Hello dears.
Horrible day. Rahr. I want to crawl into a hole because some of my closest friends don’t understand why I do what I do and I hate having to explain myself all the time. You’re my friends and you’re supposed to love me! I tutored you when you were in training bras! I didn’t judge you when you dated your weird boyfriends! I’m just working for non-profit here! Bah. My cab driver today had engine trouble and left me stranded on one of Manila’s deadliest avenues. And I feel bloated and nauseous after eating cheesecake before yoga class. I poked out my classmate’s eye while attempting the Balancing Stick pose, and I didn’t even care! What’s wrong with me today?!
Aaarghhhh!! Rosa! Fabiano! Oh Master Lee! Yoohoo! Sniff. I need a black belt hug. Come here. We can train on the beach. I promise to stop horsing around. I’m distraught and upset and alone and I need to hit something but I can’t because I can’t wake up at 5 am on a Saturday for taekwondo class and arnis gives me zits. Boo.
I think I’m being made to feel like I eloped with some guy my family and friends don’t approve of, and now I’m a social pariah. Man, I hope this is an indication that I will marry for love and not money.
Ok, deep breath. And release. Aahhhhh.
Look, one reason I never wanted to do the corporate world was that I thought the lot of it was based on common sense – be respectful to your peers, be a team player, give work your 150%, don’t hurt anyone, be nice. I thought that I would be better off in fields where so much is unknown and where actual thought and innovation would have to come into play. Hence why I wanted to do research to begin with.
But I have no regrets about what I learned in university. I loved my major – Molecular Biology and Biotechnology – at that time, I was jumping up and down whenever I heard the word “DNA.” I was with the right class with the right mentor and at the right time. But it wasn’t handed to me just like that. There were only 40 slots for the entire country and these were usually reserved for those who went to specialized science schools. I, offspring of a private Catholic school (Yes, I was a Catholic schoolgirl. Shut up.), didn’t make the cut and was first relocated to Computer Science (Two semesters of programming hell! Dear God. When I dozed off during my final exam, I knew it was time to go.)
After my freshman year, I applied to transfer but they still didn’t want me. Persistent, indignant, and refusing to take no for an answer, I set up a meeting with the Director of the institute. I begged, pleaded, and showed her my writing portfolio, saying that, Ok, I may not have been raised in a laboratory but dang it, I can write! And I can write for you!
It was one of my happier stories. Whatever I lacked in training and intellect, I made up for in balls, and I guess this has been a recurring theme. I ended up doing my thesis in the lab that the Director shared with her best friend. The latter became my mentor and thesis adviser; she would teach me about science and life while I became her ghostwriter. She’s a really good friend of mine now and apparently is a friend of one of WYA’s Board Members. The rest, as they say, is history.
Looking back, there was something good in not getting what you want the first time. It made me value my studies a lot more, because it didn’t come to me easily, and because it made me endure a lot for the sake of the program. (This includes a rather traumatic Calculus class with one of the more heinous and perverted professors in my university. To this day I can’t look at asymptotes and hyperbolas without imagining the things he told us to. Insufferable jerk.)
I guess I’m hoping that because this new desire came after (and during) such a distressing time, then it means it’s the real thing and I will live happily ever after.
There is a faint scar on my left wrist that makes me unable to forget what I experienced in graduate school. (No worries; this wasn’t some suicidal drama – I was rescuing tubes of cell lines that disappeared into the abyss of a liquid nitrogen tank whose temperature was –80 degrees Celsius, and my wrist touched the lid. Ouch, yo! It burns, it burns! Two nice people from the lab next door helped me fish them out with bucket.)
When I glance down at my arm, I would remember that feeling of cold dread when I would enter a lecture and be with my classmates, who, hands down, would have to be one of the most discordant, insecure, cliquish, catty groups of people I have ever come across. (I was the lone Asian girl during my year. People kept asking me about Imelda Marcos’s shoes. Look, I don’t know, ok? I wasn’t born yet.) Or the thought of being in my old lab where I would wonder when I would get yelled at next, and when those degrading sessions would transpire, I was forced to just sit there and take it. Oh, and let’s not forget the rats; I don’t think I need to elaborate on that. It’s why I’m vegetarian, yo.
I have this involuntary fantasy where I face all the people who made me so unhappy there and just scream, “At least some of us have talent, you egotistical hacks! All you ever do is rip off other people’s work and read instruction manuals!” Then I take a bow and happily skip away. Fare thee well, lemmings!
Sheesh. I feel like that kid who was bullied in high school and wants to take a shot at her tormentors during homecoming. Oh well. Writers need to feel everything.
I look back at my really old journals and I feel utter disbelief at seeing how much I’ve changed in terms of what I value now. You know how if you’re in a very competitive academic environment, and at the end of every semester, everyone pulls out a calculator and tries to see what their foreseen average/GPA/end-of-year marks are? Dude, I was one of those number-crunchers; I even had index cards. Eww. I guess I needed graduate school to forcefully eviscerate that part of myself. God, I hate that old version of me now! Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and slap my younger self to her senses. My darling child, any idiot can graduate valedictorian. Rise above your number.
Cathy
P.S. I’m sad and I’m sorry I’m taking this out on you all.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Sunshine Post #9
Hello dears!
I think I've finally realized why I was in a funk, and no, it's not PMS.
Geez, get a load of this post-quarter life crisis, yo. After the cycle of Depression, Desperation, Hope, Revelation, Excitement, and Giddiness, now comes the phase of Impatience, Restlessness, Hostility and Dissatisfaction. (I can illustrate this in a graph for those who are interested; the y-coordinate will represent my blood pressure.) When you finally know exactly what you want to do with your life, you become increasingly aggravated when things don't move fast enough. Patience is one of my two weak points (the other is subtlety).
I think now is also the time for me to start letting go of some things so as to concentrate on what I keep telling myself is The New Plan, which, may I add, so kicks the ass of the old plan. Woohoo! But I've become more realistic and pragmatic over the years. I've always believed in "following through" with my so-called "passions" and I've finally told myself that I should probably let go of wild dreams like playing the piano in public or competing professionally in archery, etc. – things where I showed some potential, but let's face it: I am no prodigy.
I've been thinking a lot of how I've always walked the line between journalism and science; those were the things I gravitated towards early in life. But I'm now vacillating between thinking whether I love those fields in their entirety, or because they seemed to satisfy a need for me to be productive. I've always steered clear of areas that concentrate on intangible philosophical ideas and arguments; I like things where I can produce something – anything -- at the end of the day and call it my own. The work is irrefutable because I printed it out.
