From Manila, to Chicago: Part 2

I remember a boy named, Raul, a Puerto Rican.  A smallish boy – a gangbanger – he had a clutch of boys in the neighborhood.  Thankfully, I was never part of this.  But, curiously, he took a liking for me.  He sort of came into my circle. (Well, not really, as I had no circle.)  For instance, I’d go home for lunch, then he’d come by our apartment building and wait outside for me so that he could walk me back to school.  Somehow I felt safe and proud to be friends with him.

Raul wasn’t a very bright boy.  This, mixed with a troublesome nature, made him the butt of even the teacher’s awful jokes and derisions in class.  “Raul, you have no class!” 

So, there it was, I understood it.  Without his ever demanding anything of me, I helped him with his schoolwork.  The stuff of friendship.  I got the protection that probably helped me stay out of trouble, in countless, unknown instances.  He got a better footing with his academics. 

         

Again, not much talking about it, Raul and I learned lessons for a lifetime. 

*

“I’m gonna kick your ass!” was so effective.  Yet, so ineffective at the same time. 

More than 40 years have passed, since those fateful first months in Chicago, I have very rarely been slurred upon by others.  Maybe it has to do with the toughness and confidence I’ve kept building up over years.  Maybe it has to do with the several relationships and circles I’ve chosen to put myself in.  Maybe it has to do with my smarts.  Who knows.

You see, here’s the thing.  Jap and Chink still reverberate within me.  Why?

Filipinos, by and large, don’t have very strong self-esteem.  Today we’re spread around the world, but more often than not, you’ll find us to be more deferential than assertive, more serving than commanding, more friendly than tough-ass.  Why?

For centuries, the Philippines was under colonial rule – by the Spaniards largely, but the Chinese and Americans figure prominently into this.  The northern part of the Philippines was their stronghold, and they came in when the economic and social fiber of development was still in its nascent stages.  More than just neglect to build the economic foundation of the local people, they actually dismantled it!  For example, Chinese merchants got small-time farmers to sell rice, below its value.  Then, in turn, they sold it at above this value.  

Imagine cutting off a baby’s feet, before he can even walk! 

That’s what happened.  We were duly servants in our own home.  Invisible, in a similar vein as author Ralph Ellison posed the Black American.   

Yes, by the late 1800s, the ongoing stirrings of rebellion in the country led to the formation of a national identity (albeit roughshod and patchwork).  The Philippines gained its independence.

But still, why is our self-esteem generally still low, more than a hundred years later? 

My take on this:  This bit about independence is a pipe dream.  The 1900s was the era of the Americans.  Their sheep’s clothing was liberator, which hid the wolf of oppressor underneath.  More powerful than the Spaniards, I believe, the Americans entered our brain (e.g., through books and TV) – and planted themselves within our tongue (i.e., through language, Filipinos became one of the best English-speaking Asians in the world). 

The Americans more or less left.  But I argue that we are still an oppressed lot.  By whom?  By the longtime wealthy, powerful families in politics and business.  You learn not to mess around with them.  Because if you do, you’ll see that corruption is the least of your worries.  You literally put your life in danger.  My parents must’ve known this.    

I challenge any of my kababayan (fellow Filipino) to win me over with the notion that Filipinos are independent.  He or she will fail.  Today we are still under colonial rule. 

*

Shame is a powerful social, behavioral tool in Philippine culture.  It’s a way to command obedience from children by parents and teachers – and from everyday citizens by those in power.

In fact, oddly enough, to feel shame was a sort of badge of honor amongst Filipinos.  So much so that for a child to be scolded with walang hiya (shameless) was doubly shaming! 

For a non-Filipino, this can be a maddening, twisted thing.  I’d agree.

Jap.  Chink.  This made me profoundly ashamed. 

The slur wasn’t even the fucking right nationality!  How odd and cruel can children be.  Damn it, didn’t they know I was not Japanese or Chinese.  It was as if I didn’t deserve the honor of being kicked in the gut with my own nationality.  Instead, it was like having my gut ripped out of me!  More than just invisible, I was now hollow. 

Talk about self-esteem.  Walang hiya.  Talk about shame.  How deep can you go with your nth power? 

Jap.  Chink.  Oh, I can forgive.  But never forget.  

