Hello dears!
There are two things that Mexicans and Filipinos will happily argue about who has the better one: mangoes and boxing. As for the latter, it’s something I’ve found myself doing. Whoa, guys! I am temporarily retiring from yoga and taekwondo for a month. Gasp! It’s just for a short, experimental time, though. Due to the bad sprain I had in early March, I don’t think I should be kicking anything still. And yoga is really expensive. I think I’ve plateaued in both and wouldn’t mind doing something new.
I’m doing it in the school near the office, whose gym I went to years ago. It’s funny seeing the usual people: the university jocks who are older, the trainers who are (still) there. My trainer now, well, doesn’t take me seriously. In hindsight, I don’t blame him. Note to self, don’t wear your Happy Shirt on the first day of anything lethal! The one with the picture of the cookie and the milk carton holding hands, with one of them is saying “I love you!” The bright pink one. Uh huh. And I think I should stop smiling, too. They just read into it so much. Growl next time, for the love of God.
It was slightly better than my first (and only) boxing class in New York City. The trainer led me to the boxing ring. I stared at it, looked back at him, then asked, “Where’s the entrance?” Oops.
It’s been almost two weeks now. My trainer calls me “The Main Event.” He finds my punching so amusing for some reason, and he says that women are weaker. I think he enjoys making me suffer. How sadistic. How infuriating. Hmph. Maybe it’s deliberate; I end up so angry that I make my punches harder. I’m a bit afraid that I will accidentally hit him, but my subconscious will scream, “Yes!” I got neon pink hand wraps to further bother him. Plus they match a lot of what I own.
I’ve gotten much better; he actually falls into the ringside when I punch hard enough. And we play around by exchanging muay thai and taekwondo kicks. When I’m feeling exhausted and want to stall for time, I teach him hapkido moves. Woohoo!
Boxing is a great workout, but a bit barbaric. I like martial arts so much better, where respect is instilled in you from Day One. None of this “You’re a woman so you’re weaker” rubbish, which still is a bit stronger in Asia than in other places. That’s one thing I didn’t like, growing up in a largely patriarchal environment, and there are good and bad things to it. The men are on the whole very gentlemanly, but there are moments when I think whether they’re being gracious because they have a high regard for us, or because they really don’t think much of us. Sometimes I just stand there, seething with rage. I can kick your butt, and I’m taller than you, Oh Puny One. So there.
That’s another reason to love martial arts. Everyone is equal, and no one dares make more of what you say. Everything just… is. Argh. I miss my weapons, my yoga mat, doing poomsae, my martial arts masters in New York who became my therapists!! Two weeks down, two to go! I cannot wait to get back to yoga and taekwondo!!
Anyone think I’m a little hormonal today? Yeah, me too. I’m starting to rhyme; that’s a sure sign.
Lots of love,
Cathy
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Sunshine Post #16
Hello dears!
I went to cover my first press conference after so long. It wasn't entirely by choice – Tammy kind of bullied me into it because my chief was a bit desperate (they got the press release late) and it was for a good cause. She also said it might be good for me to get into the swing of things again, just like old times. My chief seemed pretty happy to hear from me after three years. I hate to admit it, but it felt good being "on assignment" again. Years ago, I liked being "on the go" and off to events that were supposed to be of some national significance.
I have mixed feelings with journalism. I've been doing it since I was, hmm, ten years old, I think. Asking questions is second nature to me, and I am truly interested in the life stories of people. I guess that was my mistake when I went into science – I love asking questions, but not of inanimate objects!
Some of my best stories have come from assignments that I came up with. That's the beauty of being a writer – you can justify EVERYTHING that has ever happened to you, whether good or bad, because they will always be useful, whether they serve as the zenith or nadir of your storyline.
I've had a lot of happy stories. I named one of my (irregular) columns "Temporarily Yours." In it, I wrote about my experiences on a taking a job for a day. I've done a lot of unusual things I wouldn't be able to do if not for this craft. "Oh I'm writing an article," is enough for people to nod wisely and "understand."
For some, college years are forever marked with theses, papers, and presentations. I remember them because of my assignments. I've given a bath to a tiger cub and an albino snake as a zookeeper ("Close Encounter with Wild Things"), taken pizza delivery orders as a call-center agent ("On the Other Side of the Phone Line"), served espresso as a barista ("Conquering the Espresso Machine"), made sushi as a Japanese chef ("Frying Nemo"), became a magician's assistant ("The Sorcerer's Apprentice" – although this title was changed. Blast it.), played the piano in a mall ("The Affair of the Ivory Keys") and once trained as a performing bartender (This I had to scrap because I was busy preparing for my New York move.).
One of my most unforgettable assignments was the time I was a Jollibee mascot. Ah, one of my favorite projects ever! Jollibee is the reason why McDonald's never made it to the top of the fast food hierarchy in the Philippines. Their mascot is a very cute and happy bee (A jolly bee, get it? Get…? Oh never mind.) I couldn't remember an article I wanted more – dude, unless you actually want to work as a mascot, you will never get this chance ever again! I remember a huge head, a lot of sweat, and a sense of imbalance. The title of the article was "A Bug's Life." I couldn't fit my butt in the doorway.
I loved being able to have a lot of fun experiences, and being forced to record them so I could look back and see the adventures I've had. I learned a lot on the job because I was researching things that actually mattered to me; things I would never have learned in school. It was great having feedback from readers, too. I think that was a sign of my naivete – when you're 18, it feels very validating to have your experiences being chronicled for the sake of a publication. It made me feel like I meant something in the larger scheme of things, even though it's just a few paragraphs with my byline, written in between experiments.
But journalism done at a very early age admittedly did make me jaded early on in life. I felt very uncomfortable having my ass kissed by PR people and consultants who were more than twice my age when I hadn't even reach the legal one. But it did make me take my job a lot more seriously than I would say most of my peers. I paid more attention to ethics and accuracy because many of them were more enthralled about having their names on a national newspaper that was actually respected. I think that I was more terrified about being "unworthy" when I was supposedly giving the "truth" to people; I would agonize over every angry e-mail from readers and feel like a million bucks when I received a good one. Say what you will about the evils of the press – the newspapers that are out now will be the source of information for history books that your grandchildren will digest.
I think the stories that really bother me are product launches, which I'm happy to say that I've kept to the barest minimum during the years I worked as a correspondent. I hated those kinds of press cons. Dang it, of COURSE you have to write something good about them – they gave you free stuff! They sat with you and offered you wine and made you feel good about your job. Sheesh, you're almost bullied into giving them a gushy review because of all the PR crap that they went through just to make you feel important.
There are good things in keeping to your so-called "principles," for lack of a better term. The time I declined going to Singapore for a press con by a cellphone company (free flight + free phone + free accommodations = what an ethical nightmare. Would you like a side order of fries with my dignity, sir?) was also the weekend where my thesis experiments finally worked after months of zero results. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally mutagenized my breast cancer antibodies, yo! Mein Gott, site-directed mutagenesis is a bitch. At least when you're doing the whole plasmid with a gene insert of epic proportions. The lab techs and I were screaming ourselves hoarse in the DNA sequencing room -- the security guard actually went in the lab to ask what the hell was going on.
The lone time I agreed to go on a trip was my last article before I said goodbye to Manila. It was for this delegation going to China on some diplomatic thingy. I felt like I should at least say yes my chief once and at least it was for the purposes of patriotism and not a product. I thought it was for, like 10 people. It turned out to be 100+, which was freaky at first but you adapt quickly after four years of covering the unexpected. It was also a nice big farewell article for me after such a long time and ~150 published stories of things I would remember forever because I wrote them all down and I could research on microfilm.
For this night, however, I think I left the event a bit sad. (I was also a bit peeved – it was a product launch, but for a good environmental cause. I'm a bit on the fence on how I feel about it but I think I'm fine since they partnered with this environmental nonprofit. Now that I am working for one, I feel a certain solidarity with fellow NGOs -- yes, we're poor but we mean well: please be nice to us!). I liked the guy and what he and his people stood for. He had a beautiful family, and I really enjoyed being with them. They were even vegetarian! His family made me eat at their table so I could get vegetarian food. I was teaching their 5-year-old son "The Pound" and was giving him high-fives and was pointing to the fireworks on display at the end of the event (We were on a cruise).
