Quote of the Week

Source

“Even
After
All this time
The Sun never says to the Earth,

"You owe me."

                                      Hafiz

30 Day Challenge, Day 9: Something that you're proud of in the past few days

I've always been proud of my momma, but these days I am absolutely beaming with pride. See, her childhood dream had always been to teach little kids. She was actually a teacher, but then I was born and my da told her to stay at home to raise me. She never stopped teaching, though. She was my first teacher, after all. She taught me how to read and write by the time I was three years old, and was the reason why I tested into first grade level when I was in kindergarten. (Momma decided against letting me skip grades; she wanted me to be with kids my own age.) 


Anyway. She's back in school now, starting over with the end goal of getting a Master's in Education. Momma's retired now, and instead of spending her retirement playing golf or singing karaoke all day, she's hitting the books. She's doing really well, too; her grades are in the B+/A- range!

Post Secret Sunday: Knowing

Source

While my momma began and ended each day with an "I love you, baby!" punctuated with hugs and kisses, proof of my da's love came in the form of books, magazines, and puzzles. He worked for the government and was away for most of the year. He always began his letters with "My Darling Wife and Daughter" and signed off with "All My Love, Ronald" but other than that, "I love you" didn't flow easily from his lips. Growing up, I felt like being a husband and father were second only to his love for the United States.

Oh, I knew he loved us. I could feel it deep down. But when you're a kid who's constantly teased about "not really having a dad," every missed birthday and forgotten holiday begin to pile up as evidence that the love set aside for you isn't enough.

After my da's funeral, a friend of his from work walked up to me and told me how much I looked like my da, but with my mom's darker eyes. He said that my da was always talking about me, about how proud he was that even as a young girl, I showed strong convictions. "Nobody's robot," he said. "My daughter will bow down to no man!"

Da's friend began to walk away, but stopped to say, "I'm honoured to have seen you grow up in pictures and photos." He must've seen the confused look on my face because he explained, "Ron's desk was filled with pictures of you growing up. He even framed some of your letters, little poems, and drawings, and put them on the wall."

I never knew he did that. Never knew he kept my scribbles and finger painting experiments.

But now I know.

I know just how much he loved me in his own way.  

Because no other word could convey "love" as powerfully as "mom"

My Momma's Eyes

The adage goes, “Behind every successful man is a strong woman.” Seeing as I myself am a woman, I would like to re-word that and say, “Beside every strong woman is an equally strong woman.” Luckily for me, God was being benevolent when He assigned children to mothers the day I was born: He sent me to my mom. 


Like most little girls, I fell for the Disney fairy tale version of love: singing birds, red roses, declarations of undying love whilst sitting on a magic carpet. But in 2001, all that changed when my dad had a cerebral aneurysm that led to a stroke. He was in a permanent vegetative state—much like Teri Schiavo—for almost two years. My mom stayed at the hospital—and later the skilled nursing facility—every single day, from the time visiting hours began until the staff politely yet unyieldingly told her to leave and “get some rest.." Without words, she stripped me of my love-as-a-Disney-fairytale blinders about love and showed me its meaning, its essence: love is the overlooked, small details in life—as simple as brushing bangs from a sweaty forehead—that when added up, create a lifetime of memories that transcend death. My mom loved my dad and saw him, not the bed sores, gaunt face, or the tracheotomy and feeding tubes. In his frail hands that she held in her own, mom felt the strength of a man who was her first date, first kiss, first love, first everything. And because so much of life is created from memories and my dad no longer had them, she whispered a re-written version of the vows she made years ago: “I will love, honour, and cherish you for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, even if death do us part.”

My mom also taught me about worth, and of sacrifice, too. After my dad passed away, we hit a rough patch financially. We were  born into privilege, sheltered, and were always taken care of. But that was then, and mom understood our new reality. My mom went from being a housewife and a mother with a degree in teaching, to a minimum wage worker. She’s intelligent enough and has the education, but unfortunately so many in society judge other people’s abilities superficially. My mom’s accent has been a hindrance in other people seeing past the ethnicity to get to her capabilities.

It’s not just from strangers that my mom had to assert her worth. My mom bore the brunt of insults from my dad’s family, as well as faced ridicule from her own sister, who scoffed at her minimum-wage employment and told her that she shouldn’t reach for the skies by sending me to college. And yet even at the face of this indignity, my mom held her head defiantly and told naysayers, “My daughter has the brains and she can do it. I believe in her. I know her worth.”

