My American Romance

I am his mistress. We are having an affair and I am his mistress.

We decided this last month, my lover and I. Only, he isn't married. I am his mistress and he is cheating on his 'solo life,' as he calls it. After four years together, three long distance and this past year actually in the same country, we may have figured something out about adult love.

When two fiercely independent people living expansive lives fall in love and come together, the only choice is to make room. Make room for each other, make room for the love affair, make room for oneself. Converging then diverging, we are learning a new language around love. The old, conventional nuances don't translate well into our love affair.

There was a life before me, this life was vital and fulfilling. This life continues, now that I am in his world. I have met most of the people he loves, his dearest friends and family. There is a world he belongs to which I can visit, but am not a part of. I don't have to be, just like he doesn't have to be part of the life I had before I met him. He has met my friends and family, but he will never get the inside jokes, the nuances of culture, language and dialect. He is welcome in this world, he enjoys it even. But he will never know it like I do. He will never love it like I do. It's in my cells, not his.

It's a fascinating thing, this. To dare have it all. To challenge love, life and myself this way. To affirm that I am not that kind of woman, the one whose life is so entwined with her partner's. To enjoy being that kind of lover - gentle, brazen and accessible.

My American romance is in fact more European in texture than it is American. There is no English word to describe each other. Boyfriend/Girlfriend feels too juvenile, Fiance/e suggests marriage. There are French words I will not attempt to spell, they feel more appropriate. For now, I am mistress, lover, partner, woman. He is my beau, my lover, the beloved.

I am woman first, mistress next.

He is man first, beau next.

Our love affair seeps into each one's life, energizing but never weighing it down.

I am his mistress, we are having a love affair. We are in love.

A New New-York-Attitude

It's been over a year since my suitcases and I arrived in New York, I've seen the seasons cycle and I feel comfortably poised as I face year 2 squarely.

For most of my life, I've let my practical foot lead. But coming to New York and claiming a fresh start - that was me leading with the dreaming foot. Taking that dreaming foot leap has led me to an adventure like never before. An adventure equally thrilling and confusing, inspiring and exhausting. On some days, I felt lost and off-rhythm. On other days, I felt completely in sync. Then somehow when the Spring came I started feeling the ground solidly under my feet again.

Could this mean I've found my New York groove?

Could this mean there's a bounce in my step again?

Could this mean I've found my 'new attitude' the famous divas sang about?

I think so.

I feel a renewed sense of confidence about things and tremendous belief in myself. I woke up this morning and I was chipper. Like I have not been in a while. Like Maria in "The Sound of Music" - I have confidence.

And you know what, I think I'm still leading with the dreaming foot. Because you know what else, the practical foot is liking this New York groove.

War Poem

There’s a war going on just underneath my skin
a quiet, harrowing war of the unspeakable
a war unfought. Never lost, never won

A mole under my left eye, eternal tear
weeping for a flock of Japanese soldiers
who killed my husbands but spared my skin

Under my knee, a gash from a weary fall
of grandfathers who marched to their death
then lived to see their liberation from the Japanese

Dynasties of fabric seeking the perfect lotus
feet bend my arches into breaking, making
each step excruciating

On my left cheek, a disapproving brother’s signature
marked in acid, proud announcement to the world
little sister is a dirty girl not worthy of dowry

Beneath my breasts, lungs damaged in the fall
down the well in the woods when fathers
wanted only Chinese baby boys

A thousand bastard mongrel babies fathered by friars
cysts in my left ovary now severed by a doctor
marking forever the female parts of my childless body

Lovespell for A Lonesome Friend

Once in my twenties I had an epiphany c/o Michelle Pfeiffer.

It was a Saturday afternoon and she was being interviewed on the television. The reporter suggested that she had 'bad luck in love,' having had quite a few romances gone sour. Her response was genuine, insightful and oh so inspiring to the twentysomething me. She said (and pardon me for paraphrasing, Michelle, I wasn't taking notes)

"Who said it was about one love forever, anyway? Why should we pressure ourselves for that kind of elusive love? Perhaps some loves last longer than others, and that's fine. In fact, that's great. Just because it isn't forever doesn't mean it isn't love."

The irony in that Michelle Pfeiffer of Grease 2 and now Hairspray redux spoke words so resonant is palpable. Love is a beautiful, powerful thing. When a spark, a connection no matter that it is a scotch induced one, or one born from a conspiracy of moonlight and stardust, any spark of spirit, soul or flesh is an amazing thing. To be celebrated for the moment it was there, or the moments of unraveling. And later on, no matter how the ending of it takes form, any love encounter brings warm, fuzzy, naughty feelings of delight to the recollection.

