Sleep(less) in New England

These past few days I've had a triumphant and joyful reunion with an old friend, sleep. For the first time in a very long time, I was able to ignore my internal alarm clock's insistence to wake up *now* and instead burrow deeper into my warm comforter. Of course, "sleeping in" means waking up at 7 instead of 5 during the weekdays and at 8 or 9 during the weekend. But still. Sleep is sleep, and it is such a simple yet beautiful treasure.


I got all As in my classes and averaged about a 99% in all coursework. Although I'm proud of my grades, there's a little part of me that's a little bit disappointed in myself. I did work very hard, but was definitely not 100% charged. Optimum performance, it was not. My professors were absolutely brilliant and they deserved a 100% performance, nothing less. Two of my professors, Drs. JS and MM, were some of the best, and that is saying a lot because I've had some phenomenal professors in undergrad that to this day, I rave about and recommend people take classes from.


In both Dr. JS's and Dr. MM's classes, we studied about inequity and privilege and reflected upon their impact on personal, communal, and societal levels. As a woman of colour, I am well aware of inequities and disadvantages that stem from the -isms, chiefly among them sexism and racism. Representations of my races, ethnicities, and cultures will always be skewed or underrepresented. Young women of colour unarguably do not hold the most power in society; middle-aged White men traditionally do.


However, being a woman does come with privileges that men do not. One, in particular, remains very powerful and prevalent in society. I hesitate to use the word "privilege" because in this instance, the aforementioned privilege is something no person would like to have bestowed upon them. In cases of rape or domestic violence, even though women are for the most part believed and aren't blamed, the existence of both is accepted. Men who are victims/survivors of rape and domestic violence are often met with disbelief. "How can a woman rape a man? How can a man be a victim of domestic violence?" Societal belief is that because men are the physically stronger sex, they could easily overpower and/or avoid being victims of violence done by women. "Not a real man" or "sissy" are often the reactions people have when hearing about a man who was raped by a woman at gunpoint or beaten up by their girlfriend. It is a widely held belief that "real" mean fight back, and failing to do so is an incomprehensible concept to most people. In that regard, I suppose that men do not have the privilege of having their victimhood validated as easily as women do.


I am humbled and grateful to have had Drs. JS and MM as professors. Their classes have definitely made me examine privilege through more than just the lenses I have become accustomed with. They have challenged me to become not just a better scholar, but a kinder and better human being as well.

Privilege

Source

 A while back one of my favourite bloggers, Istanbul's Stranger, posted a meme on privilege. It's a meme that I'd seen floating around the web for a while. The meme in itself is interesting; if my family and friends were to take it, it would reveal that~95% of them have most--if not all--of these status markers. Growing up, I never really thought of these markers as "privilege''. It's thought-provoking in a way, because as much as I try to fight against entitlement, I may unknowingly hold some myself.

In any case, this meme was developed by Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, Stacy Ploskonka from Illinois State University.

Highlighted in red are the sentences that apply to me:

Father went to college

Father finished college (He dropped out 36 credits shy of graduation in order to fight in Viet Nam)

Mother went to college

Mother finished college

Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers

Had more than 50 books in your childhood home

Had more than 500 books in your childhood home

Were read children’s books by a parent

Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18

Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18

Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18

Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs (Scholarship, baby!)
Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs

Went to a private school

Went to summer camp

Had a private tutor before you turned 18

Family vacations involved staying at hotels

Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18

There was original art in your house when you were a child

Had a phone in your room before you turned 18

You and your family lived in a single family house

Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home

You had your own room as a child

Participated in an SAT/ACT prep course

Had your own TV in your room in High School

Owned a mutual fund or IRA in High School or College

Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16

Went on a cruise with your family

Went on more than one cruise with your family

Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up

You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family

The last marker particularly struck me. It may seem insignificant at first glance, but it's actually so telling. When you live a privileged or even comfortable life, you don't really mind the numbers or the little details. When you struggle, however, you know the little details. You know exactly how much the heating bills cost; even a dollar could throw your budget off. This is a reality for people living paycheck to paycheck or on fixed incomes. 

Have any of you taken this meme? What do you think?

Quis Custodiet ipsos Custodes?: Why I Speak

 

My love affair with politics was a pre-ordained destiny chosen for me by well-meaning relatives on my momma's side of the family. It began as their hope--hope for the continuation of a family legacy--which became mine the second they recognized in me an aptitude for words and a so-called commanding presence in public speaking. So they nurtured a potential that was more evident to them than it was to me, and in this nurturing the seed of gradual transference of dreams and passions slowly began to take root. 


Out of all his grandchildren, my grandfather chose me as his successor--the one who would strengthen the political dynasty he wasn't quite finished building when partial paralysis robbed him of his powerful oratory skills. Whenever my parents and I would visit, I'd be summoned by my grandfather to talk. Over drags of cigarettes and sips of coffee, he would talk to me about game theory, political posturing, diplomacy, candidacy...


I was only six years old. 


I thought such grandfather-granddaughter dynamic was normal, until the day I realized that with my other cousins, he discussed the importance of obedience to one's elders and which countries produced superior chocolates. Whenever he asked them about school, it was always in the framework of whether or not they made new friends or what they had for lunch, or what they learned. 