“I know her worth.”

I think it’s ironic, actually, because sometimes I wonder if my mom knows just how beautiful and strong she is...how worthy she is. I know it’s difficult for her to remember how we used to be, and to watch other people live out her dreams—teaching. Because of her sacrifice and because her eyes are a daily expression of her faith in me, I am a strong woman who believes that the word “impossible” should only exist in theory, but not reality. I have learned that though society is a collective, it is not an accurate judge of a person’s strength, beauty, or worth. Both can only come from within, and is most truthful when viewed through the lens of love. And wouldn’t you know it? With my mom, I can see crystal clear.

Bailamos!

There are many things to which I am immune--Brad Pitt's charms, for instance--but a pair of dark brown almond eyes attached to a curly-headed  woman certainly ain't one of 'em. All my momma has to do is bat her eyes and I melt faster than a popcicle in a Naw'leans summer. She knows this, which is precisely the reason why she's one (justifiably) spoiled momma. Least I can do, especially since she let me chill out in her womb for nine months and one week.

Anyhoo...These puppy eyes are the reason why, on an otherwise normal Saturday night, I found myself in a throng of 50-and-over people with hair Aquanetted to viking-helmet-meets-Imierda-Marcos absurdity. Quite an architectural marvel, really. My eyeballs were then treated to the delightful  gyrations of hips to the sounds of people who died long before I learned how to leave presents in my nappies. Y'all, never in my life have I seen such a vast array of sequined dresses outside a drag queen fashion convention or an arts and craft store. Add in the shoulder pads and it's a tribute to Falcon Crest, Dynasty, and Knots Landing. I halfway expected Joan von Ark and Joan Collins to storm in and engage in an all out cat fight. 

Likewise, I was amused to discover that while teenaged boys corner the market on hair gel, older gentlemen collectively keep the pomade business afloat. Even saw a couple of cheestastic Ace Ventura 'dos ;o). Ain't no recession for Alberto VO5, siree. And the cologne! Y'all, not even those charming Gulf Arabs are as enthusiastic with their dousing in Poison, Obsession, Drakkar Noir, Old Spice, or whatever discontinued/soon-to-be-discontinued bottled scent the members of the young at heart posse prefer.

Then there's the energy level.

They put me--a twenty-something, naturally peppy chick--to shame with their boundless grace on the dance floor. Samba, mambo, cha-cha, paso doble, tango...they did 'em all. Twists, lifts, jumps, shimmies, sways...They just kept getting grander and more dramatic as the hours wore on. Forget the raggaeton grinders or the scantily clad celebs on Dancing with the Stars; this is where the passion and the fun abound in limitless supply.Energizer bunnies, I tell ya!

Gratitude

I am THANKFUL for: 

My Momma, who is the greatest love in my life. Seriously, I think Unehana/God was really being awesome the day S/He assigned mommas to kiddies; S/He gave me to her ;o) Can there ever be a love so visceral and so selfless than the one a mother has for her child? She may not agree with how I'm putting graduate school on hold to move to Turkey, but she understands that I need to find myself first. When all's been said and done, my momma is one of my best friends and I love her more than life itself. 

JC and RS, my soul mates. Calling them 'best friends' or 'sisters' seems so shallow, because they're so much more that that. They're the type of friends you can call at 3 A.M. or 3 P.M. and would go to bat for you when someone says an unkind word to/at you. They are fellow humanitarians--kind, generous, loving, strong--and through their deeds, renews my faith in the goodness of man.

BG, my best guy friend / Irish brotha ;o) He's the only man I would go into a fight for, if ever some woman broke his heart. He's a 3rd degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do and breaks bricks for fun, but he's also the gentlest man I know. With him, I feel 100% safe, because I know nothing could ever hurt me while he's around.  

My Native Ancestors, who taught me that we are not owners of the land, but rather, its stewards. I am grateful that even though policies have been enacted to rid AmerIndians and Hawaiians of our lands, language, cultures, religions, traditions, and lives, WE ARE STILL HERE. Man-made policies and tyrants may attempt to take away our freedom, but never take away our dignity and humanity. Nunna daul isunyi--The Trail Where We Cried--is THE PATH WHERE WE PERSEVERE. 

