Through my migrations, or what my partner refers to as peregrinations, one constant has been my family. My sister has lived in Spain, my brother has lived in London and Spain but for the most part family has lived in The Philippines. Just a month ago, I returned to the US from a 2-month vacation in the warm embrace of my family in the Philippines. We are now back in the States, and we are facing a big bump in the road.
Like any crisis, we imagine that it won't be easy but we will be fine. We are finding out as much as we can about the situation and working on a plan of action (I'm a planner, it's what I do). And in my effort to be as prepared as I can for what's up ahead of us, there is one thing I was absolutely not prepared for: discovering my American family.
There is the family of origin, whom I love dearly. Then there is the family of friends I have made through my younger years. And now, I have my American family. A stellar cast of poets, film makers, friends, writers, artists, top grade people. And as overwhelming this can all seem, in these very early days there is already such an outpouring of love and goodwill. What a beautiful surprise, what a profound blessing. There are no words to express what this all means, and how deeply grateful I already am. I know we are in early days. Still, it really means a lot to have this beautiful American family of friends.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Reclaiming The Church of the People
There is much discussion back where I am from about legislation that promotes reproductive health, sex education, access to information and choices. You see, I come from one of the last stalwart Catholic nations. Church and state still mix and mingle, indeed the Church men still have a misguided understanding of their role. The Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines and certain Catholic groups have raised a big bratty stink, trying to repress information and keep the country from participating in the modern day discourse of responsible sexual activity. The latest feat is a shaded threat to refuse communion to church goers who support Reproductive Health Legislation. There are too many ways that this is wrong, there are too many levels on which this stand is oppressive, repressive and misogynistic.
I do not know where to start with this, it is a disturbing abuse of power and influence; a sickening degree of oppression. These thoughts refer to a note below which makes very sad. But it also makes me angry. It angers me that men are coming between me and my God. It angers me that these men, who have no idea the plight and struggles of good women, have not even engaged in discussion with us. It angers me that men feel it is within their remit to take away the free will my God so lovingly bestows.
Free will and free choice are God given. When the Church goes out of their way to suppress freedom and take away our rights to choose, they have gone too far. The double standards are hypocritical, they have never gone out of their way when dealing with the countless adulterers in their parishes, or the astounding number of corrupt officials, thieves and liars. Is it perhaps because they are men?
This no longer feels like the work of God, instead if feels like a desperate power trip of men in positions of influence, with hardened hearts. Men who refuse to listen. Jesus was a man of compassion and understanding. Ultimately inclusive and feminist, He would never stand for this misogyny. He would sit with women and listen, understand our needs and enlighten - not block us from information.
The Church and The Faith belong to The People. It is now up to us to guide the lost leaders back to the true purpose of The Faith. It is not about power, suppression or abuse of influence. It is not to meddle with laws or legislation. Ultimately it is about compassion, truth and love. These are tough times, they call for tough love. The Church leaders have lost their way, it is up to The Church of The People to light the path towards compassion, understanding and love.
I do not know where to start with this, it is a disturbing abuse of power and influence; a sickening degree of oppression. These thoughts refer to a note below which makes very sad. But it also makes me angry. It angers me that men are coming between me and my God. It angers me that these men, who have no idea the plight and struggles of good women, have not even engaged in discussion with us. It angers me that men feel it is within their remit to take away the free will my God so lovingly bestows.
This no longer feels like the work of God, instead if feels like a desperate power trip of men in positions of influence, with hardened hearts. Men who refuse to listen. Jesus was a man of compassion and understanding. Ultimately inclusive and feminist, He would never stand for this misogyny. He would sit with women and listen, understand our needs and enlighten - not block us from information.
The Church and The Faith belong to The People. It is now up to us to guide the lost leaders back to the true purpose of The Faith. It is not about power, suppression or abuse of influence. It is not to meddle with laws or legislation. Ultimately it is about compassion, truth and love. These are tough times, they call for tough love. The Church leaders have lost their way, it is up to The Church of The People to light the path towards compassion, understanding and love.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Love in A Time of Expense Accounts (Manila, 1995)
This was the scene at the bar every night. To your left, beautiful homosexual men, big swanky bar in the middle. To your right foreign men and the women who fancy them, whom they fancy. A mix of morally questionable sorts. Loose women, some say. The kind to cohort with foreign men. The kind like me. I loved this bar for that reason, once inside you could be in a different country. There was no sexual repression in here, and the best part - this was a high end bar in the heart of the central business district. Not shady, not dirty, just free. Everyone was equal here, gay and straight, commercial sex worker or not, all were equally welcome. We would mix with no issue - we weren’t after the same kind of love, after all. All secrets were safe. In here, everyone was loose and free. Sex was in the air and in the bathrooms, electric and intoxicating.
