Adios Vanidad / Hola Mortalidad

( originally written 3rd November 2009 )

24 hours after, we were pretty and pink again...

[NOTE : we’ve never done this with eight fingers on the keyboard, but you learn something new everyday …instead of giving you a clinical / journalistic account of what happened to us recently, we’d rather make kwento from the heart, through the road-less-traveled prism of memories forged, lessons learned, dreams dashed, and hopes gained…]

Dear batchmates, batch, kabatch and friends :

ULTIMATELY and in the end ( a double redundancy ) two things became apparent : we would have to stop gobbling food and we would never be able to eat apples the same way again, and secondly, we would never view in the same way again, the handicapped, disfigured, or all those bundled under that generic term mga may kapansanan.

All this, from a rather minor bike accident that nonetheless left us out-of-commission for 72 hours, but gave us a six-hour tour of a First World E.R., including but not limited to frontline services, orthopedics, radiology and physiotherapy; and firsthand view of how healthcare and meds are subsidized in far-away lands.

For the record, we suffered facial abrasions, thank gosh no stitches naman, 2 chipped teeth ( goodbye forever, closeup smile ) and a minor pinkie fracture. But being the eternal baby that we are, we were admittedly traumatized beyond the cuts, bumps, tumbles and bruises we sustained that fateful Thursday that forever altered our face ( and the rest of our body ) as we have known it.

First, the emergency van that arrived to fetch us to hospital was rather quick as firemen, the medics even offering to salvage the piece of ivory that sprung from our orifice, baka maihabol pa raw, but we had already drenched both our shirt and sweater crimson with sparkling Type B positive, patch me up na, please. We felt right at home at the E.R., though, as we waited as much as 120 mins (parang PGH or barangay health center, take your pick) among other non-life-threatening cases, and as no one was complaining, we weren’t about to rock the boat. Literally we sat there holding our cracked helmet, gashed knapsack and blood soaked hi-viz jacket…

At that point our fervent wish was that our nose remained intact, as 20 years ago, from a wayward elbow we sustained a deviated septum that caused us countless clogged-up nights and a proboscis no longer as confident as years past. Thankfully, a thorough exam proved that, though chockfull of abrasions and unflattering puncture wounds, the nose was none the worse for wear…

Which, unfortunately was a lot better than our outlook for two front teeth, knocked out as we used our face to break our fall. The Good Samaritan who led us to level ground (we fell while negotiating an incline) and called an ambulance recalled us dazed and bloodied, but vain enough to look for whatever portion of tooth that could be salvaged, before being treated for first aid…

But no matter. No concussion, no stitches and no bones (save for a battered pinkie) was more than we could hope for, except that for the loss of blood, a nearby constable couldn’t help but ask cursory questions if more than just a bicycle was involved.

Through the interminable waiting (bout which we daren’t complain, everything was free and everyone else waiting their turn), the numerous xrays ( to uncover fractures as well as anything we might have inadvertently swallowed… like tooth fragments ) and the cleanup / patchup job, a few inevitable realizations dawned on us:

we would never again be able to clamp down on whole, crisp, unpeeled apples again, crack peanuts or shell watermelon seeds with bare teeth;

we would never again be able to smile at anyone (not just the fairer sex) with the same amount of confidence and charm;

we would not likely, or at least in this lifetime be able to be as fluid with our digital movements as before, not that we were ever a piano virtuoso but would we ever regain the same movement with our fingers?

Shortly after we were briefed about how long healing would take place and the follow up appointments we would need to make (more xrays, more exams, and more waiting), we allayed our own uncertainties : goodbye to the whole wild eating thing, but maybe the charm and fingers weren’t lost forever…

          **           **           **           **

We’ve always been a gobbler. Not gobble, gobble the way a turkey does but wolfing down and gulping our food as if mauubusan lagi, it did help that we had 4 brothers competing for the same limited slices of shrinking pie. But our mishap made our front teeth not only gingerly sensitive but also functionally unable to bite into anything harder than the soft part of sandwich bread, buti na lang we could eat rice 3 times a day.

But chewing was another story, every grinding movement in our mouths painfully difficult, the sharp edges of the newly serrated front teeth also creating ulcers above and under our tongue.