Being an American. Although it has its inequities and  I do not completely agree with my country's policies on war, immigration, and the current healthcare system, I am blessed to be a citizen of a country that is truly a global salad. The U.S.A. is not a Melting Pot, because that would imply that all the ingredients have to meld and lose their individual flavours in order to become a dish with one distinct taste. No, my country is a salad that allows individuals to retain their individual flavours and colours, while being a part of a unified dish. 

Having graduated from an awesome university (and currently 'taking some time off from graduate school'). Education is a luxury that some--if not most--people could only dream about. 

The fact that I am moving to Istanbul in a month! After a major postponement for a pesky health issue, it's finally happening ;o) Maybe I'll love it there or maybe I'll hate it, but this is an adventure I cannot wait to take. Life is an exploration, evet? 

The fact that I am NOT a Turkey 

 BEING ALIVE 

Hospital Scene 2002

Standing by the window

I could see the city lights in the distance

Cars of various shapes and sizes line the streets

There are people down below,

Laughing and carrying on without a care in the world

I step away from the window

And I turn around

My da's lying on the hospital bed

Still as can be

A machine breathes for him

A tube through his stomach gives him food

The room is stark cold, and I shiver

But my mum doesn't even notice

Her eyes are glued to the heart monitor

Some people in lab coats come

To take his blood sugar, they say

I ask them about his glucose levels

And they say, "He's okay"

"No!" I want to scream

I want to chase them in the hallway and yell

Make them see

How can my da be okay

When they say he can't ever breathe on his own?

When they say he won't ever speak?

When they say he won't ever walk?

"No, he's not okay!" was what I wanted to scream

But I just stood there

Quietly watching their retreating backs

I walk back to the window

And look below

I used to be one of those carefree people

Milling about in the streets

And now I'm up here

So close, but so far

Go figure

Unfinished Song

I recently decided to take down some of my earlier writings online and came across one of my old fanfiction accounts (yes, under one of my pseudonyms I wrote my fair share of Power Rangers fanfic…down with Kat! Tommy-Kimberly forever!). I’d forgotten about “To Where Angels Dare Fly,” which was a song I wrote after my da passed away. It was intended to be a duet between a Mezzo Soprano and a Baritone, and though at that time i could hear the melody in my head, I never got around to finishing it. It’s cheesy, but then again, my writing tends to lean on the cheesy with extra cheese side! In any case, here it is, complete with the original author’s note:


Author’s Note: This is one of those lyrics that sort of wrote itself. It came to me in my dreams, almost a year ago. In 2000, my dad had a premonition. After we came home back to the US after my debutante ball, he told me that in his gut he knew that that was the last time he’d ever travel out of the country. A few months later, he had a stroke, and after a lengthy battle, passed away. The song was written through my mom’s and da’s points of view, with a little bit of mine sprinkled in here and there. I have a hard time telling people that I love them, and I reckon that in my adolescence I never told my da that I loved him. I believe it’s the things and words left unsaid and undone that you regret the most in retrospect.


Author’s Note, Part 2: “Mezzo Soprano” indicates the verses sung by the woman, while “Baritone” indicates masculine verses. Being a huge fan of opera, this was written as an aria. Opera; another thing I inherited from Da. Now I cling to it even tighter, knowing that it is one of the things we share in common, knowing that it is one of the ways I feel closer to him somehow.





Mezzo Soprano:

There is a feeling

That burns deep inside me

Haunting me with goodbyes unsaid

I shiver in the cold

As we walk hand in hand

Down that sidewalk street

Slowly you slip away

From within my grasp


Baritone:

I have lived my life

Through Heaven’s borrowed time

Desperately am I holding on

Solely for you to know

You are my other half

And I have loved you

Oh, since before even

Forever and time


Baritone:

But now I must leave.


Mezzo Soprano:

Love, why must you go?


Chorus:
To where angels dare fly

Where they dare breathe

Soar free in eternal sky

Slip away from the shackles and chains

Of this earth


Once upon a lifetime

In a long forgotten dream

Angels used to cry

Tears streaked their rosy cheeks

As they drifted off to sleep

Now they are free

Free to live, free to love

Where angels dare fly



Mezzo Soprano:

Oh, please

Won’t you stay the night?