But I feel very dismayed that we can never really be friends in the truest sense of the word at least now – I'm still the girl who's writing a story about them so the public can know them. To them, I have to be their ally by virtue of my position. The purity of the relationship is tainted, even though they seem to be very sincere.
But what IS sincerity, anyway? Is there really a relationship where one gives without expecting anything in return? Does a company become less honorable because they wanted the press to know what they are doing, and wish to do so in luxury and style? Does a fancy spread with hired hands who smiled and waved at a set of given instructions make their cause any less?
For every person who has ever reached out to the press, I'm sure they're perfectly nice people. But why do I feel so violated for every smile that seems wider than normal, for every stranger who comes up to me to introduce himself and asks for my number because he has a story to tell? Why does cynicism kick in even though most of parts of me do believe they're good and want to help people?
Man, I suddenly feel so old. And bitter. Haha.
The ex-editor-in-chief in me is heartbroken because the majority of this doesn't feel right to me anymore. I've grown to be way to ensconced in my own little world to want to dig up the dirt from anyone else's. I want to meet people whom I can be great friends with, not beings who will end up as "connections" who will be contacted when they are "useful." I can't live having people want to get to know me because they want their names published in a paper. I don't want to wear a nametag with my name plus some organization's because I will always be identified for the latter. Ah, curse the eternal hubris of creative people! We don't want to be known for something we didn't make ourselves.
If my disastrous affair with cancer research is any indication, I think I'm going to suck at doing journalism full-time, at least if I do it in the wrong area. I'm sure I'm not cutthroat enough to obtain information through sneaky underhanded means. And it's hard for me to be completely and coldly objective sometimes, especially when dealing with people who seem to need help. Sometimes, when you're part of the press, compassion is a great weakness.
Science is the perfect example of something I (thought I) desperately wanted, but didn't want me. Journalism, on the other hand, may be the other way around. At least if I still have to compete with nimrods writing about makeup and shoes. Crap, you guys! I swear there were so many times I wanted to raise hell because of this. Me-ow! I still love to write, and I do believe in the power of the press when implemented the right way, but I really can't do just that. Or at least I will swear off lifestyle journalism forever and ever and stick to, hmm, creative human interest pieces, which I think can represent some of the best work I've had, plus command a high level of originality so that I don't have to compete with anyone. I just want to write about people at their normal, unaffected unpress-conned selves because I find them fascinating, and because it is these raw stories that I'd like to believe sustain us. Plus I never have to open a press kit ever again!
Lots of love,
Cathy
I went to cover my first press conference after so long. It wasn't entirely by choice – Tammy kind of bullied me into it because my chief was a bit desperate (they got the press release late) and it was for a good cause. She also said it might be good for me to get into the swing of things again, just like old times. My chief seemed pretty happy to hear from me after three years. I hate to admit it, but it felt good being "on assignment" again. Years ago, I liked being "on the go" and off to events that were supposed to be of some national significance.
I have mixed feelings with journalism. I've been doing it since I was, hmm, ten years old, I think. Asking questions is second nature to me, and I am truly interested in the life stories of people. I guess that was my mistake when I went into science – I love asking questions, but not of inanimate objects!
Some of my best stories have come from assignments that I came up with. That's the beauty of being a writer – you can justify EVERYTHING that has ever happened to you, whether good or bad, because they will always be useful, whether they serve as the zenith or nadir of your storyline.
I've had a lot of happy stories. I named one of my (irregular) columns "Temporarily Yours." In it, I wrote about my experiences on a taking a job for a day. I've done a lot of unusual things I wouldn't be able to do if not for this craft. "Oh I'm writing an article," is enough for people to nod wisely and "understand."
For some, college years are forever marked with theses, papers, and presentations. I remember them because of my assignments. I've given a bath to a tiger cub and an albino snake as a zookeeper ("Close Encounter with Wild Things"), taken pizza delivery orders as a call-center agent ("On the Other Side of the Phone Line"), served espresso as a barista ("Conquering the Espresso Machine"), made sushi as a Japanese chef ("Frying Nemo"), became a magician's assistant ("The Sorcerer's Apprentice" – although this title was changed. Blast it.), played the piano in a mall ("The Affair of the Ivory Keys") and once trained as a performing bartender (This I had to scrap because I was busy preparing for my New York move.).
One of my most unforgettable assignments was the time I was a Jollibee mascot. Ah, one of my favorite projects ever! Jollibee is the reason why McDonald's never made it to the top of the fast food hierarchy in the Philippines. Their mascot is a very cute and happy bee (A jolly bee, get it? Get…? Oh never mind.) I couldn't remember an article I wanted more – dude, unless you actually want to work as a mascot, you will never get this chance ever again! I remember a huge head, a lot of sweat, and a sense of imbalance. The title of the article was "A Bug's Life." I couldn't fit my butt in the doorway.
I loved being able to have a lot of fun experiences, and being forced to record them so I could look back and see the adventures I've had. I learned a lot on the job because I was researching things that actually mattered to me; things I would never have learned in school. It was great having feedback from readers, too. I think that was a sign of my naivete – when you're 18, it feels very validating to have your experiences being chronicled for the sake of a publication. It made me feel like I meant something in the larger scheme of things, even though it's just a few paragraphs with my byline, written in between experiments.
But journalism done at a very early age admittedly did make me jaded early on in life. I felt very uncomfortable having my ass kissed by PR people and consultants who were more than twice my age when I hadn't even reach the legal one. But it did make me take my job a lot more seriously than I would say most of my peers. I paid more attention to ethics and accuracy because many of them were more enthralled about having their names on a national newspaper that was actually respected. I think that I was more terrified about being "unworthy" when I was supposedly giving the "truth" to people; I would agonize over every angry e-mail from readers and feel like a million bucks when I received a good one. Say what you will about the evils of the press – the newspapers that are out now will be the source of information for history books that your grandchildren will digest.
I think the stories that really bother me are product launches, which I'm happy to say that I've kept to the barest minimum during the years I worked as a correspondent. I hated those kinds of press cons. Dang it, of COURSE you have to write something good about them – they gave you free stuff! They sat with you and offered you wine and made you feel good about your job. Sheesh, you're almost bullied into giving them a gushy review because of all the PR crap that they went through just to make you feel important.
There are good things in keeping to your so-called "principles," for lack of a better term. The time I declined going to Singapore for a press con by a cellphone company (free flight + free phone + free accommodations = what an ethical nightmare. Would you like a side order of fries with my dignity, sir?) was also the weekend where my thesis experiments finally worked after months of zero results. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally mutagenized my breast cancer antibodies, yo! Mein Gott, site-directed mutagenesis is a bitch. At least when you're doing the whole plasmid with a gene insert of epic proportions. The lab techs and I were screaming ourselves hoarse in the DNA sequencing room -- the security guard actually went in the lab to ask what the hell was going on.
The lone time I agreed to go on a trip was my last article before I said goodbye to Manila. It was for this delegation going to China on some diplomatic thingy. I felt like I should at least say yes my chief once and at least it was for the purposes of patriotism and not a product. I thought it was for, like 10 people. It turned out to be 100+, which was freaky at first but you adapt quickly after four years of covering the unexpected. It was also a nice big farewell article for me after such a long time and ~150 published stories of things I would remember forever because I wrote them all down and I could research on microfilm.
For this night, however, I think I left the event a bit sad. (I was also a bit peeved – it was a product launch, but for a good environmental cause. I'm a bit on the fence on how I feel about it but I think I'm fine since they partnered with this environmental nonprofit. Now that I am working for one, I feel a certain solidarity with fellow NGOs -- yes, we're poor but we mean well: please be nice to us!). I liked the guy and what he and his people stood for. He had a beautiful family, and I really enjoyed being with them. They were even vegetarian! His family made me eat at their table so I could get vegetarian food. I was teaching their 5-year-old son "The Pound" and was giving him high-fives and was pointing to the fireworks on display at the end of the event (We were on a cruise).
But I feel very dismayed that we can never really be friends in the truest sense of the word at least now – I'm still the girl who's writing a story about them so the public can know them. To them, I have to be their ally by virtue of my position. The purity of the relationship is tainted, even though they seem to be very sincere.
But what IS sincerity, anyway? Is there really a relationship where one gives without expecting anything in return? Does a company become less honorable because they wanted the press to know what they are doing, and wish to do so in luxury and style? Does a fancy spread with hired hands who smiled and waved at a set of given instructions make their cause any less?
