The journey begins. Well. Kinda...

A lot of people have been asking when I'm actually leaving.  And it's confusing.  As with most good programs, one must get oriented and meet a cohort before spending two weeks together.  Unlike things like the Real World or TV competitions.

Because I said, this is a good program.

So let's talk for a quick minute about... airline regulations and baggage and culture.

What, Monkee?  Yes.  Walk with me.

So, one of those fun things about airlines are regulations.  Traveling domestically, the maximum weight of checked baggage is 50 lbs.  That's true for traveling to Japan.  Easy enough, right?  

Well, the rub here is that we're traveling throughout Japan as well, where the regulations are mostly the same, except the maximum weight is slightly lower than ours at 44 lbs.  Easy enough again, right?  

I suppose.  Except that luggage alone, if you're not willing to spend a fortune, is fairly heavy.  One of my suitcases is 13.4 lbs empty.  This explains why it felt like I was lugging a dead body across LA that day I arrived for the AFSCME Convention during the LA Kings parade and had to lug my 50 pound suitcase around 15 blocks of cheering fans, with the sun blazing over 85 degrees.  And I was a Rangers fan.  But I digress.

So I opted to take the lightest luggage I had.  6.5 lbs empty.  Seems like a deal.  Except that when I go to Asia, I tend to go straight to the weight limit (bringing gifts to the Philippines means stuffing every bag until it's literally, exactly 75 lbs).  And this time, I'm packing for a more professional setting, so lighter clothes and flip flops aren't exactly the norm.

Which brings me to culture.

We had some suggestions of what to bring ahead of time.  Knowing we'd be doing more business meetings, we were told to bring 2 suits, a smattering of shirts, skirts, a few sweaters, business casual clothing and some casual clothing.

This is a two week trip.  You'd think I'd have figured out a balance.  Except, you have to be somewhat more savvy when packing, knowing you'll be mostly wearing the same thing for the most part, with a few parts interchangeable here and there.  You'd think with all of the travel that I do, this would be easier.

Well, Japan is a bit more formal than a place like... Billings, Montana.  At some point during our correspondence before leaving, there was a sentence that pretty much read, "for women, flat shoes are acceptable if they are of appropriate design and color."  This seems easy enough.  Except for me, who has had back surgery, so flats were really my only option since heels are a no-no for the most part. 

Then there's the shoes themselves.  Because as some may or may not know, in some instances in Japan, shoes are removed in places, so having easily removable shoes and sneakers is the way to go.  So now I'm also looking at all of my sneakers, realizing the only pair I have that fit the bill are the ones I use to mow the lawn, leaving them a really superb hue of green and brown.  Suddenly, I start to get anxiety over my options.

And being the crazy that I am, I, of course, have left the packing to the last minute.  So here I am, scrambling for 3 days in Albany, running around and getting a newer, lighter (and smaller) carry on bag.  I had read in many places that many suggest suitcases with wheels.  I pick up a really lightweight and very packable backpack for days we explore (so much easier to move around that way and LL Bean had a sale), new slip on sneakers, travel toiletries (2 weeks is longer than some of the trips I usually take, we were told to bring what we needed since we were traveling overseas and might have some trouble finding the stuff we need there).

And on top of it, I'm somehow more nervous of committing some cultural mistake, so I make sure I have new socks (for those tatami mat moments where I need to take shoes off) and everything so far I've read about Japan is that it is quite formal.  All of which has mostly been certified by my friends who are Japanese or who have traveled there.  Which means I also am pulling suits out for the first time since June because I haven't really had to wear them since.  And realizing I hadn't quite gotten around to fixing that seam or button and that this should be cleaned, etc.  Three days.  Two of which were work days.  That's what I gave myself.  GRR.

Then, of course, there is the language.  I've always kind of wanted to learn Japanese.  Thanks to the Founder, I happen to know a few things in Japanese.  Those important words would be taxi, gasoline station and a counting song that involves slapping a biscuit in your pocket.  Which is totally clutch.  

I learned how to say my special phrase at a Coro party of all things - There's a party in my pants - mostly because I find it absolutely hilarious and it is a statement, not an invitation.  And so far, it really engages people in a hilarious conversation.  But of course, even that translation is "loose", I am assured there's no good way to say that.  And of course, let's be honest, I won't be saying that unless there's sake bombs involved and I'm in a safe place.  (For the record, this is one of many different languages I know this phrase in.  I'm persistent.)

From Michael, I learned how to say a more useful phrase, "how are you?" and "I am good, thanks for asking".  And in Sodus Bay, I learned that one says, "itadakimasu" before eating.

