Red is still the colour of a soldier's blood

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The way I see it, red is always the colour of soldiers' blood, no matter their sexual preference. Does homosexuality diminish one's heroism or taint one's sacrifice? Of course it doesn't. 

Those who serve our country deserve to hold their heads up high, the way they uphold our flag and constitution in times of peace and war. 

Soldiers fight for us, and we should fight for them.


That's all.  

White Sandy Beach of Hawai'i, Braddah Iz

Once You Label Me, You Negate Me: A Requiem for Larry King

Society declares the others out of those who they neither understand nor able to neatly fill the ideals set forth as norms. The demarcation of social constructs render the other as devoid of worth. The moment that a living, breathing, human being is relegated to caricature or stereotypical othering, it then becomes much easier to commit and justify atrocious acts to our fellow man. 

His name was Larry king, and he was a boy who just happened to discover his true self at the age ten, and had the convictions and courage to refuse to live a lie. He was unapologetically gay, and like many teenagers who have to wear school uniforms, Larry asserted his individuality by wearing make-up, jewelry, and high-heeled boots. 

Unfortunately, this annoying little social construct called gender roles dictated that Larry and his choices were wrong. That he chose to be true to himself was a concept that made a lot of people uncomfortable. On February 12, 2008, Brandon McInerney's discomfort at his classmate's so-called otherness led him to bring a gun to school. While inside English class, he did an atrocious, cowardly act: he shot Larry in the back of the head. Larry was rushed to the hospital, but was pronounced dead less than 24 hours later. Just as bravely as he stood up for his choices in life, in death Larry did one final good deed: he donated his organs. 

Brandon McInerney should be held accountable for his actions, but in the end, he is just one person. He could be sent to jail for the rest of his life, but sadly, there will be another person just like him, pulling triggers. We can rehabilitate people one at a time, but unless we challenge and actively exhaust all means to change the system of othering, then more Larry Kings will be slain. It is othering that needs to die. 

Rest in peace, Larry. 

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.

Hapa, "Redemption Song"

Originally sung by Bob Marley, this rendition of Redemption Song by the Hawaiian group Hapa is one of the songs I turn to whenever I need re-affirmation that there is goodness in the world. 99.999% of the time, it is not too late. There is redemption.

I admit; sometimes I can be so rararara speak out! that I sometimes forget that a whisper can be just as powerful as a scream. Sometimes it's the little details that make the most profound difference, rather than a huge act. A whisper can resonate the loudest across the vast expanse of the world and a pebble can produce the most enduring ripple as long as they are constant.

That being said, there is something so powerful whenever I hear a chant or a song from my ancestral tongues. Power. Mana, it is called in Hawaiian. Incidentally, Mana in Tagalog means inheritance. So in the words of my Hawaiian and Pinoy ancestors, Mana is a power that is inherited, passed on from a proud people whose cultures and traditions can never be vanished.

Sometimes I do worry, though, that someday my ancestral tongues will cease to exist. We had been silenced before  by missionaries and conquerors who told us our Native ways were savage. They used God as a justification for silencing our tongues, our songs, our chants, our identity. But they couldn't succeed, because Mana is not created by man and therefore cannot be taken away by man. And so we still speak, though not as loudly as we had before the time of James Cook.

What worries me is that there are some in my generation who think that modernity and progress means letting go of Nativeness, that in order to fly one must abandon roots. I am an American in my home country and yet in here, I hunger for the sound of Hawaiian, Tsalagi/Cherokee, and Maori tongues. I yearn for Bisayan and Tagalog that are not peppered with English words; bastardized BisLish and TagLish have become somewhat of a new status symbol that separates the elites from the non-elites. I long to hear pride and survival with each syllable spoken from my ancestral tongues.

Is that too naïve, too idealistic? Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but it is my truth.  


