My Unamerican Independence Days

I’ve just had my third American Independence Day since moving (back) to the US. However, the anniversary of my Independence isn’t July 4th. As I look back on my life, and examine the highlights in which I asserted authority over my life, I can think of four milestone Independence Days.

March 7th 2007. New York, New York
I arrived in JFK with 3 suitcases; books and key work files airmailed to me in the States; and precious art, heirlooms and antiques stored for safekeeping in the Philippines. I came to New York with nest egg, a blossoming romance, a Brooklyn sublet and job interviews lined up. I left the safety nets of family, lifetime friends, the beloved company I worked with for 16 years and the comfortable expat lifestyle I had enjoyed for six years and jumped.

The life I left was very good. It was rewarding, comfortable and stimulating. And it was full of love and happy times. The thing is, somewhere along the way the things that traditionally provide stability were making me feel restless. It was time. So on went the boots (yes, the ones made for walking!) and off I went. Cue music and sing it with me if I can make it there…

September 30th, 2000. Expatriate Estrogen Expeditions
I had been under the wanderlust spell for quite sometime now. It consumed my savings, occupied my holidays and filled up my passport. Before I knew it, it was eating into my ambition. I wanted to experience working in another culture, in a different market. And so, after a bit of drama that I won’t get into, I got my company to include me in the regional team for Asia Pacific on the agency’s second largest piece of business. There were very few women on the regional team and even less women who were Asian. I felt like quite the pioneer, a sister in stilettos!

The expat experience was enriching in more ways that I ever imagined it would be. I immersed myself in cultures and geographies both new and familiar all at once. And I was good at what I did - respectful of local cultures, with a gentle firmness that got things done. And I had fun! I enjoyed the local cuisine and nightlife, shopped a variety of street fairs and haggled in languages I didn’t know! I quickly developed taxi conversation and street smarts in Thai, Bahasa Melayu, Mandarin, Cantonese, Singlish (i.e. Singaporean English) and Nihongo. My art collection (now in storage) is a lovely homage to this Asian Expat expedition.

June 8th, 1987. Left-leaning Literati
Born to a staunch Catholic father, baptized Catholic and schooled by Catholic nuns from the time I was five, the Catholic doctrine was tethered to my education. I don’t regret this at all. I still remember my lessons the year of my first communion, how I marveled at the mysteries of faith and the stories of Jesus’ life. The values I hold dearest to my heart today are very much anchored in the love, compassion, kindness and passionate conviction I learned about as I got to know Jesus, the man-God.

In my senior year I applied to the top three universities – two were Catholic and one was secular. There are still discussions on which is the toughest to get into, but I got into all three. Even though I got into the honors program at the leading Jesuit University where my best friends went, I still chose to go the state university’s main campus since year after year, they only accept the upper 1 percentile of the nation’s graduating class. This was perhaps one of my life’s greatest tipping points.

In this godless left-leaning University I found depth of faith and spirituality, broadness of thought and true humility. I distinctly recall feeling all cocky about the 99% score on a Math 1 exam as I preened in my spic-span Keds. No sooner had I patted myself on my back did I notice the quiet rural boy next me secretly smiling to himself as he held onto his exam paper – on which I saw 110% - he got all questions and all the bonus ones too!

To be surrounded by so much intelligence from people and places you’d least expect is a thrilling experience I highly recommend to anybody who has ever rested on her laurels as she sashayed through the hallways in her pumps.

June 15th, 1974. Weepy Weather Girl

I was three and a half when I started going to school. By then I had already begun to read and it made all sense to put me in preschool. This was no guarantee that I would be one to cooperate with this logical plan though. Evidently (and there are fotos to prove this, much to my dismay!) I would throw tantrums everyday, in fits of fury when either parent attempted to leave me in school. I am told these tantrums subsided once said parent had been gone for a while, and that I quite enjoyed school.

This is not how I remember it, though.

What I remember is that my teacher gave me the important job of being the class Weather Girl. It was my responsibility to record on our weather board if it was a sunny day, a cloudy day or a rainy day. If I did not get to class early enough or if I failed to do my job properly, my classmates would not know what weather to expect!

At three and a half, some days wearing red rain boots and other days wearing gold ballet slippers, I felt a sense of authority and responsibility that not many at that age experience. And I liked it! Almost four decades later, I still wear red boots and gold ballet slippers, I still check the weather every morning. And I still feel like the supreme authority over most things in my life. And on some days, I even feel I have authority over the weather!

Dreams of My Father

Still reeling from my first election ever, my first American election.

I was born here, lived here till I was barely two and went back to Manila where I grew up. I was Mama & Papa's 'American Pie.' I have vivid memories of trips to the American embassy to renew my passport as a girl. I remember the big gates, ducking the long queues of visa applicants to the section marked 'US Citizens Services.' In my twenties when the Philippines was in turmoil I remember a different trip to the embassy, this time to start a process of petition for my father's US citizenship. We never carried this through, he is Spanish and now enjoys his EU status. However, his American dream still burns bright in his grandfather-happy heart.

Last night, following the election results closely, seeing the new voices of new blaze and dazzle I was astounded. Beyond words, beyond tears, stunned silent. Heart warmed, eyes wide I saw the dreams of my father coming true. I saw the world that seduced him, seduces him still. I saw a better world for my dear nephews. Where anything is truly possible for everyone. They CAN do anything now. And they will do everything they dream to.

I finally felt like I belonged to a country that was my birthplace but had no real affinity for. I get it now. THIS is what my father dreamed for me. THIS is what Mama meant when she called me her American Pie. I am part of this, this new world. I helped conquer this hurdle.

Wherever life takes me, I will carry this in my heart.

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.