Needless to say, I was doing the best I could to cram as much stuff in my brain culturally in as short an amount of time that I could to cram as much stuff in my suitcases.  And I spent hours packing, trying to decide if I had brought too much or if I had brought too little.  

In fact, I had even decided on the perfect moleskin notebook that I had decided was the perfect size for the amount of time and notes and journal I would keep while there.  Only to find out just an hour and a half ago that I had grabbed one that had already been mostly used.  So I went on a fun chase around DC to find any notebook, only to end up at a still open bookstore in Dupont Circle to get the only moleskin I could find (thanks to the start of school, CVS and even a FedEx office had been cleaned out).  My new notebook is easily five times larger than I anticipated and heavier.  Or how I didn't figure out until tonight is beyond me that the new sneakers I bought, while awesome, need to be broken in more, so I even found a CVS in my travels to get some insoles so I could be gellin' in Tokyo.  Neat.

In the end, not much I can do about it.  I'm in DC and at this point, unless I mail something back home, it's pretty much coming with me.  But I think I did pretty well.  My suitcase sits at 40 lbs even and my rolling carry on is 12 lbs.  I have some leeway, regardless.  

Maybe it's nerves.  Maybe it's just anxiety over the trip and the program.  Because the other thing I know is that when this thing starts tomorrow, I'll just approach it with an open mind, eager to soak up some history and culture.

And more comfortable shoes.

Tomorrow, the briefings begin, along with a trip to the State Department.  It will be fascinating to go there, especially this week. 

So it really begins.  As promised, I will attempt to blog every day of this trip and journey.  So check back here, same bat time, same bat channel.  I'm sure it's gonna be awesome.

Eleven

"What is past is prologue."
-William Shakespeare

It has been a while since I wrote here.  This is going to change soon as I am going on a journey.  I will be joining a delegation to Japan and the journey starts tomorrow in Washington, DC.

Besides announcing I am going on a trip for two and a half weeks that I fully intend to blog every step of the way, it's also the impetus for this post.  In tearing through rooms, trying to find world adapters and inflatable travel pillows (you'd think I travel enough that this wouldn't even be an issue), I happened upon something that made me stop dead in my tracks.

See, the funny thing about being busy is not noticing things like dates.  I can honestly say that in the past year and a half, I've been a slave to every calendar that I've come across. Specifically, that means I don't know what the actual date is unless it's either important, I need to fly, or someone's birthday.  Since I've been working on a campaign for the past year and a half, dates are a blur.  And though I've been fortunate to have a slower summer than I've had in years, it's still the case that I know dates for things that are going to happen, but not necessarily what the date is on any given date.

So imagine my surprise when I look at the calendar yesterday and realize today is the 11th.  For folks that survived New York or DC those days, they understand that sometimes that realization is like a knife that stabs you or sometimes it just is what it is.  You never know which one you're gonna get.  

This year, more of a, "huh" feeling.  Last year was complete torture, verging on the traumatic.  Just this past weekend for the Labor Day parade, I was driving south in Manhattan when I noticed the lights were on.  I was so confused until I realized we had passed into September.  And that was it.  No horrible reaction, no gut twist.  Almost welcome, in some ways, because at least I was reminded of the day that way instead of seeing the WTC on fire on TV like last year, which is jarring and almost cruel.  Last year's 10 year anniversary was like getting punched in the gut every time I'd turn on the TV.  It's part of the reason that last year, I escaped in the best way I could - by being at Harry Potter World at Universal Studios with another friend who was trying to escape as well.  Sure, it sounds silly, but seriously, the range of emotions is always unpredictable.  

So fast forward to yesterday, as I'm ripping through things in my house and I happen upon my journal from 2001 - intended to be a journal of my Coro Fellow year that should have started at the beginning of September.  Instead, it begins on September 20, 2001, where it reads:

"I meant to start this earlier, before all of this craziness began. A journal or journey of my year with Coro and finally becoming a 'New Yorker' in the [truest] sense.  Unfortunately, it starts out with a cataclysmic event. It will be more interesting, but perhaps through this, we can find the positive side of tragedy. Much like everything else, there is a balance.  Where to begin? Forget everything prior and start with now..."

It's really funny what happens when you get older. Things get more in focus the further they get away from you.  This is one of those moments in my life and history that probably will sit slightly unfocused while everything else around it becomes more clear. 

Every year, as time and distance separate that day, I always marvel at how far away it is, though I can still feel that day if I decide to conjure it up, just like it was yesterday.  But some details are getting fuzzier.  Some details suddenly emerge as if they've been hiding around the corner.  But while it holds an obvious place in history, it has a significant place in mine as well.   I was a young, 22 year old, fresh out of college and interested in taking on the world, starting with New York City.  This event shook me out of whatever la-la land I was living in.  