A concerned kabayan suggested we try sampling liquid cereal, smoothies of all sorts as well as oatmeal, wheatgerm or even arroz caldo, if we could ever find it. We were warned against relying too much on instant noodles especially after what the internet said about MSG and the perils of too much salt on everything.

In the end, we learned that if we chewed care-ful-ly and slooowly, taking care to not let anything touch the front teeth while eating (an unlikely, but not impossible task) eating would still be a temporary agony, but not as much.

          **           **           **           **

The facial cuts and bruises were, as you might expect, something else. It was nothing that wouldn’t eventually heal, but for now almost the entire left side of our face was covered from forehead to chin with deep abrasions that made it painful for us to just smile and twitch our cheek.

Improbably, we had become even more marginalized the minute we entered the mall to purchase painkillers and antibiotics from pharmacy: not only were we Asians (well actually we refer to anyone not Caucasian, but since Asians occupy probably 90% of this group, we might as well refer to it as Asian), we also looked roasted and on steroids; sorry but that’s the kindest way to describe it.

In short, we had become a caste within a caste, very nearly an untouchable.

There are only two ways to address such a sight, when you’re fortunate enough to be “normal.” You either pretend everything is hunky – dory and avoid looking at the person, or you inevitably can’t help but stare longer than the socially acceptable 3 seconds max. Or at least, something approaching those two mini-scenarios, cuz that’s how we reacted to something that we now looked like.

For the moment, we find ourselves proverbially on the other side of the fence, after jumping such fence rather recklessly. It only took us one trip to the mall to discover that, with all the bandages and cleanup job done on us, we were still being avoided like the plague.

To illustrate, the injured part of our face looked like an upright multicolored chicharon bulaklak, dominated by bright red and shiny welts crisscrossing our forehead, temple and cheek. Definitely not a pretty sight, to say the least.

Most of the adults made an effort to avoid staring, but instead acted as if we looked TOO normal, which definitely wasn’t the reality. The kids with the adults were more candid, staring without malice with some actually pointing at us. A bit unnerving, to be the center of attention, and not because you’re eye candy.

But we’re not chicharon, eye candy, other things yummy, or even the source of attention, fleeting though it may be. Inasmuch as we’ve been one all our lives, we’d just like to be treated as a regular guy, admittedly a pretty battered one at that. For now.

           **           **           **           **           **

After 5 days, the welts and abrasions have reduced in both size and scarletness, but we still won’t be attending any blind dates. The physiotherapist also designed us a cool, neat glove-sized cast to serve as a splint for the next few weeks. Sick leave has allowed us days off work, but only for a week. The rest hopefully will be answered for by workmen’s compensation.

We just hope we can heal completely in time for the olds and the loved ones back home, our regular shift, and our fragile ego. Not necessarily in that order.

Keep safe & healthy everyone

NOel

How Awkward Ba Is My Color?

( originally written 26th September 2009 )

Dear batchmates, kabayan and friends :

 

QUICK QUIZ : Which of the following smacks of race (not racist) undertones, and which more importantly are you familiar with?

 

(A) you are walking along the footpath (sidewalk), and from the other end, a Caucasian is doing the same.  Shortly, before you realize what is going on, he/she crosses the street,  for no apparent reason, giving the impression that a face-to-face encounter with you, however momentary or fleeting, was being avoided.

 

(B) two Caucasians are talking or discussing something, and the moment you enter the room, they stop for the shortest of nanoseconds, as if deliberating whether or not to acknowledge your presence, send an unspoken message to each other, continue as if you’re invisible, and give you an impression, however subjective, that their topic was hurriedly altered by your arrival.

 

(C) you are heating your lunch in the office microwave oven.  It happens to be fried fish with rice (waiting for patis or bagoong & kamatis for good measure), and of course, the aroma escapes into the lunch room.  The Asians and non-Caucasians don’t seem to mind (although you don’t know for sure), and everything is peachy until a late luncher walks into the room and in a raised voice, booms “What the bloody hell smells?”  An uncomfortable silence ensues, sheepish smiles emerge all around, except from the individual with the acute olfactory sensibilities, who happens to be non-Asian, non-Indian, and non-Polynesian.