I can't help but go back to this one time in New York City – the day when I played freeze tag with complete strangers. One of them asked what I was doing and after the usual stiff introductions, she goes "Director of Communications? You, like, what? Make sure the phones work?" There was an uncomfortable three-second silence.
Actually, Phil does that, I told myself silently. I suck at machines. The only association I have with anything electric is the fact that I am, ahem, the Voice of the World Youth Alliance International Headquarters' Phone Lines (i.e. If you get our voice mail, you get me! How do you do?). Unless they've already changed it.
(I think this was the first time I had to tell a stranger what I do. I have learned from this since then and now I just say, "Oh I work for non-profit. Bye!" I hate long-winded explanations.)
That got me thinking, too. I don't want to be known for positions I've held, or schools I've studied at, or fancy places I've worked in, or awards I've received. I just want to produce work that will speak for itself, and to have a lot of friends and loved ones while doing that. It's amazing how your desires are suddenly simplified when you're older.
Ah, output. The thing that has driven me since I was young; coming from an Asian upbringing, I thought that this showed a utilitarian mindset, but now I'm at peace with it. I don't care about titles, positions, corporate/academic ladders, degrees and opinions – I just want to spend my life perfecting my craft and hoping that this would do some level of good in the larger scheme of things. I'm uncertain whether to be alarmed at the fact that this may suggest a certain absence of conviction, or to be relieved because at least I know I will be happy doing something that I love.
I just hope it's not too late. I think it was during college when I started to become allergic to people who would rest on their laurels because they were, by society's standards, pretty young to be doing what they were doing. I was writing feature articles about kids who did well early in life, but looking back, I think part of the reason they couldn't recapitulate that "glory" as they grew older was because they were complacently luxuriating in their youth, thinking they were too cute and already successful, and therefore, they could stop exploring.
But in graduate school, I became exasperated at those who made excuses because they thought themselves too old; they refused to go outside the box because they thought they lost their chance. Sheesh. Why this dumb obsession with age? It just makes you limit yourself and come up with meaningless excuses for setting limits on what you can do.
Regardless of what I will do with my life, I think I'm pretty sure that I won't go for a Ph.D. ever again. I think it dissolves your sense of wonder because you keep hammering your subject down to the point that it may not even matter to you anymore. I'm not proud enough to want to be an "established authority" at anything, then feel like the walls are closing in when someone else's theory goes against mine. I would rather live in joy, and be able to live anywhere I please.
I guess it's a manifestation of a previous lack of self-awareness that I can admit this to myself now, and in hindsight, I should have seen this coming. My favorite book growing up was Alice in Wonderland. It still is.
But maybe things just happen in some odd precision in due time. I've had my moments of "Uh oh, time is running out" when I see my peers already doing their internships in medical and law school or getting married, especially when I am still on a journey career-wise, and single at that. (My mom is on my butt about this now, telling me that I'm "wasting my genes" if I end up a spinster. Ah, the quirks of having a mother who made a living discussing Mendelian segregation.)
Whew, that was a load off. But on a happier note, I have finally found my design heroes! Yay! I am getting poorer by the day, buying all of these designer monographs. They are pricey, man. I vowed to myself, as I was paying at the counter, that I will publish my own one day. And it will be as expensive as these.
My favorite designer so far has pushed the limits of art, at least in my opinion. I'm so happy to have found one of his last commercially available, slightly battered, and outrageously expensive monographs – in Manila of all places. (I called his studio when I was in NYC and even they ran out of copies). I begged, pleaded, and gave excellent arguments to the manager, but sadly, only got the price down by 5%. I'm losing my touch, yo. But still, it was so worth it -- every single page made me smile and now I have ideas once again. Maria Miriam Giovane Grizzetti, the rut is so over!! One day, I will be better than this guy.
Well, a girl can dream. At least we have some things in common. We both left something scientific, we're very playful, we have no sense of hierarchy and bureaucracy whatsoever, and (people think) we have no qualms about nudity.
Co-ed naked nonsexual yoga, anyone? :-)
Lots of love,
Cathy
I think I've finally realized why I was in a funk, and no, it's not PMS.
Geez, get a load of this post-quarter life crisis, yo. After the cycle of Depression, Desperation, Hope, Revelation, Excitement, and Giddiness, now comes the phase of Impatience, Restlessness, Hostility and Dissatisfaction. (I can illustrate this in a graph for those who are interested; the y-coordinate will represent my blood pressure.) When you finally know exactly what you want to do with your life, you become increasingly aggravated when things don't move fast enough. Patience is one of my two weak points (the other is subtlety).
I think now is also the time for me to start letting go of some things so as to concentrate on what I keep telling myself is The New Plan, which, may I add, so kicks the ass of the old plan. Woohoo! But I've become more realistic and pragmatic over the years. I've always believed in "following through" with my so-called "passions" and I've finally told myself that I should probably let go of wild dreams like playing the piano in public or competing professionally in archery, etc. – things where I showed some potential, but let's face it: I am no prodigy.
I've been thinking a lot of how I've always walked the line between journalism and science; those were the things I gravitated towards early in life. But I'm now vacillating between thinking whether I love those fields in their entirety, or because they seemed to satisfy a need for me to be productive. I've always steered clear of areas that concentrate on intangible philosophical ideas and arguments; I like things where I can produce something – anything -- at the end of the day and call it my own. The work is irrefutable because I printed it out.
I can't help but go back to this one time in New York City – the day when I played freeze tag with complete strangers. One of them asked what I was doing and after the usual stiff introductions, she goes "Director of Communications? You, like, what? Make sure the phones work?" There was an uncomfortable three-second silence.
Actually, Phil does that, I told myself silently. I suck at machines. The only association I have with anything electric is the fact that I am, ahem, the Voice of the World Youth Alliance International Headquarters' Phone Lines (i.e. If you get our voice mail, you get me! How do you do?). Unless they've already changed it.
(I think this was the first time I had to tell a stranger what I do. I have learned from this since then and now I just say, "Oh I work for non-profit. Bye!" I hate long-winded explanations.)
That got me thinking, too. I don't want to be known for positions I've held, or schools I've studied at, or fancy places I've worked in, or awards I've received. I just want to produce work that will speak for itself, and to have a lot of friends and loved ones while doing that. It's amazing how your desires are suddenly simplified when you're older.
Ah, output. The thing that has driven me since I was young; coming from an Asian upbringing, I thought that this showed a utilitarian mindset, but now I'm at peace with it. I don't care about titles, positions, corporate/academic ladders, degrees and opinions – I just want to spend my life perfecting my craft and hoping that this would do some level of good in the larger scheme of things. I'm uncertain whether to be alarmed at the fact that this may suggest a certain absence of conviction, or to be relieved because at least I know I will be happy doing something that I love.
