely of withered wood that gave the impression of beauty rather than sorrow. Birds flew in and around, singing while they flew overhead. Paintings lined the walls. A simple marble-topped altar stood in the middle of the room while a neighborhood dog wandered between the aisles. I looked down. Apparently, they decided to save money on the kneelers. Simple pieces of 1x5 served as the place to kneel. Yup. It hurt like hell.

As we sat, waiting, my fever started to break. I was feeling quite cool but started to sweat. A lot. Oh boy. And of course, that was the moment Father Manolo came over to me and said, "are you ready for your confession?" I swear I was sweating beforehand. Anyway, he takes me into a small room off the back that was still just getting the first taste of daylight. I turned the corner into the room and was shocked.

Before me, on a table, lay a dead Jesus wrapped in cloth and in a box of glass. It took me a second to realize that it was the statue they used in Easter processions around town. He then motioned me over to two plastic chairs facing each other. Not only had I not confessed since I was thirteen, I was now going to have to face him. Yikes. After it was over, my mother asked what I had said. "That's between me and God."

So then came the time I had to stand up. My grandmother stood behind me. Thankfully, only a handful of people had attended the mass, most of them my grandmothers friends. And then my fever started to break. Dammit. I am now standing, sweating wildly, even with a fan right in front of me. Thankfully again, this part of the mass was in English. For my benefit, I imagined.

However, my head was spinning as I struggled to stand straight, sweating and wiping my brow and decided to concentrate on the cross so I wouldn't fall over. Then my grandmother's hand appeared on my shoulder. It was time for the Creed.

Up until this point, the priest had been pretty serious. I started into the Creed, as my mother and I had remembered it. Clearly, my order was wrong. Father Manalo started to read from the book. Thank God. I can do it when someone else reads it. It clicked and I just started to recite, then, he came over and just as he's reading, my grandmother leans over and whispers in my ear, "You're sweating profusely."

Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. Father hesitated for a second but then made the cross on my forehead. It was done.

And that's the courageous story about how I became an adult in the eyes of the church. Sheesh.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Panther Rd,Pasig City,Philippines

The Teachings of Cathol

Filipinos are mostly Catholic. Like. Really, super Catholic. Thanks to 300 years of Spanish rule, the Philippines is one of the largest Catholic countries in the world.

So while here, it happens to be the Feast of Christo Rey - or, Christ the King. Yes, I blinked, too. I had no idea that was a feast to celebrate. Apparently it ends the calendar before Advent starts. Who knew? You learn something every day.

I was told that we'd be traveling high into the mountains, to a place called, Cervantes - yes, the guy who wrote "The Adventures of Don Juan". I can't be sure they named the town after him, but it's not a terrible guess.

Anyway, everyone said we were going into the hinterlands. I stared back. "Weren't we already there?", I inquired? Everyone laughed at my question. Good joke. Um.

So we ventured out at 5am because it takes four to five hours to get there. Alright. We piled into the car and I was greeted with some gorgeous country:















High in the mountains, my sinuses took a serious tumble. I was already starting to feel sick from allergies. This mass it worse, but it was worth it.

When we arrived in Cervantes at 10, we were happy to get out of the car. Until we learned the mass started at 2. Two?! I was pretty incredulous. I was peeved about having to sit through a mass I'd barley understand, let alone wait for four hours for the thing to begin. Throw in "Filipino time" and we were looking at a five hour wait. In the sun. But we had left early because my grandmother feared parking would be bad. I'm certain we were one of the first people besides the people who already lived therre who showed up.

Anyway, we ate our lunch, enjoying the breezy air and me enjoying an episode of NCIS to bide my time. But soon after, I was told we had to sit down and find seats because otherwise we wouldn't have a place to sit. I checked my watch. It was 11:30am. I steeled myself to keep my big mouth shut as we walked back up the big hill to the square to find seats as they rehearsed their parts. I quickly found a book and my iPod to keep me occupied.

An hour later, sticky from the heat and still sitting in our chairs, we find out the mass is to start at 2:30. Dear God in heaven.

Thirty minutes from then, the place starts to really fill up. My uncle played games on his iPhone while my mother and I busied ourselves watching these adorable kids find their seats in front of us and out on their matching headbands. We assumed they were there for a first communion. Which was adorable until I remembered how long first communion masses are - on top of a feast day. Sweet Jesus Christ in a manger.

Thirty minutes later, the place is packed. I mean, packed. I've never seen this many people at mass - forget it, this many Catholics in one place. There are people standing on the street outside the square. Finally, the bells start to ring and we know it's gonna get started. My mother then turns to me and says, "They're gonna do a program first." One quick glance at my mother and uncle confirm that all three of us a thinking the same thing, but know better than to say a word. We quickly avert eyes so that we don't slip. Mother of...