This was never an illusion, my dear, but a promise...a possibility. That this other could not see this is his to regret, his life's enrichment thwarted. His sorry loss.

Shape shift, my dear. The fight is not one of pain, it is one of discovery and adventure. The enemy is not elusive love, after all. The fight is glorious and eloquent. It is enraptured. And even when it is sloppy, perhaps even misguided, the fight is evermore romantic. You are the hero and heroine of this blockbuster, my dear. Everyone else, no matter how stellar and significant, no matter how Bogart or Bacall, everyone else is just a supporting actor.

My beautiful, my lovely, my irresistible ... a lovespell of sorts from me to you.
Let all lovers past, present and future be prayer bead blessings deepening the story, enriching the plot.

Let those who are stunned to stillness by your brilliance never truly shake that you feeling.
Let your loving be bold and brazen, unflinchingly crimson and platinum perfection.
Let beginnings and endings weave seamlessly, the love affair of cosmic pleasures and ponderings.
May you never count the days, the ways in which love comes into your world, but rather make it so that every day and every way truly count.

And always, always when all is said and done, take the spotlight and bask in the warmth of it all.

(written in response to friend's heart-broken blog entry)

The Question

This is the confusion from the Singapore work permit form
Here is the question of all questions
Of all history and diversity

Am I Chinese, Indian, Malay
Am I Caucasian, Hispanic, Pacific Islander
What stories and specimens run through these veins?

Here’s to my Chinese ancestry
Killed in a war by Japanese soldiers
Here’s to my Malay genealogy
Erased from the record by Spanish friars

Here’s to my Spanish city
Obliterated by American bombs
Here’s to my Pilipino language
Corrupted by the conquistador then the Thomasite

Here’s to my Spanish great-grandfather
Exiled in Shanghai for reasons unknown to me
Here’s to my Muslim great-grandmother
Buried in the catacombs of a catholic church

Here’s to my Ilongga great-grandmother
Abandoned by a gambling Spaniard
Here’s to my GI great-grandfather
Who smoked Lucky’s and raised fighting cocks

Here’s to my Moreno grandfather
Handpicked CIA golden boy military man
Here’s to my Spanish grandmother
Pioneer ladies golfer in Asia

Here’s to my Spanish grandfather
Dream-maker self starter businessman
Here’s to my Filipina grandmother
Baseball team captain then mother of eight

Here’s to my Mestizo father
Gone to find root in the land of forefathers
Here’s to my Filipina mother
Internationally acclaimed educator from Manila

Here’s to the Spanish and the Filipino
That fire up my blood and make my skin brown
Here’s to the Spanish and the Filipino
That give my hips rhythm and make me cariñosa

Here is the answer of all answers
Of my past, present and future
As I sit and ponder this Singaporean inquisition

I am all of the above, none of the above
And everything in between
Next question, please.

My First American Independence Day

Yesterday was the fourth of July, and since it's the first year that I am living in the US it's truly my first Independent Independence day. As I caught the fireworks on the drive home that evening, I found myself quite emotional.

I suppose independence means different things to different people, but this independence day was particularly meaningful for me. Until recently, I lived a rather 'attached' life. I worked for the same company for fourteen years, am very close and connected to my family, and even though I am open to new friends, I keep a close knit group of friends in my core circle. Being in America sometimes makes me feel a bit disconnected from my nearest and dearest, and the things that I had built a stable, secure life around. But I had to leave all that because somehow the comfort zone started feeling static, constricting...it was time for something different.

As I sat in Navé's car last night, fireworks overhead and tears down my cheeks I had the wonderful feeling that this Indie life is exactly what I need to be doing right now. It is quite unfamiliar and sometimes feels overwhelming, but it is also expansive and empowering to be tracking my destiny and seizing the day this way.

Magical, Musical Eloquence

At the Taos Solar Festival this weekend, I found eloquence at its finest in Michael Franti and Spearhead. The positive energy and vibes of the performance were only matched by the profound hopefulness espoused in their lyrics.

I did not expect such a strong and unflinching message of hope, and this is exactly what I got from the performance. Perhaps performers like these are the relevant religion of the times. And we are all better for it. Open-heart optimism, so generously shared is quite hard to find in these times. And to find it in magical Taos, NM on the first Sunday of the second half of 2007 was a grace beyond my wildest expectation.

Perhpas Michael Franti and Spearhead represent America's soul in the present, and its voices of the future. Perhaps we are at the dawn of a new America. Perhaps my quest for Eloquence will be far more rewarding than I ever imagined.