I just hope it's not too late. I think it was during college when I started to become allergic to people who would rest on their laurels because they were, by society's standards, pretty young to be doing what they were doing. I was writing feature articles about kids who did well early in life, but looking back, I think part of the reason they couldn't recapitulate that "glory" as they grew older was because they were complacently luxuriating in their youth, thinking they were too cute and already successful, and therefore, they could stop exploring.
But in graduate school, I became exasperated at those who made excuses because they thought themselves too old; they refused to go outside the box because they thought they lost their chance. Sheesh. Why this dumb obsession with age? It just makes you limit yourself and come up with meaningless excuses for setting limits on what you can do.
Regardless of what I will do with my life, I think I'm pretty sure that I won't go for a Ph.D. ever again. I think it dissolves your sense of wonder because you keep hammering your subject down to the point that it may not even matter to you anymore. I'm not proud enough to want to be an "established authority" at anything, then feel like the walls are closing in when someone else's theory goes against mine. I would rather live in joy, and be able to live anywhere I please.
I guess it's a manifestation of a previous lack of self-awareness that I can admit this to myself now, and in hindsight, I should have seen this coming. My favorite book growing up was Alice in Wonderland. It still is.
But maybe things just happen in some odd precision in due time. I've had my moments of "Uh oh, time is running out" when I see my peers already doing their internships in medical and law school or getting married, especially when I am still on a journey career-wise, and single at that. (My mom is on my butt about this now, telling me that I'm "wasting my genes" if I end up a spinster. Ah, the quirks of having a mother who made a living discussing Mendelian segregation.)
Whew, that was a load off. But on a happier note, I have finally found my design heroes! Yay! I am getting poorer by the day, buying all of these designer monographs. They are pricey, man. I vowed to myself, as I was paying at the counter, that I will publish my own one day. And it will be as expensive as these.
My favorite designer so far has pushed the limits of art, at least in my opinion. I'm so happy to have found one of his last commercially available, slightly battered, and outrageously expensive monographs – in Manila of all places. (I called his studio when I was in NYC and even they ran out of copies). I begged, pleaded, and gave excellent arguments to the manager, but sadly, only got the price down by 5%. I'm losing my touch, yo. But still, it was so worth it -- every single page made me smile and now I have ideas once again. Maria Miriam Giovane Grizzetti, the rut is so over!! One day, I will be better than this guy.
Well, a girl can dream. At least we have some things in common. We both left something scientific, we're very playful, we have no sense of hierarchy and bureaucracy whatsoever, and (people think) we have no qualms about nudity.
Co-ed naked nonsexual yoga, anyone? :-)
Lots of love,
Cathy
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Sunshine Post #8
Hello dears!
Show and tell!
Because I miss doing this with Maria, here is an e-mail with a photo. Look! Look! Happy-ness!
(I can't upload this right now. Oh boo. Will try again later.)
It's supposed to be a modern take on Asian basket bags, but made of a more durable waterproof material and was handmade in Thailand. It's one of the Happiest Bags in the World and it's mine for $15! The slots on the side are perfect for my arnis sticks! It's the happy bag with deadly objects.
***
I just finished reading this adorable graphic novel called, "Goodbye, Chunky Rice." It's about this turtle, Chunky Rice (I'm not kidding), who leaves home to see the world and has to leave behind his little mouse friend, Dandel. At sea, he meets Ruth and Livinore, a set of bickering conjoined twins, and Charles, their cynical captain. Aieee!!!! It is so happy and profound and I can totally relate to that turtle… I will make my own one day, but with weirder names. And I will reincarnate you all as happy creatures.
***
I have realized that it's already April and I have yet to read a novel. I've been busy devouring monographs, graphic novels, and design books that I have no time to read stuff like The Manuscript found in Saragossa (yet). Yay! I christen 2008 as the year where I just make my own stuff and look at other people's work in hopes of getting inspired. I think I have to temporarily leave the age where I read things just to escape from reality.
***
I had coffee with one of my best guy friends over the weekend (Phil! Phil! It just occurred to me that you two are so alike. Your birthdays are a day apart, you're both really tall and super smart, and you both have really low voices that turn falsetto when feeling shock and indignation.) It's great to know that despite everything changing, some things are still the same.
***
I am slowly bonding with the WYA people here in good ol' Asia Pacific. I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but I was holding myself back a bit, perhaps unfairly so, given that these are probably the most open, most accommodating, most outrageously happy group I've come across. I love them all! But I've had a lot of people enter and leave my life now. It's my weakness to rapidly get attached to living beings and I think I've evolved to not want to have too many strings attached to too many people, because they will leave me one day and I would not be able to bear it. If you lock me up in a room with a cactus, it and I will be best friends at the end of the day. It is almost impossible for me to un-love someone*.
* (As long as I remember that they exist.)
I was having lunch with one of them once, and she told me that I am "a bit hyperactive to be vegetarian." Haha! It's not the first time I was told this, and I doubt it will be the last.
I miss my jet-setting Grandma and my gay best friend.
Lots of love,
Cathy
Show and tell!
Because I miss doing this with Maria, here is an e-mail with a photo. Look! Look! Happy-ness!
(I can't upload this right now. Oh boo. Will try again later.)
It's supposed to be a modern take on Asian basket bags, but made of a more durable waterproof material and was handmade in Thailand. It's one of the Happiest Bags in the World and it's mine for $15! The slots on the side are perfect for my arnis sticks! It's the happy bag with deadly objects.
***
I just finished reading this adorable graphic novel called, "Goodbye, Chunky Rice." It's about this turtle, Chunky Rice (I'm not kidding), who leaves home to see the world and has to leave behind his little mouse friend, Dandel. At sea, he meets Ruth and Livinore, a set of bickering conjoined twins, and Charles, their cynical captain. Aieee!!!! It is so happy and profound and I can totally relate to that turtle… I will make my own one day, but with weirder names. And I will reincarnate you all as happy creatures.
***
I have realized that it's already April and I have yet to read a novel. I've been busy devouring monographs, graphic novels, and design books that I have no time to read stuff like The Manuscript found in Saragossa (yet). Yay! I christen 2008 as the year where I just make my own stuff and look at other people's work in hopes of getting inspired. I think I have to temporarily leave the age where I read things just to escape from reality.
***
I had coffee with one of my best guy friends over the weekend (Phil! Phil! It just occurred to me that you two are so alike. Your birthdays are a day apart, you're both really tall and super smart, and you both have really low voices that turn falsetto when feeling shock and indignation.) It's great to know that despite everything changing, some things are still the same.