There are a few skits that have the crowd laughing and my mother and my uncle and I shaking our heads. The skits are about politics. We're not entirely used to - and I'm certainly not comfortable - with such a bully pulpit. As they rail against the Mayor of the town and his corrupt cronies, I can't help but grimace. I fully admit I disagree with my church on a few things and while they may be right about such a disgraceful politician, I know these people will accept what they are selling without question. They are devout and true believers. And this goes against my rational mind, my better angels and even my belief that religion is a private matter. I cannot help but feel even more frustrated as I am forced to sit and endure such pandering. Yes, even a person as jaded from politics as me believes strongly that politics has a place and church is not one of them. I am thankful when the gongs and drums start and they start a native dance that will eventually start the mass.

I am busy counting the pages in the program - all 24 of them - when the mass starts and the people start to sing. I immediately lose count. Its not that I understand what they a singing. It's that all of them - with or without programs in front of them, are singing with a full voice. I almost drop the program and fan in my hands. I am amazed at the surround stereo sound of hundreds of voices all singing as one. I have NEVER seen nor heard this many people singing in church before. Suddenly, I'm interested.

This soon dissipates as I have no idea what is happening. Instead, I busy myself with finding where we are in the program. I focus instead on how the words look and are pronounced than to concentrate or even try to guess what's happening. Before I know it, the priest gives a 25 minute homily. I have no idea about the words coming out of his mouth so I just sit and count chairs. I'm on 156 when communion starts and I'm really amused, watching all these Filipinos try to do this in any kind of manner. Eventually, it becomes a strange bedlam and we just try to hold onto our seats as suddenly someone decides to use our row to pass by and a bunch of people come through. Like 50. Seriously.

Finally, the procession starts to leave. Only to return. More prayers are offered. My uncle tells us that we have been sitting in those seats for 6 hours now. I have officially spent more time at church in one day than I have the entire year. Hmm.






As we leave in bedlam in a bottleneck and try to prevent from getting trampled, I realize just how devout these people are. They have made a long pilgrimage to sit in the heat for a mass and then nothing more but leave. They tell us that next year, they will celebrate Christo Ray in Santo Domingo, the town just next to ours.

It figures.

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:San Juan (Lapog), Ilocos Sur, Philippines

Goin' Back To My Roots

There will be a few posts here since I find myself in the middle of the Philippine hinterlands with little else to do and not a lot of wifi. I'd put all these thoughts in one post, but as you may see, the few I do while here each need their own entries.




My mother's family is from the north of Luzon, in an area known as Ilocos. It is the northernmost part of the Philippines, some really gorgeous beaches line the land here. In the northernmost tip, you can see Taiwan. If you're quiet enough in the morning, as the sun rises, you can actually hear it. I've done this. After my father's funeral, we came back to the province to visit and given our exhaustion after a week of the funeral, we found ourselves wide-awake at night. My aunt suggested we go north and go to the casino, see the sights and see the place where my grandfather is from. We discovered a gorgeous, almost untouched place. White beaches. And as I snapped a picture of the sunrise over Taiwan, in could hear cars from it's direction; it's closer to the Philippines than Cuba is from Florida. It was a pretty cool experience.

Ilocanos speak a specific dialect, known as Ilocano. Of which I only know a few choice phrases, and if you know anything about me, most of these phrases are mostly useless and it was, most certainly, a language in which I strove to learn a phrase I have since learned in many different and random languages - "There's a party in my pants." You'd be surprised how quickly this sparks conversation in a purely amusing and funny way - especially when I assert that it's simply a phrase, not an invitation. Instant conversation starter. Or ender.

But I digress. I swear, knowing that I only understand a few words and can somewhat make heads or tails of a conversation now by picking up general context will become important. But it still is Greek to me when they all really get going.

Here in Luzon, the sun shines brightly, and hotly. People here live a simple existence, selling wares and food from house to house. The kids play loudly in the streets. Dogs roam into family yards, looking for the occasional scrap of food from the tables. Motorcycles, a popular form of transportation, zoom up and down the narrow streets. During the middle of the day, the hottest part of the day, it's customary to sleep. Take a nice siesta.

Life is slow here.

Lapog is a little village, tucked off the main road, where my maternal roots go back decades. My grandmother's house was owned by her mother, my great-grandmother, Consolacion, but better known as Mamang Bet - who I had met a few times in my life - as she lived to 82. The house was part of a dowry when she married my great-grandfather, Vidal Vera-Cruz.

This house was one of the first two-story houses in the town. Back then, it was easy to see from far away. Now there's a lot of them. The house was used in the Spanish-American War, though details about how are sketchy and most of the people who did now have long since passed on. It is the house my mother and her sister and brothers were born and raised in. Yes, born. In the house. All six of them.