One night, David Hasselhoff walked in and picked the left side of the bar. He leaned on the counter, his proud derrière calling out through his ahead-of-their time Skinny Jeans. Nary a gay hand took advantage of his ignorance of the order in this bar. In here, in this urban jungle called Giraffe, everyone was safe. Unless it was danger you craved. In this case, you needed to be a regular to know the secret rooms and secret alleys.
Shola was a regular. Formerly a man, she had made her money as an entertainer in Japan for years, now she was a textile manufacturer trading her textiles and her love to foreign customers. Shola had a body to die for and she knew it, she paid good money for her female parts. It is said that Japanese plastic surgeons are the best. Just about the time Shola danced on the high tables would be just about the time to go, this was the cue, this was the point where decadence would tip over to damaging. But we are not there yet, no - the night is young, the drinks are flowing and the hips are swaying. And Shola? She is still plotting her dramatic entrance. Or taking her HIV meds. All part of her preparations for Saturday nights.
My thoughts are interrupted by his hand, here on the small of my back exposed in this little black dress I am wearing. He is new to my country and he is getting off on this scene. He is getting off on finally finding somewhere that is as classy as it is untamed. He is my first foreign lover, all six feet six inches of him, we are of the same tribe. A mix of three unlikely ethnicities, he is beautiful, olive Isreali skin, strong Danish jawline, muscular North American build. We are on fire. I explain to him the lay of the land, remind him that some of the women in our company may be prostitutes - he should be careful not to take sips from their drinks. I remind him to look at a woman’s shoes, this is the give away. Only a pro knows what a real hooker shoe is, only they get it right.
Where I am from, the salable prostitute is exotic. Beautiful brown skin, full flowing black hair, big expressive eyes, small feminine frame. This is where some of the distinction begins. The Filipina beauty is a powerful thing, in me these features are diluted. The Spanish lightening my coloring a tint or two, the Columbian giving me a distinct suppleness of breast and thigh, I am not sure where I get my height from. And I am well spoken in three languages, well educated, well traveled and impressively employed. American Express corporate cards will pay for all the cosmos the women are having tonight, only in my case I have paid for the first round since Paolo bought me dinner. None of this matters.
Tonight, we are all the same woman. All casting spells on men who are drunk on the rawness of the night. And we like it like that. We are in this together, the men don’t see the raise of eyebrow, purse of lip. territorial kiss. Smart women work with each other, you see. We mark our territories, we plot for success. In a country where English is spoken, this is what the foreigners will never understand. The subtlety of signal, the protectiveness over our kind. A prostitute gives me a look and I know what I need to do, I take Paolo's hand and we make our way to my nameless new friend. I ask her if she wants a drink and we go to the bar. Paolo begins speaking sports to her male companion. All is diffused, she smiles her thanks and finds new prey, her former date too drunk to care, he has transferred his rage to a Lakers’ losing streak.
The drinks keep coming, the not-so-secret joint we are sharing in the bathroom, body parts touching in discrete and flagrant ways. It is a Saturday night in Manila, capital of the Philippines, Catholic conundrum and democratic experiment. Some of us in this bar will probably be at church tomorrow, none of us will be confessing any of this. This white boy who is not so white, he can’t dance but he can certainly move. He knows where to place his hands on me, he knows where to place his breath on me. As the bar fills up, we are at that place where everyone else is starting to fade into the background, we are at that place where it is becoming just him and me.
It is time. Shola has walked in and they are clearing the tables. And just as she ambles her beautiful long legs towards her tabletop dance, just as she proceeds with her internationally renowned exotic dancing and just before Shola flashes her perfect breasts made by skilled Japanese surgeons, we leave. The night has turned romantic now, in the smokiness and sin of this morally ambivalent city the only breasts that matter are mine. The only foreign relations of consequence are ours. All acts worthy of confessing are going down; on a cal- king sized mattress in a five-star serviced apartment that Coca Cola is paying for.