 

Queen Lili'uokalani, "He Mele Lāhui Hawai'i" (The Song of the Hawaiian Nation)*

Ka Makua mana loa   

Almighty Father bend your ear

Maliu mai iā mākou

And listen to a nation's prayer

E hāliu aku nei

That lowly bows before your throne

Me ka naʻau haʻahaʻa

And seeks your protective care

E mau ka maluhia

Grant your peace throughout the land

O nei pae ʻāina

Over these sunny islands 

Mai Hawaiʻi a Niʻihau

Keep the nation's life, oh Lord,

Ma lalo o kou malu

And on our sovereign smile

E mau ke ea o ka ʻāina

Grant your peace throughout the land

Ma kou pono mau

Over these sunny islands

A ma kou mana nui

Keep the nation's life, oh Lord

E ola e ola ka mōʻī

And upon our sovereign smile

E ka haku mālama mai  

Guard him with your gentle care

I ko mākou nei mōʻī

Give him long years to reign

E mau kona noho ʻana

On the throne his (fore)fathers won

Maluna o ka noho aliʻi

Bless the nation once again

Hāʻawi mai i ke aloha

Give the king your loving grace

Maloko a kona naʻau

And with wisdom from high (above) 

A ma kou ahonui

Prosperous lead his people on

E ola e ola ka mōʻī

As beneath your watchful eye

Hoʻoho e mau ke

Grant your peace throughout the land

Ma lalo o kou aloha nui

Bless o Lord our country's chiefs

Nā Liʻi o ke Aupuni

Grant them wisdom in order to live

Me nā makaʻāinana

So that our people may be saved

Ka lehulehu nō a pau

And to You the glory give

Kiaʻi mai iā lākou

Watch over us each day

Me ke aloha ahonui

King and people with your love

E ola nō mākou

For our hope is all in You

I kou mana mau

Bless us, You who reign above

E mau ke ea

Grant your peace throughout the land

*I tried my best to do a  verbatim Hawaiian-English translation, and did it in a way so as not to lose its original essence. As most linguists or translators know, there are some words/sayings that are difficult to translate or convey into another language, and a delicate balance between meaning and definition must be found. 

Ode to My Shadowgroom

Cerulean--you--I have loved before time
With all its temperate, indifferent instability wrought uncertainty
To certainty beguiled.

'Twas you--eyes of beryl seas--gazed upon me 
Refulgent, wrapped with manacled pulchritude
Aforetime driftless fate awashed you in clouded doubts.

Indigo, you, I have loved vanward dolorous airs
Wrought barriers impermeable--
Salves to wounds unseen.


Infinity sets free--images fade, tinged with yellowed age.
Yesterdays filled with you, distinct.
Turquoise, I close my eyes---

The eternal blaze of a never-setting sun. 

Saudade...

…is a Galician and Portuguese word that is used to describe longing for something or someone that you used to have, but is now lost. It is an enduring love of sorts, a remembrance of what once was. Growing up as a budding linguist, “saudade” was this romantic thing to me; pining and longing were the stuff from which little girls’ fairy tales were made of. You see, I used to be believe that inherent in the word “loss” was the implication that what was lost could easily be found or replaced. Happily ever afters were something I firmly believed in, and good ole Disney just reinforced this belief.

Now I know better.

There is nothing remotely fairy tale-ish about saudade, for it is firmly rooted in real life. To feel saudade—to experience it—is to have joy, sadness, triumph, defeat, hope, despair, ecstacy, sorrow, etc all at the same time. More often than not, it does not lead to a happy ending. “Tenho saudades tuas.” Now I know the true meaning of loss; it’s the realization, day after day, that what you lost can never be replaced.

Beyond Paradise Hawai'i

There are many people who spend all of their lives in Hawai’i, and I used to pity them, convinced that they just didn’t know any better…that these paradise islands somehow enthralled them to the point of blindness and ignorance. Imprisoned them, somewhat. Stunted their growth. “How could you love something so much and never want to leave, if it’s all you’ve ever known? If you haven’t experienced what the world has to offer?” Those were the questions that I asked. So despite my love of Hawai’i, despite the fact that I have roots there, I chose my wings. Chose to fly away. I was proud of my restlessness, my curiousity, my wanderlust.

Now that I am in my twenties, I wonder if this restlessness within me is in fact, a prison. I always found home in people—my momma, my da’s memories, my best friends—but never in a place. Despite setting down roots and having pieces of me in wherever place I live, I never really allowed these roots to embed deeper into the soil. I have yet to be a redwood or a koa. Never really left an intangible mark. Left my heart, yes, but never my soul. So maybe these people I used to pity? What if they are the lucky ones?

Momma

I see the laugh lines and crow’s feet that tell the story of 52 years of you. In your face I see how it is to grow old with grace, and through the reflection of your eyes, how loved I truly am.

Commencement

Exit ye who impart knowledge.