For every person who has ever reached out to the press, I'm sure they're perfectly nice people. But why do I feel so violated for every smile that seems wider than normal, for every stranger who comes up to me to introduce himself and asks for my number because he has a story to tell? Why does cynicism kick in even though most of parts of me do believe they're good and want to help people?
Man, I suddenly feel so old. And bitter. Haha.
The ex-editor-in-chief in me is heartbroken because the majority of this doesn't feel right to me anymore. I've grown to be way to ensconced in my own little world to want to dig up the dirt from anyone else's. I want to meet people whom I can be great friends with, not beings who will end up as "connections" who will be contacted when they are "useful." I can't live having people want to get to know me because they want their names published in a paper. I don't want to wear a nametag with my name plus some organization's because I will always be identified for the latter. Ah, curse the eternal hubris of creative people! We don't want to be known for something we didn't make ourselves.
If my disastrous affair with cancer research is any indication, I think I'm going to suck at doing journalism full-time, at least if I do it in the wrong area. I'm sure I'm not cutthroat enough to obtain information through sneaky underhanded means. And it's hard for me to be completely and coldly objective sometimes, especially when dealing with people who seem to need help. Sometimes, when you're part of the press, compassion is a great weakness.
Science is the perfect example of something I (thought I) desperately wanted, but didn't want me. Journalism, on the other hand, may be the other way around. At least if I still have to compete with nimrods writing about makeup and shoes. Crap, you guys! I swear there were so many times I wanted to raise hell because of this. Me-ow! I still love to write, and I do believe in the power of the press when implemented the right way, but I really can't do just that. Or at least I will swear off lifestyle journalism forever and ever and stick to, hmm, creative human interest pieces, which I think can represent some of the best work I've had, plus command a high level of originality so that I don't have to compete with anyone. I just want to write about people at their normal, unaffected unpress-conned selves because I find them fascinating, and because it is these raw stories that I'd like to believe sustain us. Plus I never have to open a press kit ever again!
Lots of love,
Cathy
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The Sunshine Post #15
Hello dears!
I had dinner with The Mafia the other night. Not THAT mafia – just a group of girls in my high school who used that term to name themselves for reasons I never knew. But the name stuck all the way to our twenties. I guess it's a better, edgier name that most. Every high school has that clique – the girls who dressed well, are confident and very polished … the glamoristas of their class. They're not like The Plastics (circa Mean Girls), but more of, hmm, Cher and Dionne in Clueless. (My age is showing, I know.) Back then, I was half a loner and always played hopscotch on the Venn diagrams of peer groups, and this was one of those who made me an honorary member. Every group needs their resident nerd.
For those who may wonder how a geek like me who doesn't watch TV and has a world of her own can be so up-to-date with trends, society, fashion, and other things that nerds shouldn't know about, well, now you know. Dude, it's not like I had a choice: They would have probably pounced on me and held me down if I still didn't do something about my wardrobe. These are the people who urged me to "invest" in my skin, to abandon sweatpants and dress up every so often, to know the difference between dulce and Dolce, to know who people like Anna Wintour and Dan Eldon are, and to welcome hair removal. They gave me the education every girl (and boy) should have -- at least for informational purposes.
Anyway, meet some of my favorite people who are extremely important to me, and whom you will meet should I get married or die young:
Rhea – My source of financial knowledge. One of the many friends who was so worried about me in grad school, when I was showing uncharacteristic signs of depression. We're closer now because of my tumultuous "breakup" with academia. She's that girl in your class who has the patience to arrange reunions, parties, dinners, etc. -- the girl who will head your PTA.
Alby – Like me, an honorary member, especially since he's a dude. He's also my favorite "son" (A term I use for my friends' boyfriends whom I have adopted and am now BFF with forever and ever.) He used to drive me around when I first arrived in New York City to show me the sights. Yes, dear. Pick me up at eight. Mommy doesn't drive. Grandma, he used to live in your building! He could see right into a certain Victoria's Secret model's apartment window.
Carissa – The fashion prodigy, and one who has known me since we were six years old. The only one who can drag me to Scoop NYC and make it an educational experience! I will never forget the time when she took me to Woodbury's last September to shop for a suit for the UN. The sight of her bustling to and from my dressing room in Armani, weighed down with expensive Italian suiting while I just sat there frustrated and amused, was priceless. (We settled for an eighty-dollar suit from Calvin Klein because I'm cheap and I hate suits.)
Cat (short for Cathrine à Phil, does this spelling look familiar to you? Hmm? Tsk, tsk.) – One of my many friends in medical school, but one who actually wants to be there. I'm urging her to be a dermatologist since she already has great skin, and also because I need one.
Cher – Assistant editor for this lifestyle mag. One of the many people who always had to call me by my full name. In high school, there was no "Cathy." Everyone would call me "Cathy Young." I guess this means I have to hyphenate when I get married? She gave me green eyeliner once – the brave girl -- in an attempt to jumpstart my makeup skills which have remained undeveloped.
Tammy – The Godmother and the photojournalist. My source of all knowledge about what goes on in Manila. We can all thank her for unleashing the non-conservative side of me. I swear I was not like this before. We seem to be polar opposites, but we hit it off quite well. She used to pick on me in high school. She's one of the few people who mother me instead of the other way around. We worked for the same newspaper; she helped me write my first piece. I will do anything for this girl, including watch a Will Ferrell movie (although you will have to drag me screaming before I do it again).
There are friends you will play sports with, talk on the phone with, work with, go to school with. These are the people I will eat with. We dined in a place with very rich Filipino food in one of the best things that popped up in Manila since I left – Greenbelt 5. (It's a mall, but man, what a mall! I could live here.) You meat-lovers out there would have been in heaven. Pork, chicken, beef! Sauteed, roasted, fried, simmered, gutted, grilled, and drowned in every imaginable sauce. In every corner of the table, except mine, which had broccoli and mushrooms. (Boo, I know.) Tammy kept telling me to pass the meat. I gave her a withering stare. The less sarcastic ones kept putting vegetarian food on my plate because they felt sorry for me.
The advantage of being vegetarian in a meat-eating country is that people feel so bad for you, they don't make you pay for dinner because you "just ate grass." And so went the cheapest date I've ever had in Manila's outrageously expensive financial district, Makati.
I think I am slowly attaining normalcy here. I've gotten reacquainted with almost everyone. I'm re-assimilating into the society that I left. I can text message like a native again! (This means that I can do it at lightning speed and with my eyes closed.) Woohoo! I'm Filipino again! I'm glad that I've had time to myself and with people who've known me when I was still in pigtails. It makes The New Plan seem more attainable because I still feel comfortable going for it despite being in my old box. I think that's the Happy Note of the Day – home doesn't feel like a box anymore, and so the new dream may just be, I hope, The Real Thing.
Lots of love,
Cathy
I had dinner with The Mafia the other night. Not THAT mafia – just a group of girls in my high school who used that term to name themselves for reasons I never knew. But the name stuck all the way to our twenties. I guess it's a better, edgier name that most. Every high school has that clique – the girls who dressed well, are confident and very polished … the glamoristas of their class. They're not like The Plastics (circa Mean Girls), but more of, hmm, Cher and Dionne in Clueless. (My age is showing, I know.) Back then, I was half a loner and always played hopscotch on the Venn diagrams of peer groups, and this was one of those who made me an honorary member. Every group needs their resident nerd.
For those who may wonder how a geek like me who doesn't watch TV and has a world of her own can be so up-to-date with trends, society, fashion, and other things that nerds shouldn't know about, well, now you know. Dude, it's not like I had a choice: They would have probably pounced on me and held me down if I still didn't do something about my wardrobe. These are the people who urged me to "invest" in my skin, to abandon sweatpants and dress up every so often, to know the difference between dulce and Dolce, to know who people like Anna Wintour and Dan Eldon are, and to welcome hair removal. They gave me the education every girl (and boy) should have -- at least for informational purposes.
Anyway, meet some of my favorite people who are extremely important to me, and whom you will meet should I get married or die young:
Rhea – My source of financial knowledge. One of the many friends who was so worried about me in grad school, when I was showing uncharacteristic signs of depression. We're closer now because of my tumultuous "breakup" with academia. She's that girl in your class who has the patience to arrange reunions, parties, dinners, etc. -- the girl who will head your PTA.