And it is still one of the significant reasons I've stayed in New York (though I left the city) since.  Because I decided it was important for me to be in a place that would inspire me after such a tragedy.  Important for me to commit to New York.  Funny thing is, I found the best way to do it was to move to its Capitol instead of staying in the city.  You can take the girl out of Upstate...

The rest of my journal then is a pasted montage of things.  The first thing after that intro is the email I wrote the night of the 11th, when I sent an email to friends and family that I was alright, but somehow ended up writing a novel that then went around the world to people I had never met.  People have asked to read it.  With trepidation, I hesitated putting it here.  But I also recognize the significance it had on me and others.  So, in a moment of catharsis, the email in its entirety is posted below this one.  So anyone has the option of reading it or not.  

The pages after that are filled with emails and responses from friends and family that day and afterwards.  Almost as if I needed the reminder that there was a lot of love after something like that.  And I can't help but still feel very lucky and warm to have that love still in my life.

But, as goes Shakespeare, so does this event in history and in my personal history.   It was the beginning of my adult life - forcibly pulling me from the safe haven of my educated life into real world.  Staring down the hall of my 33rd year, looking back, this is where the color in my life changed and came into more focus.  It's where I truly learned the lesson of being humbly thankful that I wake up every morning.  It's where I learned that life is entirely too short to waste any minute not doing what you want to do.  And my years after were spent finding what that was and every day since, I have the privilege to wake up every day to a job I love.  It was the beginning of the road that brought me to where I am now, the fork in the road that was unexpected. 

It was the prologue of who I've become.  For that, I will never forget.  And will always be humbly thankful.

September 11, 2001 Email

I've been asked for this a few times, and so, as promised, here is the email I sent to my friends and family the evening of September 11, 2001.  It started out innocently enough, with me wanting to tell my friends and family that I was alright.  But I couldn't help trying to tell them what it was like that day, since I was placed at FDNY Headquarters in Brooklyn.  I knew I had a unique perspective and felt that it was a "real" story that they could rely on through all the news coverage.  This is grammatically edited but otherwise, this is the email in it's entirety, that I sent out:

September 11, 2001 

9:30 pm 

East Harlem, New York City 

It was an unusually nice morning.  Crisp, with a nice breeze flowing through - I finally thought that the heat would begin to break.  It made me feel good, like it was my first real day of work for this fellowship. I needed to get into work by 8am, so I left the apartment at 6:45.  Needless to say, with delays and what not (normal for NYC, that is), I didn't get into the office until about 8:20am. 

After getting settled, Matt and I were chatting when we heard the alarm and the sirens.  he turned to me and said, "There's a fire somewhere, they just got called."  For some strange reason, I glanced to the window behind me and to the right, I saw the Twin Towers looming in the distance, the first tower billowing smoke out of the windows.  Immediately, I felt a chill and said, "Holy shit, the World Trade Center is on fire!" 

What happened next is already sort of a blur, but I'll never forget it. 

Almost after that, I though to myself, "How interesting that I happened to be placed at FDNY Headquarters when a fire breaks out at the Twin Towers." 

We shuffled into the boss' office, where he had a walkie-talkie to the Mayor and we quickly realized that we were sitting almost in the control hub of this disaster.  There was quick talk of us possibly going out with the wave of firefighters from Brooklyn to observe when the news hit that it was a plane that flew into the building.  Assessing the damage, Matt and I sat there silent as we realized that something quite unbelievable was happening.  It was then that the second plane hit the other tower.  We immediately realized that it wasn't just a coincidence.  All the people in the room were repeating over and over one word as this strange day unfolded: Sabotage. 

The building sirens went off as they secured the perimeter of the building, not knowing whether or not they were going to hit other government buildings.  All available firemen and EMT's in the building were called to the lobby as they were soon dispatched to the scene. 

We watched hopelessly murmuring as the towers continued to burn, torn between the TV screen and the window, watching it all unfold.  Then, as we were lost in a flurry of activity in the office between finding phones that worked and people rushing in and out of the office, the absolute unbelievable happened as we watched the first tower begin to crumble on the TV screen, quickly turning to the window as we watched the only visible part of the building, the antenna on top, sink through the clouds of smoke that turned from thick black to grey.  Immediately, I wondered if my best friend had made it out of her building in time (she lives two blocks south).  I started to head towards the phone to try to contact her, but I was too numb to move. 