Shola was a regular. Formerly a man, she had made her money as an entertainer in Japan for years, now she was a textile manufacturer trading her textiles and her love to foreign customers. Shola had a body to die for and she knew it, she paid good money for her female parts. It is said that Japanese plastic surgeons are the best. Just about the time Shola danced on the high tables would be just about the time to go, this was the cue, this was the point where decadence would tip over to damaging. But we are not there yet, no - the night is young, the drinks are flowing and the hips are swaying. And Shola? She is still plotting her dramatic entrance. Or taking her HIV meds. All part of her preparations for Saturday nights.
My thoughts are interrupted by his hand, here on the small of my back exposed in this little black dress I am wearing. He is new to my country and he is getting off on this scene. He is getting off on finally finding somewhere that is as classy as it is untamed. He is my first foreign lover, all six feet six inches of him, we are of the same tribe. A mix of three unlikely ethnicities, he is beautiful, olive Isreali skin, strong Danish jawline, muscular North American build. We are on fire. I explain to him the lay of the land, remind him that some of the women in our company may be prostitutes - he should be careful not to take sips from their drinks. I remind him to look at a woman’s shoes, this is the give away. Only a pro knows what a real hooker shoe is, only they get it right.
Where I am from, the salable prostitute is exotic. Beautiful brown skin, full flowing black hair, big expressive eyes, small feminine frame. This is where some of the distinction begins. The Filipina beauty is a powerful thing, in me these features are diluted. The Spanish lightening my coloring a tint or two, the Columbian giving me a distinct suppleness of breast and thigh, I am not sure where I get my height from. And I am well spoken in three languages, well educated, well traveled and impressively employed. American Express corporate cards will pay for all the cosmos the women are having tonight, only in my case I have paid for the first round since Paolo bought me dinner. None of this matters.
Tonight, we are all the same woman. All casting spells on men who are drunk on the rawness of the night. And we like it like that. We are in this together, the men don’t see the raise of eyebrow, purse of lip. territorial kiss. Smart women work with each other, you see. We mark our territories, we plot for success. In a country where English is spoken, this is what the foreigners will never understand. The subtlety of signal, the protectiveness over our kind. A prostitute gives me a look and I know what I need to do, I take Paolo's hand and we make our way to my nameless new friend. I ask her if she wants a drink and we go to the bar. Paolo begins speaking sports to her male companion. All is diffused, she smiles her thanks and finds new prey, her former date too drunk to care, he has transferred his rage to a Lakers’ losing streak.
The drinks keep coming, the not-so-secret joint we are sharing in the bathroom, body parts touching in discrete and flagrant ways. It is a Saturday night in Manila, capital of the Philippines, Catholic conundrum and democratic experiment. Some of us in this bar will probably be at church tomorrow, none of us will be confessing any of this. This white boy who is not so white, he can’t dance but he can certainly move. He knows where to place his hands on me, he knows where to place his breath on me. As the bar fills up, we are at that place where everyone else is starting to fade into the background, we are at that place where it is becoming just him and me.
It is time. Shola has walked in and they are clearing the tables. And just as she ambles her beautiful long legs towards her tabletop dance, just as she proceeds with her internationally renowned exotic dancing and just before Shola flashes her perfect breasts made by skilled Japanese surgeons, we leave. The night has turned romantic now, in the smokiness and sin of this morally ambivalent city the only breasts that matter are mine. The only foreign relations of consequence are ours. All acts worthy of confessing are going down; on a cal- king sized mattress in a five-star serviced apartment that Coca Cola is paying for.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
On Taking a Lover
Where I am from, history continues to be a work in progress. Centuries of colonization shade and color our story. Collateral damage in the forms of a foreign church, form of government, approach to industry challenge us to relearn our identity as a nation and as a people.
And still, we remain infatuated our Western lovers long after they have left us behind, with not even a text message on our birthday.
This pantoum (a form poem) comes from that place.
On Taking a Lover (A Pantoum)
This is how you take a lover.