***
I am slowly bonding with the WYA people here in good ol' Asia Pacific. I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but I was holding myself back a bit, perhaps unfairly so, given that these are probably the most open, most accommodating, most outrageously happy group I've come across. I love them all! But I've had a lot of people enter and leave my life now. It's my weakness to rapidly get attached to living beings and I think I've evolved to not want to have too many strings attached to too many people, because they will leave me one day and I would not be able to bear it. If you lock me up in a room with a cactus, it and I will be best friends at the end of the day. It is almost impossible for me to un-love someone*.
* (As long as I remember that they exist.)
I was having lunch with one of them once, and she told me that I am "a bit hyperactive to be vegetarian." Haha! It's not the first time I was told this, and I doubt it will be the last.
I miss my jet-setting Grandma and my gay best friend.
Lots of love,
Cathy
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Sunshine Post #7
Hello dears!
A couple of nights ago, I took my first arnis class after so long. Arnis, or kali, is a Filipino martial art that primarily consists of stick- and blade- fighting and emphasizes flow over power. I thought that I may as well re-learn it from its birthplace, and maybe even teach a thing or two to my teachers back in New York.
I was a bit afraid of getting hit in the face – something that is also possible, although less likely, to happen in taekwondo. As for the latter art, the worst thing that happened to me was when I was 13 years old. During kicking drills, I fell in line at the back of an eight-year-old kid who was pretending to be the Pink Power Ranger (He was a boy, too. How gay.) He turned to me, shouted "Yaaah!" and kicked me in the crotch, forcing me to my knees in unspeakable (!) pain. Never was I more thankful not to be a boy at that moment – I'm sure the pain would have been infinitely worse had that been so. (I'm ok, by the way.)
I've accidentally kicked many a boy in the nether regions over time; there came a class where I was standing to one side, absently observing my fellow students, and then thought to myself: "Hmm, you know, I have kicked everyone here in the balls." It's really the only reason why some of them are careful around me; they actually place their hands in front of their pants as a precaution. One of my teachers, Fabiano, would always yell, "Cate! Knees up!" to coax my legs make contact with the person's torso instead. None of my taekwondo teachers got my name right in the beginning.
Surprisingly, it was hard for me to find a class here; I was given a cellphone number of some stranger who told me they had an all-boys club that they don't advertise. That night, I left for the class and told my dad that my contact's name, Bernie, is short for Beatrice. (It's actually Bernard.) I just didn't want him to panic since I was the only girl there in the company of much older, much more muscular guys.
For the record, I have pretty good instincts and I didn't feel that there was any reason for me not to go. (As insurance, I did tell one of the interns here where I would be.) Plus, I think I've trained for a while and I have been under so many martial arts masters that if something happened and I couldn't defend myself for one lousy night where I had weapons with me and I was completely lucid, then by God I deserved to get a couple of black eyes.
There's something to be said about being the lone bouncy female in the company of grown men who live to fight. I think they are caught in between disbelief and amusement. Hmph. On the bright side, I didn't care whether I hit them. Haha! Do I look helpless to you? Take that! And that! And that! I think of all the negative experiences I have had in graduate school and that is enough to fuel my rhythm.
They were really nice; it was one of the best and well-rounded classes I've taken – double sticks, single stick, blades, and empty grappling! Woohoo! But I don't think I'll take the class again though, and it's not for reasons you think. The commute is just way too long and polluted; my face broke out in zits that night and I am now in dire need of a facial. I miss my aesthetician in Maria Badescu, yo. Olga from Ecuador! She exfoliates quite well.
I learned the hard way that martial arts was the way for me to release hidden anger that I am incapable of unleashing the verbal way. I used to think it was a cultural thing, but now, not so much. But I just can't scream at people for some reason; it adds to my stress and makes me break out. It is easier for me to ignore you and forget you existed. In hindsight, I've always lived in my own little world of happy. It is a selective form of ADD.
I think that's one reason I've always gravitated towards weapons. The first time I held my nunchucks was incomparable; you just cannot photocopy that kind of happiness anywhere, man. Whee! I was swinging them around like Day-Glo sticks, and my first teacher said he had never seen anyone take to them so naturally before. (I took that as a compliment for my sake.) Ever since then, I've been collecting and learning how to use contact weapons, and so far, I think my favorites are the sai and the bo staff. Now all I need is a samurai sword and I'm a walking Ninja Turtle.
I think it's also why I like arnis in general. The clash of stick on stick is supremely satisfying, with its frequency reverberating through my body, making me feel so high with adrenaline. It's why I like ending my days with martial arts, or yoga, or anything physical. I feel so much calmer, like all of the problems in the world are reduced to a swing of a weapon, a kick to a target, or a minute of meditation. It just makes life easier and bearable and puts things in perspective.
All the guys who trained with me that night had one common thing to say:
"Don't hit so hard!"
"Sorry," I said sheepishly. "I have a lot of aggression."
Lots of love,
Cathy
A couple of nights ago, I took my first arnis class after so long. Arnis, or kali, is a Filipino martial art that primarily consists of stick- and blade- fighting and emphasizes flow over power. I thought that I may as well re-learn it from its birthplace, and maybe even teach a thing or two to my teachers back in New York.
I was a bit afraid of getting hit in the face – something that is also possible, although less likely, to happen in taekwondo. As for the latter art, the worst thing that happened to me was when I was 13 years old. During kicking drills, I fell in line at the back of an eight-year-old kid who was pretending to be the Pink Power Ranger (He was a boy, too. How gay.) He turned to me, shouted "Yaaah!" and kicked me in the crotch, forcing me to my knees in unspeakable (!) pain. Never was I more thankful not to be a boy at that moment – I'm sure the pain would have been infinitely worse had that been so. (I'm ok, by the way.)
I've accidentally kicked many a boy in the nether regions over time; there came a class where I was standing to one side, absently observing my fellow students, and then thought to myself: "Hmm, you know, I have kicked everyone here in the balls." It's really the only reason why some of them are careful around me; they actually place their hands in front of their pants as a precaution. One of my teachers, Fabiano, would always yell, "Cate! Knees up!" to coax my legs make contact with the person's torso instead. None of my taekwondo teachers got my name right in the beginning.
Surprisingly, it was hard for me to find a class here; I was given a cellphone number of some stranger who told me they had an all-boys club that they don't advertise. That night, I left for the class and told my dad that my contact's name, Bernie, is short for Beatrice. (It's actually Bernard.) I just didn't want him to panic since I was the only girl there in the company of much older, much more muscular guys.
For the record, I have pretty good instincts and I didn't feel that there was any reason for me not to go. (As insurance, I did tell one of the interns here where I would be.) Plus, I think I've trained for a while and I have been under so many martial arts masters that if something happened and I couldn't defend myself for one lousy night where I had weapons with me and I was completely lucid, then by God I deserved to get a couple of black eyes.