The second building was teetering, they were saying on the news.  But we couldn't tell anymore by looking out the window.  The smoke had already started to move southeast into Brooklyn and all we saw was black smoke pushing the grey down. All I know is that we were praying for a miracle, that it was all just a dream.  The fire alone was crazy - the firefighters couldn't get the hoses up that far, the water break wouldn't even allow them a chance to fight the fire due to the heat in the pipes.  The building collapsing?  Dear God, it was just too much to take in.  Especially the fact that the crackle over the walkie-talkies was the guys at ground zero, yelling at each other through the channel, trying to figure out who was where and who was still alive.  We sat there, trying to figure out if there was a chance that the firefighters had gotten the workers out of there in time, that there was a good hour for them to have tried their damndest to get as many out as possible.  Then it sunk in that many of our guys were lost. 

As that realization started to sink in, the second tower collapsed.  And the numbness I had felt just fifteen minutes before could not compare to what I was feeling now. 

For me, personally, I was a strange mix of emotions, as most New Yorkers.  For starters, I know that I had only been there for half a day, but I was feeling so close to all the firemen and there was that incredible sense of loss.  Just a week before, I had been in the Twin Towers, rushing through the mall on the ground to the subway.  I had told myself that I needed to come back and do some shopping. 

After about five minutes of feeling the intense emotion of helplessness, loss and numbness, I ran to the phone and tried again to get my voicemail, to call my friend and my grandmother.  I was able to get on for about two minutes before the phone went dead. 

The next few hours play like some strange cryptic poem of something - the flames, the crackle of the walkie-talkies, people rushing in and out, hearing snippets of what was happening on the ground.  Some strange dance that I never wanted to be a part of, but couldn't help watching.  They brought in lunches for the building at 2.  That's the only time that I really remember between when it first started and the time that I got home.  Bush on the TV, the Pentagon.  I wanted to scream, cry, get down on my knees and pray to God or whoever she is for some end to it all, or to sit in a corner and wish it all away, but I was there, listening to the men who fight fires and save lives crackle in and out of the radio, watching the news coverage and helpless inside a building that could be next.  Truthfully, I didn't think I was in much danger, but it was daunting. 

All I kept saying over and over again were the things they had said to us the day before.  "These guys are the bravest of the brave, they run into the face of death when called.  There is no other job in the world where you can find men who love their jobs and want to do their jobs.  These are incredible men." 

Immediately, another quote came to me, "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance."  But who would ever think that someone would fly a plane into a building full of innocent workers?  It was just the tip of the iceberg of questions for me. 

Somewhere in the middle of that, I managed to get a hold of my friend.  She just called - this morning, she was thrown out of bed by the impact of the first place.  Running downstairs, she saw the second plane land in the tower, people jumping - it's too horrible to mention.  She got out just before the second tower collapsed, her cellphone and wallet the only things she could grab as she left her apartment, and her cat behind. She is not injured, but obviously shaken up - anyone in the city and saw it happen is.  My roommates had just gotten off the train when they saw it happen, two blocks north of the towers.  They are all fine, too. 

An EMT came into the office where we had assembled and said, "Funny that today is rescue services day? September 11th? 9/11?"  It had never even crossed my mind.
As the day continued in this horrible fashion, Matt and I began to wonder how we would get home.  They had closed off all entrances into Manhattan, I was thinking that I'd have to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge and more than 125 city blocks home when they told us of the backup plan (like I said, we were in the middle of the communications hub, though the phones were sometimes working).  We figured out our plan of attack in terms of getting home, but doubt clouded our minds when we heard the EMT's discussing how the trains had stopped because building #7 was about to go and how they were stopping all service to State Island because that's where they had started bringing bodies. 

Again, I'm not trying to scare anyone or make you more upset than needs to be - it's just that there are details that I will never forget for the rest of my life, images that burned into my memory and retinas forever.  Everyone that I've talked to has asked what happened, so for all of you, I'm telling you once so that I don't have to repeat myself.  It has been one of the most harrowing and scariest days of my life and I am grateful that most of you have tried to contact me and have thought of me.  I owe you some bit of detail, some rendering of the day as I saw it unfold.  And for the rest of you, just to let you know what it was like here. 

It took two and a half hours for me to get back home.  I managed to catch a train headed for Manhattan (the only one offering both way service) and caught a bus to 14th street, where I had to wait for another. 

As I waited for the bus, I was about to go into kill mode.  I was busy on my cellphone, desperately trying to get through to my family, locate people, check my messages - to no avail - but as I waited, some yuk came up to me and said, "Hey, can I borrow your cell phone to call my mommy?"  He walked away, laughing.  The people around me were as flabbergasted as I was.  I wanted to throw something at him and yell, "Hey, asshole!  I was at the FDNY Headquarters just now - do you know how many people they lost trying to get people home safely to their families?  You're lucky as hell that you're still alive and you don't even notice it, you dick!"  It made me angry as those eople who passed the cameras today and waved and smiled like goofs.  Maybe that's how they deal with it, but it was completely inappropriate when there's destruction and suffering happening all around you. 