Alby – Like me, an honorary member, especially since he's a dude. He's also my favorite "son" (A term I use for my friends' boyfriends whom I have adopted and am now BFF with forever and ever.) He used to drive me around when I first arrived in New York City to show me the sights. Yes, dear. Pick me up at eight. Mommy doesn't drive. Grandma, he used to live in your building! He could see right into a certain Victoria's Secret model's apartment window.
Carissa – The fashion prodigy, and one who has known me since we were six years old. The only one who can drag me to Scoop NYC and make it an educational experience! I will never forget the time when she took me to Woodbury's last September to shop for a suit for the UN. The sight of her bustling to and from my dressing room in Armani, weighed down with expensive Italian suiting while I just sat there frustrated and amused, was priceless. (We settled for an eighty-dollar suit from Calvin Klein because I'm cheap and I hate suits.)
Cat (short for Cathrine à Phil, does this spelling look familiar to you? Hmm? Tsk, tsk.) – One of my many friends in medical school, but one who actually wants to be there. I'm urging her to be a dermatologist since she already has great skin, and also because I need one.
Cher – Assistant editor for this lifestyle mag. One of the many people who always had to call me by my full name. In high school, there was no "Cathy." Everyone would call me "Cathy Young." I guess this means I have to hyphenate when I get married? She gave me green eyeliner once – the brave girl -- in an attempt to jumpstart my makeup skills which have remained undeveloped.
Tammy – The Godmother and the photojournalist. My source of all knowledge about what goes on in Manila. We can all thank her for unleashing the non-conservative side of me. I swear I was not like this before. We seem to be polar opposites, but we hit it off quite well. She used to pick on me in high school. She's one of the few people who mother me instead of the other way around. We worked for the same newspaper; she helped me write my first piece. I will do anything for this girl, including watch a Will Ferrell movie (although you will have to drag me screaming before I do it again).
There are friends you will play sports with, talk on the phone with, work with, go to school with. These are the people I will eat with. We dined in a place with very rich Filipino food in one of the best things that popped up in Manila since I left – Greenbelt 5. (It's a mall, but man, what a mall! I could live here.) You meat-lovers out there would have been in heaven. Pork, chicken, beef! Sauteed, roasted, fried, simmered, gutted, grilled, and drowned in every imaginable sauce. In every corner of the table, except mine, which had broccoli and mushrooms. (Boo, I know.) Tammy kept telling me to pass the meat. I gave her a withering stare. The less sarcastic ones kept putting vegetarian food on my plate because they felt sorry for me.
The advantage of being vegetarian in a meat-eating country is that people feel so bad for you, they don't make you pay for dinner because you "just ate grass." And so went the cheapest date I've ever had in Manila's outrageously expensive financial district, Makati.
I think I am slowly attaining normalcy here. I've gotten reacquainted with almost everyone. I'm re-assimilating into the society that I left. I can text message like a native again! (This means that I can do it at lightning speed and with my eyes closed.) Woohoo! I'm Filipino again! I'm glad that I've had time to myself and with people who've known me when I was still in pigtails. It makes The New Plan seem more attainable because I still feel comfortable going for it despite being in my old box. I think that's the Happy Note of the Day – home doesn't feel like a box anymore, and so the new dream may just be, I hope, The Real Thing.
Lots of love,
Cathy
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Sunshine Post #14
Hello dears!
I repent of childhood fears – of all the times when I didn’t climb trees, or run outside more, or eat dirt (which likely strengthens your immune system). I think this form of physical shelteredness is one reason why I was very easily injured before, or why my hands feel like they’ve been submerged in shea butter for weeks, or why I’m so pale for one of my race. Apart from a chicken pox mark smack in the middle of my forehead, a very faint almost-diminished white line on my left leg because of a karting accident, and random scratches that did not mark me, I have no physical childhood scars. My body does not tell a story.
Well this weekend, I tried something completely new again: rock climbing. It was indoors, at a place that’s only a three-minute drive from my house. I’ve heard that the mountaineers here in Manila are also the capoeiristas and the surfers – the cool people in the city, in other words. I will seek them out and learn this all!
I went with my writing mentor, Sandra (well, we’re more of friends now, so yay). How very poetic of us – first she helps me scale academic heights, now she’s with me in scaling literal heights.
After we were all strapped and geared up, we were given safety instructions, but honestly, I barely listened. The lone precaution I remembered was to keep the rope in front of you so you won’t get rope burn. (I’m vain, I know.) Yup, keep everything locked. Uh huh. I just wanted to go up there, you guys! I’ve never climbed before and I didn’t want fear to set in. Let’s just go, go, go!
Wall Number One was a 30-foot “easy” wall. On all of them, there are different rocks of various shapes all bolted – securely, I hope, except for one rogue step that freaked me out. Rock climbing is daunting, because I didn’t know how to “read” a wall yet. I didn’t know whether one rock is good to climb on until I grabbed it (yes, rock climbing is a metaphor for life). I had to learn how to stretch my limbs, too – a good complement to yoga – and spread myself across the rocks for several seconds until I figured out the smartest way to gain another couple of inches.
Climbing has a very zen feel to it. It’s very straightforward – you’re down there, get up there, figure out the in-between. Your hands and feet become almost claw-like, clutching the rocks and quickly transferring your weight from one grip to the next. I methodically made my way up. Five feet … Then ten … Twenty … Twenty-five… Almost there…
And. Then. I. Touched. The. Top. Rock!
Yay! I did it! I rock (that was not a pun)! Woohoo!
Then Sandra yelled from the ground: “Now let go!”
What?
“Let go of the wall! Just sit in the air!”
My heart stopped. “What? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I was not briefed on this part of the climb!
“Just do it, Cathy!”
Oh crap it, I said, relenting to her demands. And. I. Let. Go….
And WHOA, yo! Hanging suspended in mid-air was just so… whee! Happy! It’s so Cirque du Soleil. Ole! I can’t stand it. I felt so lightheaded when I came down. I can’t believe I reached the top the first time! And I can’t believe I let go so easily! This is totally not the old me, who would have probably double-checked the instructor’s resume, practiced for a bit, and learned the history and physics of mountaineering before even going out at all.
Wall Number Two was ok. The difficulty lies in the steepness and type of incline, as well as the kind of rocks embedded in the wall. I think it will develop my upper body strength; it takes all my arms’ energy to launch my ass up in the air. It reminds me of the first few times I tried to get into my bed at the top bunk in the WYA house (hmm, you guys think this helped make this easy for me?). This time, it was a lot easier to let go; I actually loved that part. It’s hard to keep your butt cheeks 30 feet in the air when you’ve never done it before!
Last on our list was Wall Number Three. (There are six walls there – the hardest one involves you traversing a wall that is parallel to the sky. Yow! I’ve heard that experienced mountaineers actually develop “Spiderman fingers” – their hands are so calloused and tough, the fact that they are even touching the wall gives them support.)
But halfway through, I was so exhausted, and the rocks were farther apart and smaller. Realizing I wouldn’t make it to the top of that wall, at least for the day, I let go and was swinging 15 feet in the air. “Are you ok? Are you terrified?” Sandra yelled from below. Hmm, other people in my situation may, but because I’m Filipino, the sentence that came out of my mouth was:
“Hey, can you take a picture of me?”
And she did. Woohoo! It came out a bit blurry since I was moving.
I was swinging happily in mid-air and shrieking “Woohoo!” every so often, wiggling my legs like a cockroach on its back. I attempted to glide in the air like a trapeze artist, which elicited snickers from the staff. This went on for a few minutes, with my mentor staring up at me as though I was mad. I stopped when I realized my harness was giving me a wedgie. They belayed* me slowly, and I was still laughing when I hit the floor. Man, I will never forget that day.
*(belay: mountaineering term for “controlling the rope,” in this case, to bring the climber down)
Ah, and to think that I used to be afraid of heights! (Or at least that’s what I thought to myself. When I was 8 years old, I nearly fell off of a roof in my school. We were spying on one of our teachers who was sleeping – when you’re eight, these things are quite scandalous to you. She jerked awake, I ran, and my arm hit a window and I fell to my feet. The edges of my fingers were hanging off of the roof. My arm was sliced open, bleeding, but hell, it’s better than dying.)