There's something to be said about being the lone bouncy female in the company of grown men who live to fight. I think they are caught in between disbelief and amusement. Hmph. On the bright side, I didn't care whether I hit them. Haha! Do I look helpless to you? Take that! And that! And that! I think of all the negative experiences I have had in graduate school and that is enough to fuel my rhythm.
They were really nice; it was one of the best and well-rounded classes I've taken – double sticks, single stick, blades, and empty grappling! Woohoo! But I don't think I'll take the class again though, and it's not for reasons you think. The commute is just way too long and polluted; my face broke out in zits that night and I am now in dire need of a facial. I miss my aesthetician in Maria Badescu, yo. Olga from Ecuador! She exfoliates quite well.
I learned the hard way that martial arts was the way for me to release hidden anger that I am incapable of unleashing the verbal way. I used to think it was a cultural thing, but now, not so much. But I just can't scream at people for some reason; it adds to my stress and makes me break out. It is easier for me to ignore you and forget you existed. In hindsight, I've always lived in my own little world of happy. It is a selective form of ADD.
I think that's one reason I've always gravitated towards weapons. The first time I held my nunchucks was incomparable; you just cannot photocopy that kind of happiness anywhere, man. Whee! I was swinging them around like Day-Glo sticks, and my first teacher said he had never seen anyone take to them so naturally before. (I took that as a compliment for my sake.) Ever since then, I've been collecting and learning how to use contact weapons, and so far, I think my favorites are the sai and the bo staff. Now all I need is a samurai sword and I'm a walking Ninja Turtle.
I think it's also why I like arnis in general. The clash of stick on stick is supremely satisfying, with its frequency reverberating through my body, making me feel so high with adrenaline. It's why I like ending my days with martial arts, or yoga, or anything physical. I feel so much calmer, like all of the problems in the world are reduced to a swing of a weapon, a kick to a target, or a minute of meditation. It just makes life easier and bearable and puts things in perspective.
All the guys who trained with me that night had one common thing to say:
"Don't hit so hard!"
"Sorry," I said sheepishly. "I have a lot of aggression."
Lots of love,
Cathy
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Sunshine Post #6
I have renamed all my e-mails of love to all you beloved New Yorkers and ex-New Yorkers into one uniform, numbered subject line. When I did this to my Asian brethren, there were 100 e-mails; my imagination is neither big nor patient enough to think of 100 titles. :-) Stay in touch, dears!
Hello dears!
I have been catching up with the art scene in Manila. The design bubble burst the year after I left, and there are now so many new artists out there who are making money doing what they love. There's a part of me that is so happy because I think I picked the right field to replace the lab. I actually intuitively get it, am consumed by it, and I wouldn't mind having to do it for a long time. I think I can even do this anywhere in the world, as long as I have peace and quiet, up-to-date software, and a speedy Internet connection.
The designers I've met seem more down-to-earth, less impressed with themselves, more in disbelief that something they love to do is appreciated by other people. I'm still a bit wary of the moody, arrogant-looking types, but I have developed a sixth sense for those people now and I just stay away. Run! Run! But on the whole, they seem less intimidating, since I look at them and don't see these scary degrees, but instead, immediately think of the work they've done. They seem so much happier as well, in contrast to my old life where the people looked like they were on the verge of killing themselves. Creativity is our lifestyle, and because of it, work essentially doesn't feel like a job at all.
But there is another voice in my head that bugs me about it all. I realize that I need to rethink my opinions about art. I grew up thinking that it's too self-indulgent, and that for all that ails the world, what I should pick is something that helps people, instead of just making the world pretty. Beauty is a good goal, and yes it has a lot of fantastic secondary effects, but I think we should strive for something beyond that: ideas that make you think and that prompt you to act on that thought, and hopefully make your environment better for it. I am not a big fan of the whole philosophy of "art for art's sake," although I can understand and appreciate this way of thinking. But dude, I can't just sell cute T-shirts and die a fulfilled person.
I think that's another fear: becoming one of those emo pseudo-artistes. I have this nightmare where I have an out-of-body experience and land in a parallel universe, where I see another version of myself. That person has greasy streaked hair and bad skin, is waving a paintbrush maniacally after shooting up on heroin, and then painting a freaking dot on a wall-sized canvas and calling it her masterpiece. She has no family, no real friends, no direction, nothing happy to give the world.
I will beat her to a pulp without a moment's hesitation.
I am hoping that there was a reason why I chose to study molecular biology to begin with. To love both art and science isn't new, but I've noticed it's more common to choose one or the other. That's one thing I'm relieved about with what I fondly call my "academic ejection" – I still truly love science. I think it's spectacularly amazing and beautiful, and that it belongs to everyone, not just to the sickos who need tenure. Maybe I just need to serve it in the best and happiest way that I can.
I hope I've found my calling, yo. I ran into one of our trainers in the debate team late last year – in the UN of all places! Ugh. After summarizing our lives in a few sentences, he told me that I can't go into law, business and finance – fields with a high probability of me meeting evil people. I feel very sad that despite me being raised to think I can do anything I want with my life, I am limited by virtue of personality alone. Crap. Maybe instead of finding my field, I have to carve out a niche for myself and die in my own little hole. *sob* But you can bet that it will be a happy hole!
But my irrepressible side of sunshine is still optimistic. When I was in Shanghai, a Chinese lady came up to me and said that my face was "lucky." I was with a group of delegates and we were shopping like there was no tomorrow. Another time, I was in NYC's Union Square going to my, uhm, personal mecca and headquarters, Barnes and Noble – still one of the best things about America, in my opinion! Along the way, a loopy blonde woman dressed in blue approached me and said that she was a "spiritualist" and that she saw "something" in my "aura." Both times, and in all other similarly creepy cases, I smiled uneasily and hurriedly walked away. I am wishing that this means there really is something important I'm supposed to do with myself and perhaps hopefully explain why my life always been pretty eventful and annoyingly dramatic despite all my attempts not to make it so.
Or maybe David, the guy who sat next to me on one of my earlier flights to NYC, was right: I look like a target. Hmph. I hope not. I still remember him: middle aged, white, hairy, gregarious, works in the field of aboriginal media -- one of those culturally insensitive guys who thinks I'm so exotic I'm like Pocahontas, and then feels like the earth moved when he finds out my English is better than his. Annoying cow. The flight attendant thought we were "together." Eww. Watch it, lady. I am no one's Miss Saigon.
Lots of love,
Cathy
Hello dears!