 

Give yourself a point for each YES answer, another point if you have experienced something similar to any of the scenarios, and if you scored anything above 4, you have gone through the gamut of Noel’s Portfolio of Race-Generated Awkwardness. 

 

It is our way of saying that in varying degrees, and we’re sure this applies to every kabatch and kabayan overseas, we have tasted many permutations of these and other eksenas that bring up awkward sentiments.

 

No, we hasten to hesitate (is that possible?) using the word racial or racist but you can’t deny that there’s an element of race involved in all the skits above.

 

And that’s part of the migratory adventure.  You are caught between letting the moment slide, as par for the course, mitigated especially by the fact that you will ALWAYS be a guest in this country, in the face of all political correctness, on the one hand, or doing the brave thing and bringing it up in the next staff meeting, in no uncertain words letting it be known that there is a pebble of discomfort in your shoe, not life threatening but nevertheless causing you discomfiture whenever.  The mother company in fact encourages you to write, email or phone in any situation where even a whiff of something improper or awry passes your flared nostrils.  In practice, though, we don’t think anyone has ever written HQ about anything like Scenarios A, B or C above.

 

It was different when we were much younger back home.  We always associated being white with God (the ubiquitous pictures of the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary made sure of that), visiting priests and nuns (pedophilia was a word far far away from anyone’s lexicon) and of course, our beloved police detectives, superheroes and entertainers on TV and radio.  Being white was not only superior, it was on a totally different plane of existence for most of us.  Even in Makati, Cubao and (shudder!) Divisoria in the 1970s being white guaranteed that your little brown (and yellow) brothers and sisters would stop and gawk at you, as if to say si Jerry West (or Larry Bird) ganyan pala ang hitsura or nakakasilaw ang Marilyn Monroe (Farrah Fawcett).  And who could blame us for thinking so?

 

Do you sometimes agree that not only individuals, but a people or community of persons may mature and evolve in their view of others?  We have the audacity to say such because at home it is no longer uncommon to hear word-of-mouth, common wisdom, op-ed pages pooh-pooh whatever previous generations thought of as pre-packaged Anglo-Saxon, American or even European superiority which, fairly or unfairly, characterize our perceptions of the White Man.  It has even become the fashion to debunk First World-oriented ways of looking at things, a perspective which no doubt has been associated with white devils, or what the statesman Blas Ople famously called, at the Manila Hotel lobby to their faces you white monkeys.

 

                    **                     **                    **                    **

 

Two more observations : We don’t want to Google it right now, but Eleanor Roosevelt, who as a First Lady was certainly ahead of her time, said it all: No one can humiliate me (or make me feel inferior in some versions) without my consent.  While this certainly makes sense, it’s the rest of the world that we’re sometimes concerned with, especially if the offending material reaches more than a few eyes or ears but which seems to be directed to us.  While most Filipinos (and Asians for that matter) have the self-respect, composure and elegance to breeze by the most pointed undereducated barbs and redneck rubbish thrown our way, it’s how others perceive the way we react to it that is sometimes cause for concern.  And of course, the bandwagon and domino effect that it unfortunately generates.

 

This is why to our humble mind, it always makes good practical sense to raise a hoot whenever there is a slight (no matter how slight, heh heh pun intended) however inadvertently, directed to people of our color and culture.  Not for any other reason (e.g., that it’s because we are famously K.S.P.) but so that it’s for the record (emails, public statements etc), to remove any future uncertainty on how we perceive it, as well as for the later generations not only in our particular community but in other similar communities.

 

We promised a second anecdote.  On our first day in our present workplace a year-and-a- half ago, our manager startled us with a slightly emotional pep talk :

 

We will always be second class citizens here.  Not just HERE in the mill, but in this country.  You and I know that.  But let’s use this to become better workers, because our skin will not allow us to be just as good as them.  We have to become better, and not just better, but a lot better than our colleagues and workmates.  Anything less and they see not a lesser workmate, or an inferior level of work, but brown skin, smaller eyes, or your cheeky off the boat accent . . .

 

Needless to say, our boss was / is a non-white, a Sri Lankan, probably the only one in his level in this First World country.