*

Note:  A version of my article was posted on Relativity Online.  

From Manila, to Chicago: Part 1

Jap. 

Chink.

I was 9 years old and newly arrived in Chicago. Jap. Chink. Racial slurs for Japanese and Chinese, that’s what some kids at school called me. Something to do with my squinty eyes.

My new Philippine passport (1968)

America was virtually a Shangri La for a Filipino boy – the “Land of Milk and Honey.”  America was flowing white and brown.  I also understood the figurative meaning of the phrase.  So I set about to list all the toys and clothes I wanted, because in America I could have whatever I wanted to have.  Heady stuff, for a little boy.  I tried to get my sisters (6 and 4 years old) and brother (5 years old) to create their own list, but they noted only a handful of things.  “You can have more, you can have more,” I urged them. 

By most accounts, we had a good life in the Philippines.  Both professionals – Mechanical Engineer and Pharmacist – my parents had a house built in Parañaque, southwest of Manila.  So we lived a middle class suburban life, and accordingly I went to the well-to-do, Catholic all-boys school of St. John Don Bosco nearby.  What’s more, we had two housemaids living us and taking care of us. 

My parents, though, had a sense of a future not looking so bright at all.  The 1960s was the presidency of Ferdinand Marcos, and economically and politically they felt that trouble was afoot.  I never knew how or when they began to plan our departure from the Philippines, but in 1968 my father’s two sisters and their families left from America in May.  We followed suit in September.  In 1972, President Marcos declared martial law.  Foresighted, my parents?  Surely.

*

I was a shy but playful boy on the westside of Chicago, where there were many more Latinos than Filipinos.  Autumn cool was already in the air, and there seemed to be more cloudy days than I remembered seeing in the Philippines.  It was ideal weather, regardless, for recess in the playground. What goes on in the playground was a microcosm of what was to come for us children.  All that made living delightful was there – the running, the climbing, the jumping.  Play was an entire language for us.  No need for words, really.  The groan from exerting on the monkey bars.  The screaming laughter from some sort of chase.  The soft thud of falling down.

Jap.  Chink.  In the playground, I soon learned to retort, “I’m gonna kick your ass!”  My older cousins taught me that, as they, too, were subjected to such slurs.  “I’m gonna kick your ass!”  I kept saying it, until it stopped feeling awkward and stupid to say. 

*

Life in Chicago was a far cry from our spacious home in Parañaque.  For the first few months, we were amongst three families living in a three-bedroom flat.  The three sets of parents – mine, my two aunts and their husbands – each staked out a bedroom.  We children – a total of 14 in the household, with a wide range in age – mostly slept on the living and dining room floor. 

It was fun for a while, but the cramped quarters led a couple of us cousins to fight amongst ourselves.  Never mind the other kids at school. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass!”  Remarkably it must’ve worked.  Soon thereafter I heard Jap and Chink very little.  Shy or not, I saw clearly that there was value in being tough. 

*

But better than being tough, I found that the real ticket into social circles and approval was my academics.  I was a smart boy.  I came to learn that Philippine curriculum was more advanced than that of America.  There, children go from elementary school to high school – that is, from 6th grade to high school.  In America, there were 7th and 8th grades to navigate, before high school.  So, instead of 18 years old, many Filipinos are in the university at 16 years old.  So the curriculum, from early on, was geared along such a timeline.

Cool, totally cool. 

Visiting the Picasso Abu Dhabi Exhibit

I have now gone twice to see this exhibit, and I am tentatively planning a third tomorrow evening. Just as I had never really noticed Marc Chagall before that tiny print exhibit at the Kohl’s Museum, I had never really looked at Picasso before.

There is the famous large “Picasso” sculpture in the Daley Plaza in Chicago.  I’ve heard about “Guernica.” Cubism etc. But even as I planned to visit this exhibit with friends, I thought to myself that I’m really not that taken by Pablo Picasso.

Well, now, clearly I am!

From the first visit last Friday, August 29th, came my first poem in about 20 years!  “La Lecture de la Lettra.”

With the wonders of Google, the internet, and my own growing knowledge and skills with Microsoft Office, I superimposed my poem on a cropped, downloaded image of this painting.

