Post Secret Sunday: Happiness in Unlikely Places

People who work in service-related industries can be all shades of awesome. Despite earning minimum wage, working different shifts, and dealing with the occasional demanding/horrible customer, I've found servers to be some of the kindest, most hardworking, and cheerful people ever. Thoughtful, too.



Here's to my favourite waitstaff and baristas, who not only work really hard to earn a living, but also bring joy to the people they encounter. Linda, thank you for preparing my pancakes smily face-style during finals; you never fail to make me smile during stressful times. Joe, thank you for humming "Sweet Leilani" as you make my latte, and for constantly applying to be my gay boyfriend. Mei, thank you for always leaving a pitcher of iced water on my table, knowing how much I love water. You are all amazing, and a billion shades of wonderful.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Post Secret Sunday: Horizon

Regret is in the things I didn't do and in the words I didn't say. He was, and still is, it for me. "It," meaning The One; the man whose name is always at the tip of my tongue and whose voice is the quiet song that plays softly inside my heart. The man whose touch is imprinted upon my skin, and whose kindness touched my soul. The man whose presence makes even the scariest and most unfamiliar of places home.

 

Adele, the singer, has one of those rare voices that hits at the core. The emotions and truth with which she sings is bittersweet; her voice is at once beautiful and painful. "Someone Like You" captures one of my greatest fears. It hasn't happened yet, but given that Horizon is a great man, it is not too much of a stretch that he will find someone else. I'm torn between fighting for him abd letting him heal so that one day he can find the happiness that I was unable and unwilling to give to him. And so for now, for always, here's the truth laid out bare: he is it, and I don't want someone like him. I just want him. 

 

Post Secret Sunday: Enough

Source

This is singularly the most important lesson I've had to learn, and the closest thing to the "Key to Happiness" I've discovered.

 

Post Secret Sunday: Surviving

It's a strange thing about surviving: guilt. It doesn't matter if you're a survivor of genocide, war, conflict, rape, natural disaster, cancer...it's going to be there. Guilt. Why did I survive when so many did not? Why did I not fight back? Why me, not them?


Sometimes surviving can be ugly. There are nightmares you can't quite wake up from, and scars that time can't quite heal. There's anger and rage, and a palpable grief. There's a loss that can never be replaced. You can never go back, never be the same. Sometimes you walk through pathways littered with stolen innocence, broken dreams and taunting vestige of what should be. 


Whether we persevere or merely endure as survivors, the most important thing to remember is that we are still here, and there is a reason for it. The narrative of our lives have meaning, and by examining our stories and listening to our own voices, we empower ourselves to give a purpose to our lives. 


We are still here. Our presence means we've won.

Post Secret Sunday: Viet Nam

Source

Reposted:

Plato once said, “Only the dead have seen the end of war,” and though that sentiment is crude, it’s also accurate. It’s always been “us” versus “them,” and “right” versus “wrong.” Since the dawn of time, society has engaged in two monologues with guns, bombs, and swords as a microphone. It seems like the only thing that we could all agree on is that red is the colour of our blood. (And even then, there are people who die and kill for the notion of “blood purity.” But I digress; that topic’s for another day.)

Long before I was born, my da fought in Viet Nam. Two tours. Two different men. The man I knew (know) as my da is not the same boy everyone else knew. My da, Ronald, hated fireworks with a passion and disliked the colour red. Ronnie, the little boy, adored watching fireworks displays over the water. Ronald almost broke my momma’s neck when she once quietly crept up to him when he was sleeping. Ronnie was a notoriously hard-to-wake-up kid who slept through a hurricane. Ronald was a guarded man whose trust had to be earned, and even then, had to be continuously earned. Little Ronnie befriended everyone and anyone, and believed that humans are inherently good.

Of course, almost everything I’ve heard about little Ronnie came from those who were there. My da, the man, only spoke about Viet Nam as a part of America’s history. Despite him being a polyglot, da couldn’t form the words to claim Viet Nam as his own history, because then he’d have given a name to a nightmare that he spent a lifetime trying to wake up from. Ronald, the man, wanted to forget.

I see a glimpse of my da in every young soldier I meet, and each time I see the emptiness reflected in their eyes, a little part of me becomes half-orphaned all over again.