So I asked my momma and grandmother why he didn't see me as a child, and in hushed voices, they told me that my marked difference was a privilege. It was an honour for such a learned man to groom me to be his equal. His staggering brilliance and titanic legacy would be passed on to me. Even at a young age, I understood the weight of this inheritance, but to my momma and grandmother, it was a pair of coveted wings; a privilege my grandfather did not deem them worthy of.  


"You are an American," they proudly said, "and you have the chance to fulfill your potential. You can marry a powerful politician and together, you will be stronger. You are lucky." 


And so there it was, laid bare: American privilege. My citizenship was simultaneously a beacon of hope--the triumph of my colonized ancestors--and the invictus sword of elitist masters who colonized. At such a young age, I became keenly aware that I lived in the borderlands. In these amalgam lands, I began to understand the importance of examining the little details that people overlook, and to listen to every story regardless of how many times I heard similar ones. 


They didn't count on my American-ness to be flawed. My constitutionally-protected American freedom of expression gives me the luxury to be able to question the validity of everything and to seek truth far deeper than what is seen by the naked eye. My American outspokenness allows me to speak my mind, regardless of whether or not the world agrees with me. My American sense of human rights advocacy made me value humanity, truth, and justice over political posturing and saving face. My American sense of identity values my ancestors' cultures, languages and traditions--fights for their preservation and revitalization--but refuses to follow blindly to legacies without first exploring the unknown. 

Confession.


My momma's side of the family remains, to this day, Marcos loyalists and apologists. I grew up believing that Macoy and La Imierda were the saintly saviours and heroes of the Philippines. I grew up defending Imierda's vast shoe collection and extravagant parties as small repayments for a great service to the country. Martial Law, as explained by my grandparents, was good. Because of the vigilance of the Marcos administration, the Philippine military, and the Philippine police, criminals were forced to confront the error of their ways and learned to suppress their "evil urges." Those who were defiant were quickly arrested and brought to justice. The Marcos era was a proud, prosperous time in the Philippines, wherein a Third World country held the esteemed audience of the First World nations it wanted to become. 


But that was their truth, not my own.


I found the missing pieces to the story of the Pilipino people years later, long after the dictator perished in shameful exile. I, who have Pilipino blood coursing through my veins, learned about the history of the Pinoys as a high school student in Hawai'i, from Pinoy political refugees. "What do you mean there are Pinoy political refugees? I thought only Vietnamese, Cambodians, Cubans, Eastern Europeans, and Africans were political refugees." I asked the old, one-armed man who lived at the nursing home where I volunteered. And in his hoarse, heavy-accented voice, Manong Isko told me his story. 

He was a priest who dared to speak out for a nun who was brutally raped  and left for dead by several members of the Pilipino military. She was found buried underneath rotted garbage in Smoky Mountain with her  dark blue skirt bunched around her waist and her Rosary beads hanging out of her skirt pockets. Manong Isko wanted me to know that her name was Sr. Maria Cecelia--birth name Clarita--and she was a 30-year-old woman who loved to cook sinigang na hipon and play the bandurria. Sr. Maria Cecelia was a beautiful Spanish mestiza, which was probably why these rapists targeted her, disregarding the fact that this young woman made purity vows to serve God. He was their God, too, supposedly. Yet in times when man shows his darkest shadows, it is difficult to reconcile this duality. Manong Isko--who was Brother Franciso in another life--raged. He went into Camp Crame to file a complaint and refused to leave until they listened; for this insubordination, he was taken into an interrogation room. Details of what happened next, Manong Isko did not want to elaborate to a 14-year-old, but the tears in his eyes and the tremor that shook the stump that used to be his right arm told the whole story. He remains in Camp Crame still.


Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, I ask? Who will guard the guards? 


The Marcos government regime enacted a campaign of terror, abuse, fear, and silence against its own citizens. The rapes, robbery, murders, and terror were not absent; they were just swept away and spoken about in soft whispers and averted eyes. It didn't happen to us, so there's no need to get involved became the collective credo. For the elite bystanders, there was no need to make ripples in the water lest they get drowned in the tsunami of retribution. My family was unharmed and retained our properties and social standing because Marcos was an ally. My family never had to worry about receiving phone calls in the middle of the night, telling us about an unfortunate accident that claimed the life of a beloved. Born into a working-class family, La Imierda and her Macoy sought validation and acceptance from old money alta sociedades, to further assert their righteousness and worth in the international arena of must-haves. In turn, alta sociedades wanted to retain their power, fearful of descending into the dreaded masses. Quid pro quo. Silence and indifference was acquiescence, and for the privilege of being untouchable, the price was humanity. It was the country, as a whole, that paid the price. 

I know now that there are some people who sit in their thrones not because of their power, but because they relinquished it. Power is subjective, and for some, the price of a throne, privilege, or elitism is the abandonment of their freedom and individuality. Power, for some, is worth the price of what it means to be human. 


My activism and outspokenness as a twenty-something is shaped by a six-year-old me who was told I would one day take over my grandfather's legacy. Despite his brilliance and his success, and despite the fact that I love him deeply, I refuse to be like him. The bystander mentality may be ingrained into my upbringing, but in my heart and in my soul, humanity is far deeply rooted.


And so I speak. Even if my voice shakes, I speak.