 

He had been here for the last 20 years, and yet feels the same way as he did in 1988, when he first arrived.  Is he with the minority, or the majority, of our kind?  is the question we cannot answer.

 

                   **                    **                    **                    **                     **

 

This is ironically all so unfair to the White Man, but like everything else in Life, is the way things are, and the way things will always be.

 

Thanks for sharing your time with us.

 

Your Loyal Batchmate / Your Loyal Kabayan

NOel

Indianero Jones & The Greatest of the English Crusades

( originally written 10th October 2009 ) 

Dear batchmates, schoolmates, kabayan and officemates :

 

IN A WAY PROBABLY not anticipated by its original users, the English language has filtered down into every nook and cranny of this 3rd Rock From The Sun.

 

At the Foodcourt with our Cryptic Crossword, NYTimes Crossword & Sudoku (& other assorted timewasters) we see Brazilian and Argentine amigos (Spanish vs Portuguese speakers) sharing bread but not nearly a common tongue; hear Slovenians, Croatians, Bosnians & Montenegrin, chattering about muffins, tea and the Adriatic coast (a feature all 4 nations share), but not in their respective languages; and finally, wrapped in a sickly-sweet PDA (public display of affection), isang magsyotang singkit na Tsino at Hapon, who genetically geographically and historically are closer than kissing cousins, even share more than a few cultural markers (calligraphy, religion, rosy-white makeup prized throughout history) but can’t understand each other’s dialect . . .

 

Guess how all these strange bedfellows communicate with each other?

 

It’s not just an overseas phenomenon : When we see an Ilocano, Ifugao, Ibanag and Igorot together (this is not the start of a joke ha) the usual currency of palaver is Ilokano, but only because the other ethnic groups grudgingly accept the first-among-equals status of the former.  Otherwise the common language is ang wikang Ingles.

 

And some of the best exchanges back home can be heard among Cebuanos, Ilonggos, Chabacanos and Kinaray-a’s who speed up the conversation among themselves by just speaking a common medium. We’ll give you just one guess as to what it is, and today’s clue : it’s NOT Tagalog.

 

Given the reach and completeness of the Queen’s English, which was hurled across the horizon of history with the (naval) advance of the British Empire, extended with trade and mass media via the United States of Obama and broadened beyond the broad spectrum of consciousness via the World Wide Web, it’s no big surprise that English is probably the
one voice among our Babel of tongues that can be heard, understood and responded to in every country anywhere on Earth (just like Visa or MasterCard? ).

 

The runners-up presented formidable opposition but in the end fell just a tad short : Chinese-Mandarin, although aided by the clever Pinyin system, doesn’t have the support of the Roman Alphabet for easy conversion, and Spanish, while it enjoys the benefit of the common alphabet used by the Indo-European family of languages,and widespread use across 4 continents around the globe, does not have the universality and facility of use in both speech and text that English possesses.

 

Whereas before English speakers demanded as a threshold requirement to communication the condition of non-native speakers (those who weren’t born to it) knowing and speaking  the language the way only they do, these days a kinder, gentler English ear demands only that we know the rudiments of the language and are able to express ourselves in a basic and practical fashion.

 

Witness the way Manny Pacquiao captured the hearts of US media right after the Hatton fight, when he won them over with just a few English sentences : gud ibning ibribadi, hop ibriwan had a gud time, just doing my jab guys (left or right? ) en nating personal. (YouTube search : Manny Pacquiao vs Ricky Hatton Post Fight Conference)

 

In fact, it is now a badge of reverse chic to speak the lingua franca in our charming little accent without regard to proper treatment of sibilants and plosives as well as the “proper” schwa or rounding out of various vowel sounds.

 

It has also been conceded by many in the literary world that both British & American “native” writers no longer hold the monopoly of being the best writers in English, as proven by wordsmiths like Salman Rushdie, V.I. Naipaul and Haruki Murakami.

 

Just like the hard currency of gold and commodities, the universal medium of communication has been democratized, socialized and even subsidized.  Anything short of that, and chaos reigns.