Before, I used to tell everyone that I’m afraid of everything, but I’ll do it anyway. Now, I think I’m accustomed to the fact that I will naturally and earnestly go beyond my sandbox and seek out alternative means of play, which means that I will have to forget the concept of fear anyway. This makes me even more grateful for immersing myself in martial arts, yoga, first aid, etc. – things that will keep me alive for as long as possible despite the shenanigans I will likely get myself into.
As for rock climbing though, I don’t want to do this for too long – your skin gets so dry and calloused. I’ll admit I’m vain that way. But I’ll try (almost) anything once, or for a while until the wonder wears off.
But until that happens, ha! Wall Number Three, see you next Sunday!
Lots of love,
Cathy
I repent of childhood fears – of all the times when I didn’t climb trees, or run outside more, or eat dirt (which likely strengthens your immune system). I think this form of physical shelteredness is one reason why I was very easily injured before, or why my hands feel like they’ve been submerged in shea butter for weeks, or why I’m so pale for one of my race. Apart from a chicken pox mark smack in the middle of my forehead, a very faint almost-diminished white line on my left leg because of a karting accident, and random scratches that did not mark me, I have no physical childhood scars. My body does not tell a story.
Well this weekend, I tried something completely new again: rock climbing. It was indoors, at a place that’s only a three-minute drive from my house. I’ve heard that the mountaineers here in Manila are also the capoeiristas and the surfers – the cool people in the city, in other words. I will seek them out and learn this all!
I went with my writing mentor, Sandra (well, we’re more of friends now, so yay). How very poetic of us – first she helps me scale academic heights, now she’s with me in scaling literal heights.
After we were all strapped and geared up, we were given safety instructions, but honestly, I barely listened. The lone precaution I remembered was to keep the rope in front of you so you won’t get rope burn. (I’m vain, I know.) Yup, keep everything locked. Uh huh. I just wanted to go up there, you guys! I’ve never climbed before and I didn’t want fear to set in. Let’s just go, go, go!
Wall Number One was a 30-foot “easy” wall. On all of them, there are different rocks of various shapes all bolted – securely, I hope, except for one rogue step that freaked me out. Rock climbing is daunting, because I didn’t know how to “read” a wall yet. I didn’t know whether one rock is good to climb on until I grabbed it (yes, rock climbing is a metaphor for life). I had to learn how to stretch my limbs, too – a good complement to yoga – and spread myself across the rocks for several seconds until I figured out the smartest way to gain another couple of inches.
Climbing has a very zen feel to it. It’s very straightforward – you’re down there, get up there, figure out the in-between. Your hands and feet become almost claw-like, clutching the rocks and quickly transferring your weight from one grip to the next. I methodically made my way up. Five feet … Then ten … Twenty … Twenty-five… Almost there…
And. Then. I. Touched. The. Top. Rock!
Yay! I did it! I rock (that was not a pun)! Woohoo!
Then Sandra yelled from the ground: “Now let go!”
What?
“Let go of the wall! Just sit in the air!”
My heart stopped. “What? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I was not briefed on this part of the climb!
“Just do it, Cathy!”
Oh crap it, I said, relenting to her demands. And. I. Let. Go….
And WHOA, yo! Hanging suspended in mid-air was just so… whee! Happy! It’s so Cirque du Soleil. Ole! I can’t stand it. I felt so lightheaded when I came down. I can’t believe I reached the top the first time! And I can’t believe I let go so easily! This is totally not the old me, who would have probably double-checked the instructor’s resume, practiced for a bit, and learned the history and physics of mountaineering before even going out at all.
Wall Number Two was ok. The difficulty lies in the steepness and type of incline, as well as the kind of rocks embedded in the wall. I think it will develop my upper body strength; it takes all my arms’ energy to launch my ass up in the air. It reminds me of the first few times I tried to get into my bed at the top bunk in the WYA house (hmm, you guys think this helped make this easy for me?). This time, it was a lot easier to let go; I actually loved that part. It’s hard to keep your butt cheeks 30 feet in the air when you’ve never done it before!
Last on our list was Wall Number Three. (There are six walls there – the hardest one involves you traversing a wall that is parallel to the sky. Yow! I’ve heard that experienced mountaineers actually develop “Spiderman fingers” – their hands are so calloused and tough, the fact that they are even touching the wall gives them support.)
But halfway through, I was so exhausted, and the rocks were farther apart and smaller. Realizing I wouldn’t make it to the top of that wall, at least for the day, I let go and was swinging 15 feet in the air. “Are you ok? Are you terrified?” Sandra yelled from below. Hmm, other people in my situation may, but because I’m Filipino, the sentence that came out of my mouth was:
“Hey, can you take a picture of me?”
And she did. Woohoo! It came out a bit blurry since I was moving.
I was swinging happily in mid-air and shrieking “Woohoo!” every so often, wiggling my legs like a cockroach on its back. I attempted to glide in the air like a trapeze artist, which elicited snickers from the staff. This went on for a few minutes, with my mentor staring up at me as though I was mad. I stopped when I realized my harness was giving me a wedgie. They belayed* me slowly, and I was still laughing when I hit the floor. Man, I will never forget that day.
*(belay: mountaineering term for “controlling the rope,” in this case, to bring the climber down)
Ah, and to think that I used to be afraid of heights! (Or at least that’s what I thought to myself. When I was 8 years old, I nearly fell off of a roof in my school. We were spying on one of our teachers who was sleeping – when you’re eight, these things are quite scandalous to you. She jerked awake, I ran, and my arm hit a window and I fell to my feet. The edges of my fingers were hanging off of the roof. My arm was sliced open, bleeding, but hell, it’s better than dying.)
Before, I used to tell everyone that I’m afraid of everything, but I’ll do it anyway. Now, I think I’m accustomed to the fact that I will naturally and earnestly go beyond my sandbox and seek out alternative means of play, which means that I will have to forget the concept of fear anyway. This makes me even more grateful for immersing myself in martial arts, yoga, first aid, etc. – things that will keep me alive for as long as possible despite the shenanigans I will likely get myself into.
As for rock climbing though, I don’t want to do this for too long – your skin gets so dry and calloused. I’ll admit I’m vain that way. But I’ll try (almost) anything once, or for a while until the wonder wears off.
But until that happens, ha! Wall Number Three, see you next Sunday!
Lots of love,
Cathy
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The Sunshine Post #13
Hello dears!
My weekend rocked, you guys! So many things to tell, but let’s do this one post at a time.
Saturday: My first formal Adobe class. I’m largely – no, make that completely – self-taught, but I decided to see what a classroom setting will bring me instead of me pressing buttons and seeing what they will do. And ohmigod. I have not known joy like this since the first time I held my nunchucks. That time, I was so depressed in graduate school but learning how to use them made me snap out of it like that. It was the same this Saturday. Wheee!!!!! Eee!!!!!! I am happy again! This since I found out that:
Adobe Illustrator CS3 is the best thing since Luna bars!
It can complement colors! It can do 3-D shapes! I think I just died. I was palpitating like there was no tomorrow. IT HAS ALL THE PANTONE COLORS IN THE SWATCH LIBRARY IN DIFFERENT PAPER STOCKS!!!!
Whee! I love it I love it I love it I am back I Am Me Again!
(I am bouncing around so much, I can’t stand myself.)
My teacher is a graphic designer and is formerly a physical therapist. Filipino-Chinese, also the eldest, family gave him hell when he left medicine. Hello, he sounds just like me! Give me a few more days to pick his brain and yes! I have another ally! I might ask him to help me with my design manual. (Mary, you were right. I have no shame at all. But I make up for it with healthy baked goods.)
Looking back, I think the things that gave me the most joy were those times where I discovered something new, or when I pushed myself beyond what I thought I could do. It’s like a child realizing that he can walk on two feet by himself, instead of having his parents hold him by the hand. Winning, by contrast, only gave me … oh I don’t know, relief, I guess, that I satisfied other people and maintained what they thought of me. It felt so false.
Ten years ago, I used to be one of those people who felt validated only when I was stressed out or frustrated at the silliest of things. But over time, I’ve met people who were so much more than that and who I didn’t have much admiration for. They only had degrees that meant nothing to themselves and published papers that no one interesting would read. I guess I become allergic to people who were just so voluntarily self-destructive. Ugh. Get over yourselves. You’re not that important.