I have been catching up with the art scene in Manila. The design bubble burst the year after I left, and there are now so many new artists out there who are making money doing what they love. There's a part of me that is so happy because I think I picked the right field to replace the lab. I actually intuitively get it, am consumed by it, and I wouldn't mind having to do it for a long time. I think I can even do this anywhere in the world, as long as I have peace and quiet, up-to-date software, and a speedy Internet connection.
The designers I've met seem more down-to-earth, less impressed with themselves, more in disbelief that something they love to do is appreciated by other people. I'm still a bit wary of the moody, arrogant-looking types, but I have developed a sixth sense for those people now and I just stay away. Run! Run! But on the whole, they seem less intimidating, since I look at them and don't see these scary degrees, but instead, immediately think of the work they've done. They seem so much happier as well, in contrast to my old life where the people looked like they were on the verge of killing themselves. Creativity is our lifestyle, and because of it, work essentially doesn't feel like a job at all.
But there is another voice in my head that bugs me about it all. I realize that I need to rethink my opinions about art. I grew up thinking that it's too self-indulgent, and that for all that ails the world, what I should pick is something that helps people, instead of just making the world pretty. Beauty is a good goal, and yes it has a lot of fantastic secondary effects, but I think we should strive for something beyond that: ideas that make you think and that prompt you to act on that thought, and hopefully make your environment better for it. I am not a big fan of the whole philosophy of "art for art's sake," although I can understand and appreciate this way of thinking. But dude, I can't just sell cute T-shirts and die a fulfilled person.
I think that's another fear: becoming one of those emo pseudo-artistes. I have this nightmare where I have an out-of-body experience and land in a parallel universe, where I see another version of myself. That person has greasy streaked hair and bad skin, is waving a paintbrush maniacally after shooting up on heroin, and then painting a freaking dot on a wall-sized canvas and calling it her masterpiece. She has no family, no real friends, no direction, nothing happy to give the world.
I will beat her to a pulp without a moment's hesitation.
I am hoping that there was a reason why I chose to study molecular biology to begin with. To love both art and science isn't new, but I've noticed it's more common to choose one or the other. That's one thing I'm relieved about with what I fondly call my "academic ejection" – I still truly love science. I think it's spectacularly amazing and beautiful, and that it belongs to everyone, not just to the sickos who need tenure. Maybe I just need to serve it in the best and happiest way that I can.
I hope I've found my calling, yo. I ran into one of our trainers in the debate team late last year – in the UN of all places! Ugh. After summarizing our lives in a few sentences, he told me that I can't go into law, business and finance – fields with a high probability of me meeting evil people. I feel very sad that despite me being raised to think I can do anything I want with my life, I am limited by virtue of personality alone. Crap. Maybe instead of finding my field, I have to carve out a niche for myself and die in my own little hole. *sob* But you can bet that it will be a happy hole!
But my irrepressible side of sunshine is still optimistic. When I was in Shanghai, a Chinese lady came up to me and said that my face was "lucky." I was with a group of delegates and we were shopping like there was no tomorrow. Another time, I was in NYC's Union Square going to my, uhm, personal mecca and headquarters, Barnes and Noble – still one of the best things about America, in my opinion! Along the way, a loopy blonde woman dressed in blue approached me and said that she was a "spiritualist" and that she saw "something" in my "aura." Both times, and in all other similarly creepy cases, I smiled uneasily and hurriedly walked away. I am wishing that this means there really is something important I'm supposed to do with myself and perhaps hopefully explain why my life always been pretty eventful and annoyingly dramatic despite all my attempts not to make it so.
Or maybe David, the guy who sat next to me on one of my earlier flights to NYC, was right: I look like a target. Hmph. I hope not. I still remember him: middle aged, white, hairy, gregarious, works in the field of aboriginal media -- one of those culturally insensitive guys who thinks I'm so exotic I'm like Pocahontas, and then feels like the earth moved when he finds out my English is better than his. Annoying cow. The flight attendant thought we were "together." Eww. Watch it, lady. I am no one's Miss Saigon.
Lots of love,
Cathy
April 1st, 2008 - Sent to some of the staff and interns
Hello dears!
I have a sad confession to make. (Pause for dramatic effect.)
I ate meat! I'm not vegetarian anymore! Gasp! Press release!
Ah, we all saw this coming, didn't we? Manila is the worst place for vegetarians! It's impossible to enter a restaurant without the smell of cooked meat wafting through the doors, inviting people in. I didn't want to just end my love affair with rabbit food just like that, so I devoted an entire day to sampling the goodies that I've missed.
The first on my list was sisig – essentially a sizzling plate of everything you don't want to eat in a pig, but chopped, diced, minced and marinated to gustatory perfection to make you forget that you're ingesting the guts of a once-living being. Sisig is served on a charcoal-black platter, and you can hear the meat crackling as it is set in front of you. The smell assaults your olfactory nerves, and what can balance the savory taste of grilled flesh is a tiny squeeze of lime juice. People usually eat this with soft, sticky rice that was sautéed with garlic. I was in college when I first had this; I was a late-bloomer for a carnivore.
Since I was already there, I had my first taste of lechon – essentially a pig roasted on a spit. I am told that lechon lovers enjoy the skin the most – who knew that swine skin could be so crispy and tasty, kind of like popping Doritos? Crunch, crunch. I was with a group of meat enthusiasts and we succeeded in stripping off the bottom half of the poor pig. It's funny how it looks naked – it looks like it lost its pants. Out of sheer inspiration, I "repainted" it with ketchup, tomato slices, and bell peppers. It looked like it was dressed for a luau.
So to wrap up my day, I had one of my favorite things in the world that I hadn't had in years – adobo. To the Latinos, it's a spice; to Filipinos, it's an entire dish. It's essentially meat that's been marinated and stewed. The rich texture of meat steeped in soy sauce, topped with the fragrant infusion of garlic and black pepper, makes it one of the yummiest meals ever! Whee! I am so happy I could die. I went home tired from chewing but completely satisfied. I passed out in bed.
Mmmmm. Flesh and blood and entrails. So. Bloody. Good.
Meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder.
And then I woke up.
Happy April Fools' Day!
Lots of love,
Cathy
P.S. This was for YOU, Mary Eileen Halpine! Happy happy birthday! Besos muchos! I miss you lots and lots!
P.P.S. For those who still need their morning coffee, let me spell it out. This was just a joke. :-D But if I do end this veggie spell, it will be as delicious as I imagined, or probably more! (except for lechon, which I could never eat)
P.P.P.S. You know, I've been rereading this and I don't think I was very convincing. I think I just succeeded in disgusting myself with the lechon part. Bleh. I just traumatized myself anew. Oh boo. Hey, I tried. Miss you all! Have a great week ahead!