Build a church, write songs, mount a horse and defy territories
Find a country with lush greenery, plum fruit and abundant seas
Take the brown, black and yellow there, mix in your white to make marble babies, unbreakable
Build a church, write songs, mount a horse and defy territories
Ring bells, take the pulpit, introduce commerce, have them worship you
Take the brown, black and yellow there, mix in your white to make marble babies, unbreakable
Seduce them with your language, dizzy them into forgetting their own
Ring bells, take the pulpit, introduce commerce, have them worship you
Make promises of eternity, take their crops and bless them
Seduce them with your language, dizzy them into forgetting their own
Teach your babies to write only your letters, bury the rest into extinction
Make promises of eternity, take their crops and bless them
Keep your bed warm and comfortable, and everyone well fed
Teach your babies to write only your letters, bury the rest into extinction
Pick the offspring whose ear you own and call him President
Keep your bed warm and comfortable, and everyone well fed
Find a country with lush greenery, plum fruit and abundant seas
Pick the offspring whose ear you own and call him President
This is how you take a lover.
And still, we remain infatuated our Western lovers long after they have left us behind, with not even a text message on our birthday.
This pantoum (a form poem) comes from that place.
On Taking a Lover (A Pantoum)
This is how you take a lover.
Build a church, write songs, mount a horse and defy territories
Find a country with lush greenery, plum fruit and abundant seas
Take the brown, black and yellow there, mix in your white to make marble babies, unbreakable
Build a church, write songs, mount a horse and defy territories
Ring bells, take the pulpit, introduce commerce, have them worship you
Take the brown, black and yellow there, mix in your white to make marble babies, unbreakable
Seduce them with your language, dizzy them into forgetting their own
Ring bells, take the pulpit, introduce commerce, have them worship you
Make promises of eternity, take their crops and bless them
Seduce them with your language, dizzy them into forgetting their own
Teach your babies to write only your letters, bury the rest into extinction
Make promises of eternity, take their crops and bless them
Keep your bed warm and comfortable, and everyone well fed
Teach your babies to write only your letters, bury the rest into extinction
Pick the offspring whose ear you own and call him President
Keep your bed warm and comfortable, and everyone well fed
Find a country with lush greenery, plum fruit and abundant seas
Pick the offspring whose ear you own and call him President
This is how you take a lover.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Life Lessons from Home: Whom Do You Trust?
Where I am from, the popular wisdom is simple. Do well in school. Love your family. Discover a talent of artistic or creative leaning. Make friends. Cultivate balance work-play-party balance. Keep friends. Fall in love. Find your way - decide which to prioritize between family and career and put your all in the choice you’ve made. Practice kindness. Don’t be a bore. Stay in love. No matter how hard, walk away when love is no longer enough. People will say things, ignore them - only you know what’s really happening. Consider that it isn’t always about you. Nurture your independence. Indulge wisely. We all play a part, do yours well. Smile. Unless you’re sad, then mope within reason. Pick yourself up, and if it’s too much trust your friends to pitch in. Slowly but surely, we all learn to dance on the edge of independence and community. This is probably why most of us have a deep trust in ourselves. This is definitely why I trust myself.
There is so little we have control of in this world, but we can always control our actions, and most importantly our reactions to people and things. Every curve ball, every conversation, every blessing, everything that comes our way will trigger a reaction. Sometimes the best reaction doesn’t clearly show its face right away, sometimes it emerges in a flash. The key is to trust yourself, trust your inner sense of timing. And if sometimes you don’t make the best choices, the key is to trust yourself to do better next time.
I am many years away from the place I originally come from, I am many cities away from the place I first called home. As I have ventured off and away, this trust in myself has never flinched. And it has never failed me. People come and go, zip codes change, you change work situations and the constant in your story is you. Why not trust you?
Trust me on this, once you trust yourself and trust that you are the best person to have your own back, once this happens you will be unstoppable. And unbreakable. And the ride, oh the ride. It gets fantastic. For real.
There is so little we have control of in this world, but we can always control our actions, and most importantly our reactions to people and things. Every curve ball, every conversation, every blessing, everything that comes our way will trigger a reaction. Sometimes the best reaction doesn’t clearly show its face right away, sometimes it emerges in a flash. The key is to trust yourself, trust your inner sense of timing. And if sometimes you don’t make the best choices, the key is to trust yourself to do better next time.
Trust me on this, once you trust yourself and trust that you are the best person to have your own back, once this happens you will be unstoppable. And unbreakable. And the ride, oh the ride. It gets fantastic. For real.
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