But I'm home.  And I'm safe.  I presume.  I'm more than bothered, I'm shook up, and I don't even know where to begin.  As I read this again, I wonder how I even managed it - but it's just one of those things that I feel needs to be done.  It hasn't exactly made me feel better, but it's helped me get through these past hours, so even if you have read this far, thank you. 

As I sit here, I'm just remembering some details.  It's strangely quiet and uneasy here.  Sirens blend in with the sounds of buses rushing by.  News just hit that an estimated 200 firefighters are lost.  The cloud of dust still hangs over lower NY, covering it like a bad omen or reminder.  The dust in the subway as soon as we crossed over into Manhattan was thick, I can't imagine what it was like on the street.  You could smell the building from Metro Center in Brooklyn.  It reminded me of what the SGA office smelled like after the fire last year.  But much thicker.  Every whiff of the air was like a weight.  Just catching a waft of it made me feel darker each breath. 

The questions remain.  I just talked to my friend again, she saw her apartment building on the news, they cleaned the area and it's still standing.  She's hoping to be able to salvage some clothes and prays that her cat is still alive. 

Why?  The same question we asked after Pearl Harbor, Oklahoma City, and Columbine.  What now? I worry that we may retaliate in the wrong manner, I worry that we might not retaliate in the right way.  Something needs to be done, but it's not easy to simply point the fingers without realizing that somewhere down the line, we are to blame, too.  And no one ever wants to admit that.  But it's true. 

My roommate brings up a good point.  The scarier though heavy on our minds is whether or not this is over.  Could it continue in NYC?  Or will it spread to every American city until they get their point across?  As crazy as this may sound, I really enjoy my neighborhood up here in East Harlem.  To many, East Harlem sounds like a bad place - people have a bad stereotype about the area.  If you call a place where kids play out in the streets until 9:30 at night where families and friends sit on the sidewalk and talk and listen to salsa, where there are BMW's next to Mercedes, where the father and son stickball game is played in the middle of the street a bad area, then go righ tahead.  For once in my time here (an entire month), I am content with the stereotype.  But I can't be so sure. 

Tomorrow, I obviously won't be going to work.  Even if I wanted to, which I do, I don't think that my body or mind would be able to bear it.  As I left work today, they had started compiling a list of those missing.  I really can't stand the thought of being at the office tomorrow when the names pour in and the loss is further assessed. 

I will, however, be waking up at 6am to go to the hospital to give blood.  I don't know if you can, but if you have some time and you can, give blood.  At this point, it's the only thing that we can do. 

If you have gotten this far, thank you for even reading.  I thought about each and every one of you today as this tragedy fell and I thank God that I have this many friends who care enough to just call or email.  It really helped me through the day. 

If there ever was a time for prayer, it would be now.  So pray to God, whatever you see him or her as being, and say a prayer for the victims, for the cities, for the country, and for ourselves. 

I miss and love all of you and I will see you soon. 

Love, 

Keeza

 "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

DOWN WITH THE BROWN?

There is a strange phenomenon afoot.  Everywhere I go here in the Philippines, I am faced with billboards advertising a lotion or face wash's "whitening features", places advertising "whitening services".  I know that places like India and the Philippines and other parts of Asia are part of this phenomenon, but I never saw it as pronounced as I have on this trip.

Even ads for stores, fashion, food and new housing developments bear the likenesses of washed-out Pinoys (Filipinos for those of you who aren't  familiar with our colloquialisms) thus advancing the idea that whiter and lighter skin is the admired trait and we should shun our natural, brown skin - which also gets special treatment from the sun that constantly shines here.

What is wrong with this picture?  Everything, in my mind.  Because while Filipinos and other Asians aspire to be white - white folks and Americans aspire to be dark, thanks to tanning beds, spray tans and the Jersey Shore cast.

When I was a kid, my skin made me stand out from everyone else that I grew up with; the exception being the Indian family that lived down the street.  I remember being keenly aware of it at some point, but never to the point of seriousness.  I knew it made me different, but my parents raised me to believe that instead of working hard to accept my own skin tone or to simply try to "blend in", they taught me to believe that different was okay and acceptable and other kids, in fact, needed to learn how to accept me.  They taught me that my value as a person was always going to be based on my character, not my skin tone.