I have a sad confession to make. (Pause for dramatic effect.)
I ate meat! I'm not vegetarian anymore! Gasp! Press release!
Ah, we all saw this coming, didn't we? Manila is the worst place for vegetarians! It's impossible to enter a restaurant without the smell of cooked meat wafting through the doors, inviting people in. I didn't want to just end my love affair with rabbit food just like that, so I devoted an entire day to sampling the goodies that I've missed.
The first on my list was sisig – essentially a sizzling plate of everything you don't want to eat in a pig, but chopped, diced, minced and marinated to gustatory perfection to make you forget that you're ingesting the guts of a once-living being. Sisig is served on a charcoal-black platter, and you can hear the meat crackling as it is set in front of you. The smell assaults your olfactory nerves, and what can balance the savory taste of grilled flesh is a tiny squeeze of lime juice. People usually eat this with soft, sticky rice that was sautéed with garlic. I was in college when I first had this; I was a late-bloomer for a carnivore.
Since I was already there, I had my first taste of lechon – essentially a pig roasted on a spit. I am told that lechon lovers enjoy the skin the most – who knew that swine skin could be so crispy and tasty, kind of like popping Doritos? Crunch, crunch. I was with a group of meat enthusiasts and we succeeded in stripping off the bottom half of the poor pig. It's funny how it looks naked – it looks like it lost its pants. Out of sheer inspiration, I "repainted" it with ketchup, tomato slices, and bell peppers. It looked like it was dressed for a luau.
So to wrap up my day, I had one of my favorite things in the world that I hadn't had in years – adobo. To the Latinos, it's a spice; to Filipinos, it's an entire dish. It's essentially meat that's been marinated and stewed. The rich texture of meat steeped in soy sauce, topped with the fragrant infusion of garlic and black pepper, makes it one of the yummiest meals ever! Whee! I am so happy I could die. I went home tired from chewing but completely satisfied. I passed out in bed.
Mmmmm. Flesh and blood and entrails. So. Bloody. Good.
Meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder.
And then I woke up.
Happy April Fools' Day!
Lots of love,
Cathy
P.S. This was for YOU, Mary Eileen Halpine! Happy happy birthday! Besos muchos! I miss you lots and lots!
P.P.S. For those who still need their morning coffee, let me spell it out. This was just a joke. :-D But if I do end this veggie spell, it will be as delicious as I imagined, or probably more! (except for lechon, which I could never eat)
P.P.P.S. You know, I've been rereading this and I don't think I was very convincing. I think I just succeeded in disgusting myself with the lechon part. Bleh. I just traumatized myself anew. Oh boo. Hey, I tried. Miss you all! Have a great week ahead!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Chapter 4 - Love from Manila! (The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition)
Hello dears!
I need to improve on my subject lines, I know.
I spent the past weekends catching up with people I hadn’t seen in almost two years. It was a bit tiring having to tell “my story” over and over again. What happened to you? (I left the bench.) Your skin is so clear! (It’s called a facial.) You really don’t eat meat? (No.) How’s your love life? (I almost had one. So close, man. Hey, I tried.) What is WYA? (Please see www.wya.net. Would you like to sign the Charter? Here is our brochure. I made that. Would you like me to do yours? Big smile.). I felt like I should have prepared a Powerpoint presentation to show at the beginning of every meeting. Geez. Repetition wipes me out.
I had dinner with my writing mentor one night. She told me later that she was watching me closely, seeing how much I’ve changed. Most of me is still the same; I’m still really sarcastic and free-spirited and I still have the same physical habits, like clapping my hands when I’m happy and skipping when I walk. She also said that there’s a certain hardness to me now. Thank God. With my hyperactivity and happiness, I would die young if the past couple of years didn’t toughen me up or made me just a wee bit cynical.
I’ve been getting minor separation anxiety from my old life. There are things I wish I did, from the material (like stock up on Luna bars and hardbound Utrecht sketchbooks and Rives BFK paper and CMYK magazines and a list of art supplies and literature that goes on and on), to the more substantial (spent more time with friends I will likely not see again for years and years). On the bright side, it’s not as bad as when I first arrived at New York from halfway around the world. (Back then, I was pining for fresh mangoes and this particular brand of pen you can only get in Asia. Desperate, I once rehydrated dried mangoes by soaking them in water overnight. It sort of worked.) I like to think I’m getting better at this whole nomad thing, since I think it will be my lifestyle for years to come. At least I know what I usually miss: comfort food and art supplies.
I’ve learned a lot from having to change paths over and over again. Here in Manila, I try to discover something new every day, not unlike what I was doing in New York. It’s fun getting to know your home city again, and I am so happy at how it has changed since I last saw it. The art and design culture has taken off (yippee!), making me feel optimistic at meeting creative people and catching up on the art education I should have had. I am determined to find time to go on one of Carlos Celdran’s now-famous old Manila tours and perhaps discover new avenues of inspiration, since a recent bout of insomnia and listlessness has given me a creative slump the past two weeks. (I don’t know what’s up with me, but something’s not right for the past few days. Maybe it’s the heat?)
I also feel very happy at seeing young people who are determined to make the country better; despite me wanting to hop around the world and friends betting that I will likely end up in Europe (I think so, too), I still want to spend a good slice of my adult years here. Sun! Sand! Happy people! Cheap massages! You become more loyal to what you’ve left once you return to them.
One thing though – I am glad I spent time in the US that was substantial enough for me to realize that I don’t want to stay there. To be brutally honest, when you’re Asian, or in a developing country, or both, it’s somehow ingrained in your culture that America is an end in itself, a destination, the goal to shoot for. And I do see why; the respect for individualism, the education, and the potential for financial growth are among the best things I’ve seen in it. I’ve noticed this motivation in a lot of foreigners from all over the world – they would take a lot of rubbish for the sake of American citizenship, which I respect and all that. But I feel very relieved that it doesn’t fall into my list of goals.
But there is a certain sense of incompleteness I’ve always felt, living in Asia for so long. I love the continent – the reverence for nature, the respect for people and relationships, and the almost instinctive sense to care for others are things I’ve always been grateful for, more so now that I’ve been a bit more worldly and aware of how people who were not raised with these values can end up as. I think it’s having to be raised in a bi-cultural context, with my Filipino side arguably the “less Asian” than the Chinese side, in the never-ending debate on racial and cultural fractions. No side really adopts you as its own; it’s the blessing and the curse of being mixed and being distinctly so.