When I was kid, I loved it here. Nothing better. Me and my cousins, borrowing mopeds from our uncles, driving around town. It was a place of fantasy when I was much younger. My first time on a plane was to the Philippines when I was three. I loved crawling under the mosquito net and watching the lizards that would walk on the ceiling. My cousins and I would play for hours in the yard. When I was eight, there was a typhoon and my cousins and I played in the street, enjoying the cold rainwater.

As I got older, this elation at going home has dissipated. For starters, I am older. Obviously. But my cousins no longer accompany me here. I don't understand the language so I cannot converse unless someone serves as my interpreter or I listen really really hard for some clues. Even then, someone has to explain it to me. It's hot here. Sometimes unrelentingly so. I end up in front of a fan, a book in front of me. Or in a room with air conditioning, reading or taking a nap.

I know. Poor me. This is where I'm forced to slow down. Literally. I find it boring. Against my nature. This time, however, I have given in and am enjoying it immensely.

However, one nagging thought has accompanied my more recent trips here in the past five years: I've become obsessed with learning what my family's life was like growing up here. Perhaps I have become more keenly aware of just how delicate a line my life has straddled: if my mother had never left here, I would have grown up here, worlds apart from the life I have known.

When I press my mother about what her life would have been had she never sacrificed everything and left for the states all those years ago, she asserts that she never would have stayed here. And she doesn't just mean San Juan. She means the Philippines. If not for my mothers plucky and independent streak, I could be that kid in the flip flops riding a bike much too small for me, my skin browned even more from long hours on the sun. My uncles all tell the story of how they were chased into a tree by a caribou (water buffalo) and my youngest uncle swears he could tell me the depth of any part of the river that used to wind behind the house. My aunt broke her clavicle trying to steal fruit from a neighbor - who happened to be a cousin and probably would have given it to her if asked. They speak with a wistful look of times gone by, of dances and movies in the square in the center of town - a big deal for a place that didn't have electricity back then. If you weren't home by the time the town bell rung, you were in trouble. And no matter what you were doing, when the church bells went off, you stopped to pray.

Could this have been my life, too? Granted, they have plumbing and electricity but this is still a vastly different world than the one I grew up in.

I wonder what I would have been. Would I have stayed in the province? Would I have gone to Manila? Would I have been the first of my family to break away to the west? My mother sent her family to school once she got to the states. What would we all have been otherwise?

I sit and watch the world here, lost in my own thoughts, unable to fully communicate and wonder what would have been. Honestly, what else do i really have to do? I think about my roots. How different, yet how strong they are, even thousands of miles away from each other. I didn't grow up with my family around me and yet, here I am, in the middle of a place I never imagined growing up in and strangely feeling sated and at home.

Despite all my hesitations, I am always glad I came back. It makes me humble. And thankful for fate.

And family.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location: San Juan (Lapog), Ilocos Sur, Philippines

Yesterday, we took a trip into Philippine history. It's somewhat surprising to me, a self-described history geek, that I have not seen this before.

We went to Intramuros, Spanish for "inside the wall", otherwise known as the original settlement of Manila. It's actually pretty beautiful, reminiscent of a small Spanish settlement, wedged between Manila Bay and the Pasig River.

It's also where all the history is. It was ground zero for the Spanish-American War (back in 1898, when the Americans liberated us from 300 years of Spanish rule and then promptly decided to make us their territory) and WWII where General MacArthur had his headquarters. It's also where the Japanese tortured Filipinos during their occupation after Pearl Harbor (they attacked the Philippines the day after Pearl Harbor - which is also the day my Grandfather earned his Purple Heart as a Filipino guerilla for the US when he was shot in the wrist) - including such Filipinos as Ferdinand Marcos. Or so I'm told.

It is where the Spanish jailed the Filipino national hero, Jose Rizal, before they marched him to a nearby park and shot him in the back for being a traitor (he wrote two novels that told the truth about life under Spanish rule - enough to earn him a death sentence).

Of course I was fascinated. I know rough sketches of Philippine history and am much more aware of when the United States entered the picture. But it once again became clear to me the stark effects colonization by first Spain and the United States have had on my people. It's too long to go into, but let's just say it sure reminded me of my trip earlier this year to Ireland. I knew we had a lot in common.

Oh, but it's hot here. Ridiculously so. I know all of you back home, getting ready for winter are crying for me right now but I assure you, this is almost too hot to handle. Remember this summer, how hot July was? Same humidity, about ten degrees hotter. I'm sweating like a priest at a little league game. Seriously.

And I say that because I am about to get confirmed. I am leaving Manila for the province, the true homeland where my mom was born and raised. So no internet for a few days. I'm sure I'll have great stories... Until then, enjoy this lovely picture of three generations of women in my family conversing with MacArthur and President Quezon...
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Corinthian Hills, Quezon City, Philippines