I learned to make fun of it at a young age.  When I was little, I had a blood test and was obsessed with blood types for the hour afterwards.  I marveled at how people had different types of blood, like their own particular type of show their body preferred and how families share blood types.  My father and I shared the same type: B negative.  My mother, who has the fairest skin in the entire family, has an O blood type.  Fascinated by the results, I explained to my mother, "See, Dad and I are B negative because we have brown skin.  You are O because you are... Other." 

I was three, what do you want?  Other people had terrible twos.  Apparently, I was my most precocious, most ambitious, most blasphemous and therefore amusing at three.  Always the overachieving Asian, I suppose.  Even at a young age.

Anyway, my point here is simply, can't we just accept our own skin?  Or are have we as a society decided to not be comfortable in our own skin and instead, aspire to be like everyone else?

I've found a few advantages to my naturally brown skin.  Not only are Filipinos not naturally hairy people, my leg and arm hair blend in with my skin tone.  Which makes me the envy of all of my girlfriends who are forced to shave their legs for society.  I end up having smooth skin from moisturizing since I get ashy when dry (it's like a natural gauge).  I get to pretend that I don't speak English when asked particularly racist questions (though this is rare as I end up doing my best to show the person asking if i speak English that I do in the biggest SAT words possible).  When I am asked where I am from and when I say, "Syracuse" and they tilt their head quizzically and ask again, "No - where are you from?" - even this can be more amusing than annoying.  Because at the end of the day, my brown skin will age better and make me look much younger when I age.  Because I always have a tan.

Because I am comfortable in my own skin.

So go ahead.  Ask if I'm Hawaiian or a Mexican.  I can take it.  Because even with natural insecurities and the demands of society, I am quite okay with who I am.

MANILA

Blogpress isn't working on my iPad. So until I figure that out, no pics. Argh.

There is a smell.  It's somewhat indescribable except that to me, it reminds me of home.  It hits you the minute you step off the plane.  To me, it's synonymous with heat.  Humidity.  Home.  It makes me feel warm and fuzzy; the same way I feel when I smell a fire-burning stove during the winter.

My mom says its the pollution in Manila.  When I was younger, my uncles would visit the States and stand on the front step, breathing slowly and always say, "The air is so clean here." I'm always reminded of that when we get to Manila.  Either way, it's a smell I associate with home.  Family.  Roots.

The traffic is always bad here.  It's one place I'd NEVER want to drive and that says a lot since I will drive anywhere.  Filipinos find a space and go with it - there is no city in the United States that drive as crappily as they do here.  Once, when I was 13, my aunt was pulled over in Manila and all I could ask was, "What on earth did you do that singled you out from everyone else?" She could only shrug.  She had no idea.  It's kind of amazing that people don't get into more accidents here.

I was incredibly jet lagged the first day I was here.  I kept napping and if you know anything about me, I don't nap.  I finished an entire Greg Iles book along with all the sleep I got as well as visited my dad's grave in Manila.  Not a bad day for a first day of vacation.  But don't ask me what day or time it is.  We're 13 hours ahead and all I know is that it's the opposite back home - night is day, day is night.  I'm all confused.

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DETROIT TO NAGOYA

Okay, so I thought that I would be on this flight for 17 hours.  They say it will take 12. Potato, po-tato.

I think it's somewhat cruel to advertise that the flight goes straight from Detroit to Manila with a stopover in Nagoya for an hour or so.  That's false advertising.  We're stopping in Nagoya, for chrissakes, where we have to go through customs, security and get off the plane.  Then get back on and then fly another 2 hours to Manila.  Cruel.

What's even more interesting is they show a map of where you are flying and exactly where you are on your journey.  Ever see a map of the United States, the Pacific and the eastern part of Asia? I assure you, for every mile we get closer, the plane looks like it's barely moving on the screen.  Start with something closer so that you actually feel like you're moving.  For instance, we realized it was mentally easier to think of riding 100 miles on a bike as smaller increments.  So after 20 miles, we would say, "we have four 20's to go." Same rule applies here: show a map of Detroit to Chicago, Denver or even LA.  LA to Hawaii.  Hawaii to Japan.  Not the entire map of the world and then basically say, "See? You're here, barely moving." the only good thing about it is that if there is turbulence, I'll know whether to duck or to prepare to use my seat as a life cushion.

Hard to believe it's been three hours on the flight only.  I know what you're thinking.  It's a long flight.  It doesn't feel so long at first.  Just like any flight, really.  Except that in three hours, we've had drink service, dinner and I've enjoyed a free Miller Lite.  I don't think I eat that much in an entire hour period on the ground.

After three more hours, I will have watched several episodes of NCIS and maybe have done a few crossword puzzles.  I may have eaten another meal.  At that point, I will only be slightly interested in continuing to count the hours until arrival.