I see this poem as the first in a series, which I hope to get published somewhere. It’s too late for Gulf News, as the exhibit ends tomorrow evening. But what about the Museè Picasso in Paris?  Well, why not!

In my second visit, last night, I concentrated on the 13 of the 183 works that I found most compelling. I took scores of notes, including verbatim ones on Surrealism and Cubism.

Parking Close to Wherever I Need

(image credit)

In the midst of all that I’m doing and is happening to me, here in Dubai, I see that God continues to look out after me and gives me small, endearing messages.

I’ve told others, for example, that about 7 out of 10 times, I will find a parking space close to wherever I need to be.  To wit:

• Last night, Thursday, at Barracuda: I slowly entered the parking area and drove toward the entrance. At that moment, a car was pulling out – literally next to the entrance!

• The night before, Wednesday, at Chowking in Satwa: Traffic all around, as usual, especially on the street into Satwa. I work my way through, being watchful an going slowly, and what do I find… a parking space in front of Chowking!

• One week ago, Saturday, at City Centre: Again, patient, slow driving in the parking area, and lo and behold I find a parking space near the P3 entrance, which is where Carrefour is nearest to. 

The secret is to be patient, go slow, and look for people walking toward their car. These are things that I have control over. But for the most part, I’m lucky. Lucky, in the sense that God surely looks out after me.

Takeaways from the Borneo Challenge

Now, back from Borneo – the Gulf for Good Challenge is over! An amazing trip, but more arduous, grueling than I expected.

I kept a diary during the trip, but there were a number of occasions, when I didn’t feel like writing. Still, it’s a pretty good accounting.

What comes to mind the most about the trip?

That virtually everything I did to train and prepare for this trip, both physically and mentally, was helpful:  from the rowing machine, to the 16% incline on the treadmill, the walking up and down the Dusit and this apartment staircases, the cycling of course in the flats and the mountains, the moderate-weight high-rep weight-lifting, even the rock-climbing I did years ago!

Mt. Kinabalu, in Malaysian Borneo

I didn’t make it to the summit of Mt. Kinabalu. I was too tired and nervous, and fell short about 1.2k in distance, 250m in elevation. The wind was whipping, it was rainy, and I was getting very tired and cold when I (wisely) decided to turn back. Because I still needed my energy and wits about me, on the downhill return. But I have every confidence that I can tackle this mountain, on a second try.

It dawned on me at one point that while I really liked the Gulf for Good concept, it was too much work, too much focus on me and not enough focus on the charities. I believe this occurred to me, after a grueling day’s trek up from Mesilau Nature Resort to Laban Rata Resthouse. I was nervous about the summit trek in the middle of the night, and this led to literally a sleepless night. Anyway, I’ve since eased up on that thought: that each of us is simply a vehicle for charity, that we’re each responsible for keeping things in perspective about and focused on the charity, that the ability and the experience to endure an arduous challenge bodes well for what I need to accomplish in helping people. Just as cycling helped me be a more effective manager, which I remember mentioning to Marc Lubin et al. when I was at ISPP/Chicago, cycling etc. can help in other parts of my life.

It felt a bit odd being around the people I was with. I felt awkward. I didn’t necessarily feel like socializing much. It was almost as if I was out of practice socially. Having spent time mostly alone, outside of work, I was both rusty and disinterested about socializing, at least for the most part. On the whole, though, it was fine. I found my spots to socialize, e.g., with Brian, Werner, Marie, Martin and Michelle. I didn’t relate so well with the “young lads,” like Keiron, Emmanuelle and Scott.

When the children from Borneo Child Aid traveled about 8 hours to our longhouse site at the Sabah Tea Plantation, along with the project manager (Torben Venning) and some of their teachers, it was a highlight. I smiled as they recited on the virtues of discipline and the shame of doing wrong – typical Asian emphases. It broke my heart a bit, when they performed music from makeshift instruments. Most of all, I felt I was fated to meet the Francisco family: Anir and Junecel (the parents); Junecel (27) and Yvette (24); plus these young ladies’ children. More of them later on, but it was interesting to hear them say that I looked American and then to ask “If you live there long enough, you start to look American.”