Post Secret Sunday: Living and Loving Life

This reminds me of something a friend's mother wrote to me. It was written in Turkish, so the translation may lose a little bit of meaning, but she pretty much said:  "Life writes wonderful letters to those who read it with love and kindness." It's been about 3 years now, and her letter is tucked away inside some box hidden somewhere in the house, but I have never forgotten her words. So simple, yet so full of wisdom. It's the kind of lesson you learn by living life...embracing it, accepting it, loving it.


So live live live.


Love love love.

Post Secret Sunday: Dear Sender

Source

Dear Luv,

     You don't know me and I don't know you. We're just two out of over 6 billion strangers in this world. And yet somehow we're all connected. 

     I hope and pray that each time your thoughts come to this, you will eventually take a step back. I hope that you stop and wonder what tomorrow would be like instead of think, "this is it."  

     It may seem like it sometimes, but you are not alone. This postcard of yours is you reaching out. This blog post is me holding your hand. We are 6 billion strong.

Post Secret Sunday: Adonis DNA Inspires Change

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.  

Post Secret Sunday: Cliches that hurt

Source

Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing. Sometimes it is best to not fight against the loss for words. Better to allow yourself to be enveloped in silence.


When my dad died people would say, "he's in a better place" or "at least he's no longer suffering." Others would say, "it's in God's plans." They meant well, of course, but these are not necessarily the best words to say to someone who is grieving. 


Death and loss are natural--a part in this circle we call life--but they are also ugly and visceral. They leave scars that become more hardened and angry the deeper you delve.


Sometimes there's no reason and no better place. Sometimes there's just an emptiness. Sometimes giving reason to something that just is diminishes it. 


To women who've gone through a miscarriage and to the women who will go through a miscarriage, I say: rage, cry, scream. Let it out. Trying to suppress all these primal emotions is like saying that the loss you experienced doesn't matter...that the person you lost doesn't matter. Sometimes you have to unleash a river of ugliness and anger to give voice to the beauty you once had.

Post Secret Sunday: Beauty

Source

I have A/AA breasts, my nose is a cross between Lilo's and Rudolph's, my feet and hands are small, I'm barely 5'2", my butt has freckles, and there are some battle scars underneath my tattoos.


And you know what?


I WOULD NOT CHANGE A THING.


My body's not ideal, but it's mine nonetheless.


My small breasts? They're just right for the right hands, and someday they'll swell with nourishment for my child. 


My not-cute-as-a-button nose? They're an inheritance from my dad, and in my over 20 years of existence, have guided me to such wonderful scents as safety and unconditional love (my mom, spelling like Ivory soap and Chanel No. 5), first love (Acqua di Gio), and true love (sun-ripened mangoes). 


My dainty feet have taken me from O'ahu to Harvard, and soon to Istanbul. My small hands lovingly cook food from scratch, and have held my dad as he lay dying.


My butt has landed on ice too many times as my friends and I (attempt to) skate across Frog Pond, laughing and enjoying each other's company.


My scars are proof that I am stronger than cancer and Hurricane Isabel.

In these flaws and inadequacies, I see beauty and feel strength.

Post Secret Sunday: Best Guy Friend

You're still you.

These words, said with such raw conviction and hoarse tenderness, saved my life. 

Post Secret Sunday: Different is not the 'other,' but an extension of 'us."

Moments and stories like these ignite my appreciation of the power of media. As frustrating as it is to be constantly bombarded with articles about what so-and-so wore to the red carpet, or how DMX violated his probation for the zillionth time, or how many cups of coffee Taylor and Jake shared in their courtship, I'm glad that shows like Glee are in the spotlight. I'm glad that LGBT and differently abled teens are not only represented in mainstream media, but are depicted as humans who just happen to be LGBT or have disabilities, rather than be defined by them. They're not the other; they're a part of us. 

Whoever you are, I hope that you chose life.

Source

And if you did, I hope that you choose life today, tomorrow, and the days thereon after. 

Post Secret Perspectives: Soldiers

Hau'oli La Makuakane, Daddy.

'

Aloha au iā 'oe.

From Post Secret

Her fear is my reality.

Confession:

When he saw me getting dressed up for my first date, my da jokingly said he already had a song picked out for our Father-Daughter dance when I get married: Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle. 

It hurts to think that if I get married, Dance with My Father by Luther Vandross will be played instead. It's been seven years, but I still miss him so much.