 

                   **          **          **

 

Does anyone remember the various English Campaigns all throughout our elementary years, using a combination of approaches to mold us into obedient little English speakers : one peso per word of non-English spoken; secret marshalls to check those wayward Taglish rebels (yes, everyone spying on everyone else), and stars to the perfect English champions ?

 

Well, we first bristled like indignant thoroughbreds bucking our riders. Taglish forever, we said, encouraging our Fukien brothers and sisters as well, and whoever needed to speak pure English anyway ?  Not Dr Jose Rizal, not Dolphy, NOT Erap, and certainly not Bruce Lee.

 

Gradually though, we realized the long term value of maintaining the fluidity of our English, of making believe, and finally believing, that we could speak with the best of the world when it came to English.  THIS was the true success of the English Crusades.

 

                   **          **          **

 

Long before we admitted such status to our kids, their keen perceptiveness and pure intuitive powers discerned it : we were by far the underachieving brown sheep (wag naman black) among our siblings: this was to be the intergenerational chip on their shoulders that burdened them not only before the eyes of their better-dressed cousins, but also before the stoic eyes of their grandparents, our ageless evaluators.

 

We rationalized the situation, taking advantage of their (thankfully) sharp minds and big heart : true, you may not enjoy their advantages and their sophistication.  But master the skill of articulating yourselves, preferably in English, and you can keep up with them toe-to-toe, neck-and-neck and make the best of your situation.

 

This was how we learned that of the great motivators, Pride hath no peer.  Nicole not only sought self-improvement via speaking and listening English, she also tried her hand at basic Mandarin via Meteor Garden and F4, no mean feat for someone who never attended Hogwarts or any other Chinese school. (We admit this impressed the pants off a lot of dad’s relatives )

 

Brent took the time to better himself with English not just through self-help language websites, but also pored through his Ate’s College English textbook.  We were humbled by their effort, paying off as it did these days with them holding their own against our Xavierian nephews back home and Kiwi nieces from the other side of the fence.

 

Whatever school and from whichever background they hail, it would be hard for any parent not to be proud of children like these.

 

English-wise, though, we will always be partial : Hogwarts pa rin.

 

Thanks for sharing your time and thanks for the memories.

 

Your Loyal Batchmate / Schoolmate / Kabayan / Officemate
NOel

R – a – C – i – S – t – S & r – A – c – I – s – M (rong ispeling iz rong)

(originally written 1st August 2009)

 

( Note from Your Loyal Batchmate / Schoolmate / Kabayan : We know everyone else can spell, just that the extra two or three seconds might just give us enough lead time to sprint away from the lynch mob . . . )

 

Dear batchmates , schoolmates and kabayan :

 

We had another of those rare “First World” moments earlier today, which we can’t help but share with you, dear batchmate / schoolmate / kabayan . . .

 

We were just walking and minding our own business, trying to memorize Pinoy Ako by Orange and Lemons (how poetically ironic) from the rusty MP3 hooked on our sinturero when a squad car hugged the curb and a policewoman stepped out. We kid you not, she looked and walked like ANNE HATHAWAY .  Well, a willowy version of Sen. Pia Cayetano (as if the latter wasn’t willowy enough), but you know how the picture looked, coz that’s how she LOOKED, as pretty as one. 

 

She very politely asked us to open her car door and sit inside, explain to us the situation asap she would, as soon as we were in the car.  In those few seconds scores of images raced through our mind, from hulidap situations back home, to the recent “arrest seen around the world” made in Virginia on a black, we mean African American friend of Manong Obama, and lots more in between… but being the compliant, Confucian Asian that we were (read: subservient to authority) we meekly entered the squad car… besides, she just filled our RDI (recommended daily intake) of eye candy…

 

Turns out that there was an attack dog on the loose, chasing down a “felony suspect” (read: a nogoodnick) doing a “runner”… evidently the K-9 agent did not distinguish between bida and contrabida pedestrians… what she was preventing daw was the creature mistakenly confronting me and taking me down, something I found mildly amusing, since we were the only pedestrian and, as far as the eye could see, there was no one else (that’s common, in this birth-rate anemic country)

 

While her explanation was more or less credible, we heard on her police radio a description of the fugitive: Maori, 180 cm , at least 80kg, dark and curly hair, and a gold band on his lobe. Hmmm, not that we weren’t appreciative of her concern for us, but profile – wise, we don’t think a TRAINED DOG could make a mistake distinguishing the runner for us, ditto with its handler who we assumed was close on its heels (do dogs have heels?)