Asians are, on the whole, way more repressed than what I’ve experienced on the other side of the world. I’ve noticed that we have a lot of hidden anger, in contrast to my New York experiences where people would scream hysterically into their cellphones in public. I’ve often felt that we were contained in a box, being molded into something that society expected of us, which explains why we’re obsessed with getting degrees in medicine, business and law, regardless of whether we’re even passionate about the field. To rock the boat is just unspeakable, and to fall short should be something that warranted shame.
Being Filipino though, is sometimes a whole other matter altogether. If my family’s general bi-polar reactions to my career change are any indication, Filipinos will always be happy with anything I do. Thank God I’m mixed, yo! Whee! We just love having fun. It explains why, despite poverty and political turmoil, Pinoys will always rank spectacularly high on any Happiness Index. I’ve sometimes felt that it was why we kept getting colonized in the first place; we’re just way too nice and accommodating. It has its ups and downs just like anything else.
I feel so much happier being here now than I was three years ago, when I was doing grad school applications like crazy. I feel like I can finally enjoy Asian living without the societal pressure. It’s like I finally have a shot at succeeding personally, now that I don’t feel like there’s something fundamental lacking and now that no one is on my ass, knowing exactly what I will do next. I’d rather be anonymous. The only thing my friends know is that I don’t want to do anything that rides a lot on standardized tests anymore. Screw the GREs. I’m finally free! Whee! Oh happy day!
But I really miss my taekwondo class. It’s just not the same, yo. And yes, I miss you all! Sniff.
Lots of love,
Cathy
I need to improve on my subject lines, I know.
I spent the past weekends catching up with people I hadn’t seen in almost two years. It was a bit tiring having to tell “my story” over and over again. What happened to you? (I left the bench.) Your skin is so clear! (It’s called a facial.) You really don’t eat meat? (No.) How’s your love life? (I almost had one. So close, man. Hey, I tried.) What is WYA? (Please see www.wya.net. Would you like to sign the Charter? Here is our brochure. I made that. Would you like me to do yours? Big smile.). I felt like I should have prepared a Powerpoint presentation to show at the beginning of every meeting. Geez. Repetition wipes me out.
I had dinner with my writing mentor one night. She told me later that she was watching me closely, seeing how much I’ve changed. Most of me is still the same; I’m still really sarcastic and free-spirited and I still have the same physical habits, like clapping my hands when I’m happy and skipping when I walk. She also said that there’s a certain hardness to me now. Thank God. With my hyperactivity and happiness, I would die young if the past couple of years didn’t toughen me up or made me just a wee bit cynical.
I’ve been getting minor separation anxiety from my old life. There are things I wish I did, from the material (like stock up on Luna bars and hardbound Utrecht sketchbooks and Rives BFK paper and CMYK magazines and a list of art supplies and literature that goes on and on), to the more substantial (spent more time with friends I will likely not see again for years and years). On the bright side, it’s not as bad as when I first arrived at New York from halfway around the world. (Back then, I was pining for fresh mangoes and this particular brand of pen you can only get in Asia. Desperate, I once rehydrated dried mangoes by soaking them in water overnight. It sort of worked.) I like to think I’m getting better at this whole nomad thing, since I think it will be my lifestyle for years to come. At least I know what I usually miss: comfort food and art supplies.
I’ve learned a lot from having to change paths over and over again. Here in Manila, I try to discover something new every day, not unlike what I was doing in New York. It’s fun getting to know your home city again, and I am so happy at how it has changed since I last saw it. The art and design culture has taken off (yippee!), making me feel optimistic at meeting creative people and catching up on the art education I should have had. I am determined to find time to go on one of Carlos Celdran’s now-famous old Manila tours and perhaps discover new avenues of inspiration, since a recent bout of insomnia and listlessness has given me a creative slump the past two weeks. (I don’t know what’s up with me, but something’s not right for the past few days. Maybe it’s the heat?)
I also feel very happy at seeing young people who are determined to make the country better; despite me wanting to hop around the world and friends betting that I will likely end up in Europe (I think so, too), I still want to spend a good slice of my adult years here. Sun! Sand! Happy people! Cheap massages! You become more loyal to what you’ve left once you return to them.
One thing though – I am glad I spent time in the US that was substantial enough for me to realize that I don’t want to stay there. To be brutally honest, when you’re Asian, or in a developing country, or both, it’s somehow ingrained in your culture that America is an end in itself, a destination, the goal to shoot for. And I do see why; the respect for individualism, the education, and the potential for financial growth are among the best things I’ve seen in it. I’ve noticed this motivation in a lot of foreigners from all over the world – they would take a lot of rubbish for the sake of American citizenship, which I respect and all that. But I feel very relieved that it doesn’t fall into my list of goals.
But there is a certain sense of incompleteness I’ve always felt, living in Asia for so long. I love the continent – the reverence for nature, the respect for people and relationships, and the almost instinctive sense to care for others are things I’ve always been grateful for, more so now that I’ve been a bit more worldly and aware of how people who were not raised with these values can end up as. I think it’s having to be raised in a bi-cultural context, with my Filipino side arguably the “less Asian” than the Chinese side, in the never-ending debate on racial and cultural fractions. No side really adopts you as its own; it’s the blessing and the curse of being mixed and being distinctly so.
Asians are, on the whole, way more repressed than what I’ve experienced on the other side of the world. I’ve noticed that we have a lot of hidden anger, in contrast to my New York experiences where people would scream hysterically into their cellphones in public. I’ve often felt that we were contained in a box, being molded into something that society expected of us, which explains why we’re obsessed with getting degrees in medicine, business and law, regardless of whether we’re even passionate about the field. To rock the boat is just unspeakable, and to fall short should be something that warranted shame.
Being Filipino though, is sometimes a whole other matter altogether. If my family’s general bi-polar reactions to my career change are any indication, Filipinos will always be happy with anything I do. Thank God I’m mixed, yo! Whee! We just love having fun. It explains why, despite poverty and political turmoil, Pinoys will always rank spectacularly high on any Happiness Index. I’ve sometimes felt that it was why we kept getting colonized in the first place; we’re just way too nice and accommodating. It has its ups and downs just like anything else.
I feel so much happier being here now than I was three years ago, when I was doing grad school applications like crazy. I feel like I can finally enjoy Asian living without the societal pressure. It’s like I finally have a shot at succeeding personally, now that I don’t feel like there’s something fundamental lacking and now that no one is on my ass, knowing exactly what I will do next. I’d rather be anonymous. The only thing my friends know is that I don’t want to do anything that rides a lot on standardized tests anymore. Screw the GREs. I’m finally free! Whee! Oh happy day!
But I really miss my taekwondo class. It’s just not the same, yo. And yes, I miss you all! Sniff.
Lots of love,
Cathy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