Let this morning pass


Baritone:

I pray, thee God

For one last embrace

Just to hear her voice


Mezzo Soprano:

Oh, how can this be

That you’re no longer here?

I have felt you caress my face

Then morning came



Baritone:

My love, don’t let go

Please finish this dream

In there I’ll hold you

Until the morning comes


Mezzo Soprano:

Please take me with you now


Baritone:

But alone I must go


Chorus
Mezzo Soprano:

Is forever just a word?

A promise left unkept?


Baritone:

Forever is a promise

A love that never ends

Baritone:

Look into the skies, I am smiling at you


Mezzo Soprano:

I can feel you watching from up above



Chorus:

Where angels dare fly

Our love won’t ever end

For angels dare fly

Forever is a promise

Where angels dare fly

Where they dare breathe

Where they love

Until the end of time

Forever won’t be just a dream

But a promise kept

Where angels dare fly

Momma's Girl

I’ve been in love twice before, and though I am a heterosexual female, the greatest love in my life is a woman. As much as I swoon over the honorable Prince Hector of Troy and as much as the intelligence of a man still takes my breath away, my momma is the breath in my lungs. No other love could be this visceral, this irrevocably unconditional or selflessly enduring. 

This curly-haired, fair-skinned, five-foot-even, Spanish-Chinese-Tsalagi (Cherokee)-Pinay is my safe shelter from life’s raging thunderstorms. She is the steady whisper of hope in a life filled with the din of trials. She is the kiss on the forehead and a lullaby goodnight in an insomniac dawn. She carried me in her womb for nine months (and the extra week I stayed, just chillin’ in her uterus), held me to her chest and hummed me to sleep as a baby, and to this day, gives me hugs for no reason other than love. After my da died, I’ve seen her cry herself to sleep over hurtful words uttered by my da’s side of the family. It wasn’t just da, our stocks, or savings that we lost. Some friends and family, too, because there are those who equate worth with bank account balances. Once a sheltered and privileged housewife, momma took two minimum wage jobs and swallowed insults from people—including her sister—about how the mighty had fallen, and how “degrading” it is to be an educated woman working for an hourly wage. Although I put myself through university with scholarships, it is because of my momma that I graduated. It may be my name on the diploma, but it is rightfully hers. She is the reason why, although I find most ceremonies boring, I sat in the morning summer sun one June day listening to speeches and in the afternoon, gave a speech of my own. It was--always is--for her. 

Love

Anna and the Blind Tobit, Rembrandt

Despite the fact that the room is swathed in darkness, and that the only source of light comes from the window, AND that Tobit is blind, I believe that Tobit can see the light, not just the darkness. I’d like to think that he can feel the warmth of the sun tickling his neck. The fact that the side of Anna’s face that’s directly hit by the sun is also the side nearest Tobit…well, wouldn’t that imply that they still choose to see that small patch of light—of goodness—in the midst of darkness?

I look at Anna and the Blind Tobit, and I see love. Hope. Oh, not the Hallmark type with three dozen roses, 4.5 Ascher-cut diamond rings, and horse-drawn carriages, butterflies, fairy tale Disney kind of love. I’m talking about real love. The kind of love where you cry, disagree about politics, frustrate each other…but also laugh, compromise, inspire, and stand by each other. The kind of love where the man puts down his shield and allows himself to cry on his lady’s shoulders. The kind of love where a woman feels most beautiful in her man’s oversized flannel shirt than in a slinky dress and fierce heels. The kind of love where forever is a word whispered on the deathbed, and not against the backdrop of violins and sunsets.

That kind of love.

And you know, I was lucky enough to have caught a glimpse of Anna and the Blind Tobit in real life. From February 2001 to November 2002, in fact. From when my da had a stroke until he died. Mom held da’s hand and whispered to him softly. Mom was there at the hospital and at the skilled nursing home every single day, from the time they opened til whenever they politely asked her to “get some rest”. She loved him, flaws and all. Loves him still. Da was her first everything, and so far, her only everything. I once asked her, you know, about three years after da passed away, “Why don’t you find someone else? You’re beautiful, and you’re young.” Mom just looked at me with those dark brown eyes of hers and smiled, “When I married your daddy, I promised to love, honour, and cherish him, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, even if death do us part.”

So, yeah…What is love? Well, I may not have enough words to capture it, but I have an image.

Anna and the Blind Tobit.