Three more hours later, I will have fallen asleep, waking up in a panic because I'll need to go to the bathroom and because I'm in the window seat, I will do all I can to hold my bladder because my mother and the kind older (and rather talkative) Filipina woman in the aisle seat will be fast asleep. I will have lost all interest in counting the hours flown or will fly to get there and will instead focus every fiber of my being towards holding my bladder until I fall asleep again.

Two hours after that, I will wonder how the hell longer I will be forced to sit on this plane and will be gently poking my mother to wake up and then disturb the kindly old woman because my bladder will burst.  I will forget all space and time and begin to think I will spend the rest of my life on this plane.  At that point, they will feed us yet again, after just giving us a snack. I'll briefly consider this a conspiracy, but based solely on my lack of comfort.  I will probably consider ordering a shot of alcohol at this point.

After another half hour, no more counting hours, no more wondering where the hell I am, I will have lost hope.  I will believe my mother is a shape shifter and the woman next to her in an elaborate plot to drive me insane.  They will probably try to feed us one last time and then all of a sudden, the plane will land in Japan and suddenly I'm free!

After marveling over the Japanese efficiency, adorable amenities (even the bathrooms are cute), fantastic pens (yes, pens), advanced technology (think cameras), ignoring the Japanese aesthetic to be adorable yet slightly disturbing in some way (my Japanese friend, Mai has described such a study in extremes), I will be forced to once again board the plane I have spent the last 12 hours of my life, once again to take off for two hours before my final destination.  Like a cruel, sad, and unamusing joke.  They will, once again, try to feed us and try to get us to buy duty free items.

I can sit here on this plane and know this is the fate that awaits me until I arrive in the homeland, because without fail, this happens every time.  When I was a child, maybe I blocked it all out.  Now that I'm an adult, I can honestly say I'm really happy I chose to spend money on an iPad to keep me amused.  Of course, NyQuill, if it could have gotten past security, would have been a better choice.

But I also know that the minute I arrive in the Philippines and see my family, the journey and the trip will not only have been forgotten, it would have been well worth it.

If I can only survive long enough to get there.  I presume no surprises on this plane ride.  Let's see how right I will be... 
 
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Vacation, all I ever wanted...

I have been inspired by y'all to not only post pics but to use this vacation as a chance to revamp my blog. See, I started this thing out of sheer boredom in 2002 before blogging was cool and so while I have amusing thoughts, this is a good reason to get back to it.

So I shall post pics, ruminations, stories and thoughts from the Asian Pacific because, let's face it - we all need some culture in our lives. I will share my homeland with you while I am there, deal? At the least, you'll get a picture a day or so. I think this will be fun for all.

So I have spent the last 5-6 hours of my life packing. Yes. Packing.

The first thing you should know about my people is that they love American goods. Like. LURVE. I can't explain it well other than they love that it's from America. Isn't it nice to know that not every country hates us out there?

So I was raised believing that you bring presents whenever you go home. It is because of this that I begrudgingly and without (much) complaint, use my skills honed from years of working at Mailboxes, Etc. to pack and stuff as much crap, er, gifts, in suitcases as possible.

In previous years, the weight limit to the Philippines has been 75 lbs a bag. Thanks to our amazing airlines, this has been reduced to 50lbs a bag, making my hours of tetris packing really interesting. Surprisingly, I managed to get each bag a few pounds under 50, just in case our scale is off. I'd like to think not as it's my personal one, but I guess I'll find out how accurate it is tomorrow and then promptly throw it away before training for Tahoe starts again...

Anyway, we now have 200 lbs of luggage sitting in the garage, waiting for our departure to the airport in the morning. Packing the carry-ons was also a really fun challenge, but rarely worth noting otherwise.

I am officially tired of the travel already. This will all change once I get there and feel the warm, humid, 98 degree weather and the "smell" of home. I'll have to try to describe that in the future. In the meantime, I'm off to find some Aleve and a hot shower for our 8am pickup because my mother believes you MUST get to the airport at least 4 hours before you leave.

I swear I'm gonna enjoy this. If I get there alive...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Thompson St,Fayetteville,United States

Check one, two

Checking to see if this app works for my blogspot account so I can log while I'm in the Phillipines. Here goes...





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Syracuse

WITH GREAT POWER COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY...

Yeah, yeah. I know it's been eons since I posted on this blog, but it's a new year and this will change. But with what happened yesterday, I feel the need to share. Or vent. Whichever.