 

And was it just us or did the Devil Wears Prada wannabe just cross check my specs ( Asian, slight build, 165 cm, 65kg, straight hair )  with the runner’s ? The description squawked over the radio coinciding with my entry seemed a tad too, hmm… coincidental. 

 

Although we are a turo-turo of races and cultures back home, we are a largely homogenous lot, predating what a comic sees as a “mocha” race where everybody is eventually molded into an ochre or color-neutral scheme.  In the First World, where strangely enough, the white man dominates (quick: give me a developed nation where whites don’t dominate, not counting China or Japan) , colors tints and hues are mostly distinct and have historically served to polarize attitudes, emotions and long-held beliefs for or against the possessors of those skin colors.

 

We know there’s enough paranoia running around, but can we blame ourselves if beloved brothers and sisters of the brown and yellow races (that’s just about everyone who isn’t white, except of course our black brothas, who have their own beef with the White Man) look askance and over their shoulder everytime persons in authority run around with lights blazing and alarms wailing?  Too much bad karma floating around, whereever are the Karma Police when you need them ?

 

                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *

 

A previous similar moment : we weren’t settled in our present haunts but already trying out our migrant’s legs on this water logged kingdom.  As was our habit, whenever the free time allowed and the inhospitable rain took a siesta, we ran around the block in shirt + sweater + windbreaker together with 2 jogging pants, lahat na. One occasion, a station wagon sped by but not before one of the passengers slingshot a tape cartridge (one of those 80s tapes that preceded the CD)  at our sweaty head, we caught a slight whiff of alcohol before the decrepit car zoomed into the horizon.  Cluelessly, we picked up the scratchy case and sure enough,  Taiwanese artists ( very reminiscent of F4 / Meteor Garden ) were on the jacket.

 

Had we the chutzpah, we would have shouted, hoy you anak araw gang of Caucasians, my Lolo was from Canton and married a Navotas Mestiza, while my other Granddad was from Xiamen and wed a Bicolana lass, intiendes? But an Asian Sixth Sense told us it was futile to do so, white is white, yellow is yellow and brown is brown, as far as their myopic blue eyes can tell…

 

                    *                    *                    *                    *                    *

 

Last na ‘to; a third similar moment: At work, there is one particular person who, whether or not he can help it, speaks just a few decibels louder to our face (as if trying to make us understand him better), loses just a sliver of impatience with us sooner than with everyone else, and finds a little more fault with our work whenever we happen to share a shift with him.  Of course we will never have the kind of empirical evidence to back up these observations with, but you get my meaning . . .

 

Nothing, and we mean NOTHING could make him waver in this belief that he was doing everything according to Hoyle, that he was only doing this for our own good (we were the junior and he of course was the senior in-charge) until someone, just for kicks, let loose, in reference to him, the “R” word. (for reference, pls see email title).  Guess who did the 180 degree turn, radically changed his way of talking, assessing and tolerating us the day after? Amazing what a emotionally charged word like that will do to a work situation.

 

Cause for all we knew, he was just an obnoxious jerk who never gets along with people (he was quite an unpopular specimen at work), but here was a case of the R word working in the yellow/brown man’s favor, sort of a reverse favoritism drama:  Raise the racist bogey / alarm and the candidate goes the other extreme, bends over backwards just to show he’s not what you think he is.  And you end up never knowing (wink-wink)  

 

Like many social phenomena, you never know how real it is till you experience it first – hand, and in these three instances we felt it flush on the face, realizing with bloodied nose what the Clash of Civilizations / Clash of Races truly means…

 

                   *                   *                    *                    *                    *

 

The worst part of racism is when we begin to apologize for ourselves, when we actually believe in the worldview that racial prejudice espouses, where by the color of your skin , color of your eyes and slant & fold of your eyelids you become apart, adrift, and inferior to whoever are deemed the so-called elite.

 

We mourn the day this ever happens.

 

Thanks for sharing your time with us.

NOel