Conversation with Noura in Dubai

Art by Kamel Abuhalaweh (image credit)

Noura was born in Dubai but is of Palestinian nationality. It’s a big “NO” for her to become Emirati. From what I could gather, she felt very disappointed in the UAE’s refusal to grant her (and her family, I imagine, too) some of the privileges of an Emirati, given that she was born here. 

Iran and other countries want to create a “Shia belt” that stretch from Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, to Lebanon.

Syria and Palestine were the primary countries in that part of the Middle East years ago. Syria was under French powers, and Palestine under British. Then Syria was ‘cut up’ to form Lebanon, where the Christian Syrians were housed.

I believe Noura said it was Palestine that was ‘cut up’ to form Jordan, on the eastern part of the country. That is why she and her family, like many other Palestinians, have a Jordanian passport.

Dolly, whom I met from the GEC, is Jordanian, and wanted to become a Kuwaiti National.

Zionism claimed portions more of Palestine:  Gaza strip, I believe, among these. She mentioned Herzl and Balfour.

This movement began in the late 1890s. She mentioned 1917 – was this when the formal (re-)migration of the Jews back to the Middle East took place? As I wrote in that entry, there’s more that I need to learn here.

Noura dreams of her homeland and visualizes it as something like a beautiful woman. I asked if she wanted to visit it someday, as she’s never been there. She’s afraid, she admitted, because of what a major letdown it might be to see the reality. She became a bit teary-eyed about this.

She said, “We lost Andalucia” (Spain). We were talking about Muslims. She related what I had come to know about Islam and Muslims, that is, that they were very knowledgeable people, dominant in key regions in the broader Middle East.

She said, “If only we had taken France, we would’ve been all over Europe.” I said, “Muslims are all over Europe, but as second-class citizens.” Mirroring my remark, her word was “invisible.”

 

Middle Eastern Home Cooking

(image credit)

I want to learn a bit about how to cook. I’m not overly keen about it, just an interest that arises from my desire to invite friends over and to cook for them.

Mallos’ book is a beautiful book – the photos of well-presented dishes and beverages, and her fine, readable writing. I borrowed it from Colin.

So far what I’ve found most interesting and enjoyable is the Introduction, where Mallos relates the historical context of Middle Eastern cooking. According to the Gallup Strength Finder, Context – the desire to learn the past – isn’t a theme that’s at all dominant in my repertoire. In fact it’s one of the lowest five in my theme sequence.

Still, I do want to learn a bit about the context of things here in the Middle East:

Going back to 7000 BC, people began to control their food supply – vegetation and animals. These practices are said to have originated in the Zagros mountains of Iran and the Fertile Crescent – an area of land that curves from the Eastern Mediterranean to the head of the Arabian Gulf, encompassing the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers.

Egyptian, Persian, Hellenistic (Greek) and Roman influences blended to form a varied but distinctive Middle Eastern cuisine.

Constantinople became the heart of the Byzantine Empire – named after Rome’s first Christian emperor (circa 330 AD) – after the collapse of the Roman empire in 476 AD. Byzantium survived for 11 centuries, and became the center of the Eastern Orthodox Church (what I know to be the origin of Belarusian [and Russian?] Christianity).

But the most important influence on Middle Eastern cooking was the advent of the Sassanids coming into power in 226 AD. They did so, after the end of Alexander the Great’s short-lived empire and the decline of Parthian rule in Persia. They succeeded in part to restore the glory of the Persian Empire of 550-330 BC in the region, including India.

The Persians introduced refined sugar to the region in the 5th century AD, allowing for the wider development of sweet foods and beverages.

Three years after the death of the Prophet Muhammad, in 637 AD, the Arabs conquered what is today Iraq, Syria, Egypt and Persia – apparently fueled by their newly found zeal of Islam. Persia, for example, converted to Islam, as the Arabs absorbed Persian culture and cuisine.

“Cassia cinnamon [what is cassia cinnamon?] had come from China via the Silk Road [what and where is the Silk Road?], cardamom and pepper from India, and cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg from the Spice Islands of Indonesia which were obtained by Indian merchants [was there something about the Spice Islands that produced such spices?].” I love reading this description.

Halal, a word I’ve often heard, is now something I know the meaning of: It’s animals that have been slaughtered humanely, according to Islamic law: i.e., facing Mecca, with the slaughterer uttering the phrase “In the name of God; God is most great.”