A year ago today, I stood in the freezing cold with millions of other Americans to watch the newly elected President take the oath of office. A president I had sweat and worked my ass off for (yeah, we all know where I was at for the primaries, but we were all together at the end and we kicked it). I remember turning around and watching the crowd and remarking to my then-manfriend, "This is the moment where I am forgetting the hours and the work and enjoying it. This is what we worked so hard for." I'll never forget the feeling of that day, the electricity in the air, the crowd seeming to be leaning forward, understanding that we were on the brink of something important and something amazing. I'll never forget the cheer that went up when he was announced or the even louder cheer for Ted Kennedy that day.

A year later, I am sitting here feeling like despite our hard work, despite the promise of what was about to happen, the American people suddenly feel much differently. One year. What a difference time makes.

I was in Western Mass yesterday, knocking on doors. Folks there seemed to understand the importance of the election, bringing their whole families to the polls, voting early, not wanting to let anything slip by. And every election day since 2000 and 2004, I simply keep walking the doors, not sure how the day will go in the end; never believing anything I hear.

And so in the end, we lost. Yes, I'm pretty darn upset about losing a seat held by Ted Kennedy and his brother Jack before him for almost 50 years. Anyone that knows me at all knows the love I have for that family. But at the end of the day, we have to ask ourselves, what next?

Sure, I've heard a few people lament over the loss of Camelot. But Camelot wasn't simply about the Kennedy's, it was about continually pushing to that brighter future ahead. That our best days were still in front of us, but we had to fight to get there and change the way things were to get to the place we were supposed to be. Camelot is supposed to stand for our ideals and where we want to be. So in essence, Camelot is always going to be there, reminding us that we can do better and must.

We lost a battle yesterday, but not the war. I hope this is a wake-up call to the Democrats who seem to think it's okay to back down on their principles, despite being in the minority. Who think it's okay to back away from the things and issues that we really care about before the Republicans even shoot across the bow (I'm thinking single-payer here). Just because we won an election and the power back means jack when it's all over.

I said this in 2006 when we swept and I'll say it again, after what was a pretty damn momentous election cycle: Winning is fine, but what you do with it is what counts. I hope and pray this reminds them that we're still in power. I'm all for bipartisanship, but it's pretty damn obvious to me that the Republicans simply wish to be the party of "no". So grow a set, remember why you were elected and do the job.

Or we're all coming after you in November. You have 9 months. We voted for change. Not more of the same. Show us the leadership. And I'm talking from the top, down. We gave you the responsibility and the power. Do something or it'll be gone.

VOTE DAMMIT!

As I find myself in the midst of yet another Election Day and on the cusp of returning to Iowa for the second time, I am completely delirious.

I will admit that I have really begun to like it out here in Buffalo. It's honestly a really great town. And I actually believe that if a job presented itself to me, I might actually consider it because I've come to be quite fond of this town.

And yes, I return to Albany tomorrow, for one whole evening, before being sent out to Iowa until the Caucus. Expect yet another blog to be attached to this one, reminiscent of the 2004 "Tails from the Trail".

In the meantime, I just had an enlightening conversation with my colleague that can only be best described as fuzzy as we both left the office after 10pm and returned less than 8 hours later.

It occurs to me that there are few records of what I am about to post below. And after a few Google searches, I managed to find it.

So for those of you who have ever wondered exactly what Lisa sang in Dirty Dancing, you know, that hula song she sings for the talent show at Kellerman's, enjoy the following.

Oh, and if you have races in your towns, go out and vote!

Cheers.

Who’s this Hula hana, of kamana whala hula bay, she will hula when you have a lovely gift she wants, you’ll hear her say, bring me a pineapple that doesn't sting a bird that swims a fish that sings, I wanna I really wanna, bring me a volcano that blows up all the molten jama and a blue banana,
I canna canna bring me a pineapple that doesn't sting a bird that swims a fish that sings, I wanna I really wanna,
bring me a volcano that blows up all the molten jama and a blue banana, I canna canna and you can wackle all you wanna, while I hula all the day away, and you can wackle all you wanna, while I hula all the day away,
All the boys of okakokanoka island, gather all the gifts that hula hana asks, they have combed their island home, fulfilling each one, and its worth it when they watch her shake her grass, three, four, five
Bring me a gentle breeze that I can keep, an ocean that’s oh so deep, I wanna I really wanna,
she will hula when you have a lovely gift she wants, you’ll hear her say, bring me a pineapple that doesn't sting a bird that swims a fish that sings, I wanna I really wanna,
bring me a volcano that blows up all the molten jama and a blue banana, I canna canna
and you can wackle all you wanna, you can wackle while I walk away,
and you can wackle all you wanna, you can wackle while I walk away, away, away, away!