I think that’s the reason why I’m happy most of the time now. Happiness is my way of giving the finger to negative elements that be. Things may not go my way, or I may be with people I don’t like, but I have learned to play with the cards that I am dealt with and be the player at the poker table that gets the most exciting round. To be happy is a choice. I think that’s the one thing I learned while being in a place where smiles were rare, and in a city where we may have every material luxury available but no soul. I learned the hard way that to attain your goals with joy and integrity is doubly victorious. How you got there is more important that actually getting there; the only thing worse than failure is questionable success.
Lots of love,
Cathy
P.S. Eww, you guys. I think I accidentally ate bread mold the other day. Bleh.
My weekend rocked, you guys! So many things to tell, but let’s do this one post at a time.
Saturday: My first formal Adobe class. I’m largely – no, make that completely – self-taught, but I decided to see what a classroom setting will bring me instead of me pressing buttons and seeing what they will do. And ohmigod. I have not known joy like this since the first time I held my nunchucks. That time, I was so depressed in graduate school but learning how to use them made me snap out of it like that. It was the same this Saturday. Wheee!!!!! Eee!!!!!! I am happy again! This since I found out that:
Adobe Illustrator CS3 is the best thing since Luna bars!
It can complement colors! It can do 3-D shapes! I think I just died. I was palpitating like there was no tomorrow. IT HAS ALL THE PANTONE COLORS IN THE SWATCH LIBRARY IN DIFFERENT PAPER STOCKS!!!!
Whee! I love it I love it I love it I am back I Am Me Again!
(I am bouncing around so much, I can’t stand myself.)
My teacher is a graphic designer and is formerly a physical therapist. Filipino-Chinese, also the eldest, family gave him hell when he left medicine. Hello, he sounds just like me! Give me a few more days to pick his brain and yes! I have another ally! I might ask him to help me with my design manual. (Mary, you were right. I have no shame at all. But I make up for it with healthy baked goods.)
Looking back, I think the things that gave me the most joy were those times where I discovered something new, or when I pushed myself beyond what I thought I could do. It’s like a child realizing that he can walk on two feet by himself, instead of having his parents hold him by the hand. Winning, by contrast, only gave me … oh I don’t know, relief, I guess, that I satisfied other people and maintained what they thought of me. It felt so false.
Ten years ago, I used to be one of those people who felt validated only when I was stressed out or frustrated at the silliest of things. But over time, I’ve met people who were so much more than that and who I didn’t have much admiration for. They only had degrees that meant nothing to themselves and published papers that no one interesting would read. I guess I become allergic to people who were just so voluntarily self-destructive. Ugh. Get over yourselves. You’re not that important.
I think that’s the reason why I’m happy most of the time now. Happiness is my way of giving the finger to negative elements that be. Things may not go my way, or I may be with people I don’t like, but I have learned to play with the cards that I am dealt with and be the player at the poker table that gets the most exciting round. To be happy is a choice. I think that’s the one thing I learned while being in a place where smiles were rare, and in a city where we may have every material luxury available but no soul. I learned the hard way that to attain your goals with joy and integrity is doubly victorious. How you got there is more important that actually getting there; the only thing worse than failure is questionable success.
Lots of love,
Cathy
P.S. Eww, you guys. I think I accidentally ate bread mold the other day. Bleh.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Sunshine Post #12
Hello dears!
You know you’re not so young anymore when your peers begin to get married, have kids, or worse, ask you to be godmother to their kids. The tally so far: Three people have asked me to be godmother to future children. One of my best friends has plans to tie the knot. I know some people in my class who have already done so, some out of wedlock. And one of them expressly stated that she wants a small torch as a present for her wedding this May so she can make crème brulee. (I also need to find a dress from the prewar era. Which war?! Maria? Bissy? Any suggestions? I’m a little lost in that department.)
Any other single people out there who think that if this keeps up for the next few years, he or she will give in to people’s well-intentioned but ultimately distressing suggestions to join an on-line dating service? Raise your hands. Let’s form a support group. There will be chocolate gatherings, panel discussions and cocktail hours. Let us toast the single life.
Ah the pressure to procreate and perpetuate the human race! To find love and live happily ever after! Mein Gott. Must I do it now? I haven’t even gotten my pilot’s license yet! I still have to go to school! And I am so behind in taekwondo! *sob* Somebody please hit the Freeze button on the stopwatch of life!
For what it’s worth, I’m sure that I will marry outside my culture. I think it’s a whole lot sexier and a lot more interesting. I’ve observed that those who are at least biracial or have been raised in at least two different cultures are less likely to be arrogant and more likely to be self-possessed and sensitive to other people. I think it’s because they’re already marked as “different” from the rest of the “purebloods,” and so become less cliquish and more open from birth. They’re not deeply entrenched into their own practices and actively seek out other perspectives and viewpoints. Or at least that has been my experience. The happiest and warmest people I’ve met usually come from “Melting Pots” – Philippines, Brazil, Australia, to name a few.
I also think you become prouder of your heritage because you get to pick the best of each of the bloodlines coursing through your veins. That’s one advantage of not being fully accepted – you yourself don’t have to accept everything about one culture. You can take your pick and make it your own. Culture becomes a link and not a barrier, and issues on racism are lessened because races themselves are diluted. Plus the bilingualism is built in, which I’ve found quite helpful.
I’ve always loved meeting people who are really mixed in terms of upbringing. They have the most interesting stories – like one of my yoga teachers who was raised in a kibbutz in India and traveled around the world. They also look amazingly interesting and striking. The best example I can come up with right now is Naima Mora (Irish + Native American + Mexican + African American. I love it! America’s Next Top Model Cycle 4, yo! Don’t laugh, it was my cheap indulgence back when I still watched TV – I think the photo shoots are pretty.)
I’m already three-quarters Filipino, making it half the battle (which supposedly means Malay + Spanish + Chinese + other stuff in there. Who knows?! Yay! My cousin told me she found out she’s part Portuguese as well, although whether that’s also in my bloodline is something I have yet to find out.) and one-quarter Chinese (i.e. my grandfather came straight from the Mainland) and I was raised in both environments, studied in a high school headed by strict French-Canadian nuns and in a university where fraternity men streaked through the school to protest government corruption as an annual activity.
So whee! Oriental + arguably Hispanic? Check! Strange and often-contrasting modes of education? Double check! Extremely questionable skin color? Hello, I’m whiter than white people! Now if I can only find a part-African, part-Caucasian part-Kiwi guy who spent his childhood scuba diving in Australia and once worked as an interpreter of Egyptian hieroglyphics, I cannot wait to see what my kids will look like. My household will be a mini-UN.
It’s the same with altruism and philanthropy too, I guess. I think the most successful non-profits are those that are very international. (Yay, WYA!) To be brutally honest, everyone is forced to behave themselves and really think outside the box in order to be diplomatic and to substantially address the cause that they chose to espouse, instead of half-assing their charity case and still feeling good about themselves but not truly addressing the issue.
I think diversity is the way it’s supposed to be for almost everything. People who were raised in one environment will never truly know what the outside world feels like unless they see it for themselves. For the most part, and with notable exceptions, I have found that those who want to help but whose philosophy is very homogeneous will be (unwittingly) condescending and culturally insensitive to the people they want to aid no matter how good their intentions may be – how will they know how the other side lives if they’ve only seen it in pictures? On the flipside, those who need help and who have insulated themselves may likely try to solve their own problems the usual way instead of looking for what other communities have done. The coolest people are those who have the richest and most varied of experiences.
Plus I think they have better pick-up lines. I remember one embarrassing incident in one of my many extra-curricular classes (which I’d rather not specify since I don’t want this to turn scandalous. This is just an anecdote.). One of my classmates thought that cupcakes and hugs and being nice equal to me saying “Let’s get it on” as illustrated in a brief but rather shocking e-mail.
I didn’t speak to him for two months. Argh. I feel like I should wear a T-shirt that says “Just Because I Hug You Does Not Mean I’m In Love With You” in front and “ ‘Dear’ Is My Default Name For All Living Beings” on the back. Good grief. It was just a cupcake, dear. Let’s not get carried away. What’s next? Do I complete you, too?
Lots of love,
Cathy
You know you’re not so young anymore when your peers begin to get married, have kids, or worse, ask you to be godmother to their kids. The tally so far: Three people have asked me to be godmother to future children. One of my best friends has plans to tie the knot. I know some people in my class who have already done so, some out of wedlock. And one of them expressly stated that she wants a small torch as a present for her wedding this May so she can make crème brulee. (I also need to find a dress from the prewar era. Which war?! Maria? Bissy? Any suggestions? I’m a little lost in that department.)
Any other single people out there who think that if this keeps up for the next few years, he or she will give in to people’s well-intentioned but ultimately distressing suggestions to join an on-line dating service? Raise your hands. Let’s form a support group. There will be chocolate gatherings, panel discussions and cocktail hours. Let us toast the single life.
Ah the pressure to procreate and perpetuate the human race! To find love and live happily ever after! Mein Gott. Must I do it now? I haven’t even gotten my pilot’s license yet! I still have to go to school! And I am so behind in taekwondo! *sob* Somebody please hit the Freeze button on the stopwatch of life!
For what it’s worth, I’m sure that I will marry outside my culture. I think it’s a whole lot sexier and a lot more interesting. I’ve observed that those who are at least biracial or have been raised in at least two different cultures are less likely to be arrogant and more likely to be self-possessed and sensitive to other people. I think it’s because they’re already marked as “different” from the rest of the “purebloods,” and so become less cliquish and more open from birth. They’re not deeply entrenched into their own practices and actively seek out other perspectives and viewpoints. Or at least that has been my experience. The happiest and warmest people I’ve met usually come from “Melting Pots” – Philippines, Brazil, Australia, to name a few.
I also think you become prouder of your heritage because you get to pick the best of each of the bloodlines coursing through your veins. That’s one advantage of not being fully accepted – you yourself don’t have to accept everything about one culture. You can take your pick and make it your own. Culture becomes a link and not a barrier, and issues on racism are lessened because races themselves are diluted. Plus the bilingualism is built in, which I’ve found quite helpful.
I’ve always loved meeting people who are really mixed in terms of upbringing. They have the most interesting stories – like one of my yoga teachers who was raised in a kibbutz in India and traveled around the world. They also look amazingly interesting and striking. The best example I can come up with right now is Naima Mora (Irish + Native American + Mexican + African American. I love it! America’s Next Top Model Cycle 4, yo! Don’t laugh, it was my cheap indulgence back when I still watched TV – I think the photo shoots are pretty.)
I’m already three-quarters Filipino, making it half the battle (which supposedly means Malay + Spanish + Chinese + other stuff in there. Who knows?! Yay! My cousin told me she found out she’s part Portuguese as well, although whether that’s also in my bloodline is something I have yet to find out.) and one-quarter Chinese (i.e. my grandfather came straight from the Mainland) and I was raised in both environments, studied in a high school headed by strict French-Canadian nuns and in a university where fraternity men streaked through the school to protest government corruption as an annual activity.
So whee! Oriental + arguably Hispanic? Check! Strange and often-contrasting modes of education? Double check! Extremely questionable skin color? Hello, I’m whiter than white people! Now if I can only find a part-African, part-Caucasian part-Kiwi guy who spent his childhood scuba diving in Australia and once worked as an interpreter of Egyptian hieroglyphics, I cannot wait to see what my kids will look like. My household will be a mini-UN.
It’s the same with altruism and philanthropy too, I guess. I think the most successful non-profits are those that are very international. (Yay, WYA!) To be brutally honest, everyone is forced to behave themselves and really think outside the box in order to be diplomatic and to substantially address the cause that they chose to espouse, instead of half-assing their charity case and still feeling good about themselves but not truly addressing the issue.
I think diversity is the way it’s supposed to be for almost everything. People who were raised in one environment will never truly know what the outside world feels like unless they see it for themselves. For the most part, and with notable exceptions, I have found that those who want to help but whose philosophy is very homogeneous will be (unwittingly) condescending and culturally insensitive to the people they want to aid no matter how good their intentions may be – how will they know how the other side lives if they’ve only seen it in pictures? On the flipside, those who need help and who have insulated themselves may likely try to solve their own problems the usual way instead of looking for what other communities have done. The coolest people are those who have the richest and most varied of experiences.
Plus I think they have better pick-up lines. I remember one embarrassing incident in one of my many extra-curricular classes (which I’d rather not specify since I don’t want this to turn scandalous. This is just an anecdote.). One of my classmates thought that cupcakes and hugs and being nice equal to me saying “Let’s get it on” as illustrated in a brief but rather shocking e-mail.
I didn’t speak to him for two months. Argh. I feel like I should wear a T-shirt that says “Just Because I Hug You Does Not Mean I’m In Love With You” in front and “ ‘Dear’ Is My Default Name For All Living Beings” on the back. Good grief. It was just a cupcake, dear. Let’s not get carried away. What’s next? Do I complete you, too?
Lots of love,
Cathy
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Sunshine Post #11
Hello dears!
Ohmygod, you guys! Today, I saved the owner of a yoga studio from a completely heinous grammatical error on a poster he was going to blow up to be 53 feet high. Bad design must die, but grammatically incorrect design must burn forever! That cheered me up just a teeny bit. For at least a few seconds anyway!
***
"You know, thank God I'm not in medical school," was the one big conclusion I had after several weeks back in The Motherland. I think I finally had it with meeting friends in medicine who were so sick of what they were doing but didn't know what they wanted to do outside the box that they found themselves in. My Chinese side of the family has been screaming "Medical School!" since they found out I was out of research. Admittedly, I did think of this briefly. Surely there isn't anything bad in wanting to alleviate human suffering, right? But I just imagine myself buried under piles of textbooks, filled with drivel I have to memorize and spit out, being concerned with every single tedious detail only to have theories overturned the next year, and being obsessed with which hospitals to go to and which doctor I wanted to be with and that just did it. I can't do this, man. No more standardized tests – heck, standardized anything -- for me!
"Uh, Cathy dear, you do realize that's what we do, right?" my best guy friend who is in medical school told me after I had to explain (for the umpteenth freaking time!) Why. I. Don't. Want. To. Do. Research. Anymore. I think he thought I was allergic to doctors or something.
Well, not exactly. I think there are doctors, and then there are great doctors – the ones who really wanted to devote their lives to healing the sick, instead of those hacks who simply want the degree.
It might be an odd thing to say, but sometimes I feel that medical school (or law or business school) is Every Overachiever's Insurance Policy – what they would latch onto when they don't know what to do with their lives but wish to do something "respectable" in the minds of everyone else. No one wants to be in a phase where they don't have a "vision" of the future. But while they see it as a safety net, I see it as intelligence of no consequence if it's really not what you want.
It was August of last year when I experienced, for the first time, what it's like not to know what the future will bring. Oddly enough, while I was beleaguered with panic attacks during separate points, it was one of those phases in my life that kicked ass – the dreaded Transition Period. There is something to be said about being in a phase that wasn't in The Plan. Ohmygod, you guys! It was painful, but it rocked. For those who might be experiencing the same thing, here are the main points that I encountered:
1. People who are "transitioning" will take a language class because it's one of those things they can finally have time for, and it would be good to put on their CVs. In my case, I took up Spanish and French because I wanted to have a reason to wake up in the morning. Before I came to WYA, I planned to just pack it all up and go to Spain for a year. (When I tell this to my friends, they say, "Whoa, way to go, Cath! I didn't know you had it in you." Thank you. *takes a bow*) Language class also became my therapy session – you meet a lot of kindred spirits there. Everyone will say "Yo soy desempleado" or "Je ne travaille pas." I do not have a job. My favorite line was "Yo no se lo que hago." I don't know what I'm doing. Hell yeah.
2. Random strangers will applaud your dreams and share their life stories with you. In my case, I clearly remember a nice cheery Aussie woman in the top floor of Barnes and Noble Lincoln Center telling me to go for what I really want. The books you read, the movies you watch, the people you meet at that particular time will be very timely to your condition – it's like a film that Mother Nature is making out of your life.
3. There is an incomparable feeling of lightness that you will feel, letting go of a phase in your life and trusting that the next one will come. You feel like the world is yours to conquer again because you are starting on a clean slate, untainted by past (naïve) desires.
4. You meet a lot of people who are in the middle of the horrible state you were just in. They will tell you that you're lucky to have gotten out while you still can. This makes the period much easier.
5. Telling my parents I wasn't a scientist anymore was like coming out of the closet. And hel-lo! What a relief. Yeah Mom, I'm pregnant, a lesbian, and I work for non-profit. Just kidding about the pregnant and lesbian part!
6. I felt extremely happy being emancipated from having to decapitate rats all the time. I will never channel Lady Macbeth again, you guys! Out, damned spot, out I say! No more massacres!
7. I got through two taekwondo belt tests because I went to class everyday.
I've noticed that old friends want to meet up with me not necessarily because they want to catch up, but they want to see what I've been doing and what I plan to do. ( -- the latter of which I am so happy to keep to myself … My future, for the first time, is mine! All mine! Whee! You can bribe me with facials and massages and vegan desserts but I'm not telling you what I'm doing next year!) I think that it's the trend for those in their early-to-mid-twenties – we want to see how our peers are doing as a gauge to see how we are doing. Am I slacking off? Am I just on the right track? I hope I'm not the burnout of my generation. These are the thoughts that I can hear them thinking, mainly because my own brain is echoing them. No one wants to be the person who didn't "make it," especially when people had such high expectations of you.
You know, growing up, I've always had these nutty ideas and executed them until the end because they haunt me at night if I don't and I get these crippling migraines. But instead of "creative," they call it "obsessive compulsive." You have no idea how being referred to as The Creative One has turned my world upside down, you guys. I was just The Nerd before! "Happy" today was "Neurotic" in high school. Hahaha! Yahoo! Ah, how perspectives change when the wording is different. I think I hated everyone's previous labels of me because I haven't done anything with my life yet; I felt like they expected something of me that I couldn't give and because they implied some sort of defect. They laud the potential, instead of waiting for the actual achievement. They saw me as a freak. I think I like this now because it commands me to have something completely original and unaffected to give instead of being just another fraud. At least I hope so – Steve Jobs once said to stay hungry and stay foolish. I am both of those things right now and it will likely remain that way forever. But I hope minus the hungry part. It's hard to live on yogurt and granola bars alone, y'know. Vegetarian or otherwise.
***
I've been saying the weirdest things lately. Last week, at the Australian embassy when I attended the World Youth Day info session, I was waiting for a cab outside, under the blazing heat of Manila's summer. I skipped to the elderly woman ahead of me and said, "Excuse me! If I hold your umbrella, may I share it with you? My hair is starting to fry." Umbrellas during the summer are one thing you can see in Asia but not in the West. For them, it's because they don't want to darken; for me, it's because I don't want my thymines to dimerize and cause genetic mutations! Sigh. I wish I had a built-in tan.
Lots of love (and yes, I promise to be happier next time I write),
Cathy
Ohmygod, you guys! Today, I saved the owner of a yoga studio from a completely heinous grammatical error on a poster he was going to blow up to be 53 feet high. Bad design must die, but grammatically incorrect design must burn forever! That cheered me up just a teeny bit. For at least a few seconds anyway!
***
"You know, thank God I'm not in medical school," was the one big conclusion I had after several weeks back in The Motherland. I think I finally had it with meeting friends in medicine who were so sick of what they were doing but didn't know what they wanted to do outside the box that they found themselves in. My Chinese side of the family has been screaming "Medical School!" since they found out I was out of research. Admittedly, I did think of this briefly. Surely there isn't anything bad in wanting to alleviate human suffering, right? But I just imagine myself buried under piles of textbooks, filled with drivel I have to memorize and spit out, being concerned with every single tedious detail only to have theories overturned the next year, and being obsessed with which hospitals to go to and which doctor I wanted to be with and that just did it. I can't do this, man. No more standardized tests – heck, standardized anything -- for me!
"Uh, Cathy dear, you do realize that's what we do, right?" my best guy friend who is in medical school told me after I had to explain (for the umpteenth freaking time!) Why. I. Don't. Want. To. Do. Research. Anymore. I think he thought I was allergic to doctors or something.
Well, not exactly. I think there are doctors, and then there are great doctors – the ones who really wanted to devote their lives to healing the sick, instead of those hacks who simply want the degree.
It might be an odd thing to say, but sometimes I feel that medical school (or law or business school) is Every Overachiever's Insurance Policy – what they would latch onto when they don't know what to do with their lives but wish to do something "respectable" in the minds of everyone else. No one wants to be in a phase where they don't have a "vision" of the future. But while they see it as a safety net, I see it as intelligence of no consequence if it's really not what you want.
It was August of last year when I experienced, for the first time, what it's like not to know what the future will bring. Oddly enough, while I was beleaguered with panic attacks during separate points, it was one of those phases in my life that kicked ass – the dreaded Transition Period. There is something to be said about being in a phase that wasn't in The Plan. Ohmygod, you guys! It was painful, but it rocked. For those who might be experiencing the same thing, here are the main points that I encountered:
1. People who are "transitioning" will take a language class because it's one of those things they can finally have time for, and it would be good to put on their CVs. In my case, I took up Spanish and French because I wanted to have a reason to wake up in the morning. Before I came to WYA, I planned to just pack it all up and go to Spain for a year. (When I tell this to my friends, they say, "Whoa, way to go, Cath! I didn't know you had it in you." Thank you. *takes a bow*) Language class also became my therapy session – you meet a lot of kindred spirits there. Everyone will say "Yo soy desempleado" or "Je ne travaille pas." I do not have a job. My favorite line was "Yo no se lo que hago." I don't know what I'm doing. Hell yeah.
2. Random strangers will applaud your dreams and share their life stories with you. In my case, I clearly remember a nice cheery Aussie woman in the top floor of Barnes and Noble Lincoln Center telling me to go for what I really want. The books you read, the movies you watch, the people you meet at that particular time will be very timely to your condition – it's like a film that Mother Nature is making out of your life.
3. There is an incomparable feeling of lightness that you will feel, letting go of a phase in your life and trusting that the next one will come. You feel like the world is yours to conquer again because you are starting on a clean slate, untainted by past (naïve) desires.
4. You meet a lot of people who are in the middle of the horrible state you were just in. They will tell you that you're lucky to have gotten out while you still can. This makes the period much easier.
5. Telling my parents I wasn't a scientist anymore was like coming out of the closet. And hel-lo! What a relief. Yeah Mom, I'm pregnant, a lesbian, and I work for non-profit. Just kidding about the pregnant and lesbian part!
6. I felt extremely happy being emancipated from having to decapitate rats all the time. I will never channel Lady Macbeth again, you guys! Out, damned spot, out I say! No more massacres!
7. I got through two taekwondo belt tests because I went to class everyday.
I've noticed that old friends want to meet up with me not necessarily because they want to catch up, but they want to see what I've been doing and what I plan to do. ( -- the latter of which I am so happy to keep to myself … My future, for the first time, is mine! All mine! Whee! You can bribe me with facials and massages and vegan desserts but I'm not telling you what I'm doing next year!) I think that it's the trend for those in their early-to-mid-twenties – we want to see how our peers are doing as a gauge to see how we are doing. Am I slacking off? Am I just on the right track? I hope I'm not the burnout of my generation. These are the thoughts that I can hear them thinking, mainly because my own brain is echoing them. No one wants to be the person who didn't "make it," especially when people had such high expectations of you.
You know, growing up, I've always had these nutty ideas and executed them until the end because they haunt me at night if I don't and I get these crippling migraines. But instead of "creative," they call it "obsessive compulsive." You have no idea how being referred to as The Creative One has turned my world upside down, you guys. I was just The Nerd before! "Happy" today was "Neurotic" in high school. Hahaha! Yahoo! Ah, how perspectives change when the wording is different. I think I hated everyone's previous labels of me because I haven't done anything with my life yet; I felt like they expected something of me that I couldn't give and because they implied some sort of defect. They laud the potential, instead of waiting for the actual achievement. They saw me as a freak. I think I like this now because it commands me to have something completely original and unaffected to give instead of being just another fraud. At least I hope so – Steve Jobs once said to stay hungry and stay foolish. I am both of those things right now and it will likely remain that way forever. But I hope minus the hungry part. It's hard to live on yogurt and granola bars alone, y'know. Vegetarian or otherwise.
***
I've been saying the weirdest things lately. Last week, at the Australian embassy when I attended the World Youth Day info session, I was waiting for a cab outside, under the blazing heat of Manila's summer. I skipped to the elderly woman ahead of me and said, "Excuse me! If I hold your umbrella, may I share it with you? My hair is starting to fry." Umbrellas during the summer are one thing you can see in Asia but not in the West. For them, it's because they don't want to darken; for me, it's because I don't want my thymines to dimerize and cause genetic mutations! Sigh. I wish I had a built-in tan.
Lots of love (and yes, I promise to be happier next time I write),
Cathy
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