Hi, I am Jody and I am not much for politics. I hate it in the workplace, and I don’t read enough of history to write an educated opinion for anyone who wants to reference it. I am just a person who listens when my parents watch the news over dinner, and reads up on articles on Rappler or CNN Philippines.

Why am I referencing politics then if I can’t contribute much? Because last week, I joined the throng of last minute voters registering at the satellite offices, wanting to be part of the voting public. I was registered at 18, at my dad’s town, as we were there often and spent enough time to know the local candidates. However I wasn’t able to vote in the 2013 and 2015 elections, as I had crucial in person meetings on both voting days. In the Philippines, if you haven’t voted for two elections, and currently if you don’t have biometrics recorded in the system, you can’t vote. I hit both those criteria and saw the lineup for candidates, and found a bit of hope.

Thus the eleven hours of waiting in line to make sure I would be able to vote, because I cannot let my vote go to waste. I won’t let another election pass by just sitting at the sidelines. Will my vote matter much? Not likely personally. However, people like me, decry what’s happening to the government and not participate in it, bigger picture. If we all registered and voted for people we’ve read up on for what they’ve done, their abilities and qualifications, maybe, just maybe we can make enough of an impact so that those in power will take notice. That the moves and bills of the coming government will think about not just the super rich or majority poor, but those of us in the middle. Will think about how our lives are affected day to day.

The craptastic MRT we use to ride to work everyday. The massive amount of tax we have to surrender every time we receive a paycheck. Our safety when we go through ports and airports. These issues will matter to these lawmakers and those who uphold because we’ve been part of those who put them in office and will keep them there. Our voices will matter because we’ll be constituents and not just complainers.

I will have a voice. And so should you.

 

California was the America I had always read about and saw in movies and TV, the first nuances of the “American Dream” I had ever known from friends or family. My grandmother, who had a bit more since she was successful in her business ventures and choices, had gone when we were kids. I remember receiving a ton of stuffed animals and clothes from her when she got back, and promises of her bringing us, when something in her plans worked out. We would hear it every few months, the promise of Disneyland and other theme parks, the family we had, the places we would visit. As we grew older, the plans started sounding a lot more a dream than a reality. We all had a dose of reality, if we wanted to get to anywhere, we would have to work for it ourselves. It grew even more distant when our grandmother passed away and that dream of her taking us never came into fruition, and she didn’t see any of us (except for her daughter in law, Mama) head over there.

I’ve said it once and I still say it, my family is not wealthy. We work for what we have and we continue to every day to make sure we have food to eat and a house to call our own. I am a realist. I’ve learned how much we can do without stretching too far. A trip that would blow a couple thousand dollars was not what I thought I would do in the decade I first started working. So I set my sights to doable places to go in Asia or the Philippines, and set aside Europe and the Americas for a “when I’m 35 or older” goal. Even more when I grew older, because who in their right mind at the embassy would grant a single, 25+ year old woman a tourist visa to the US, where she could supposedly “bag a husband”?

 

Things changed a little when I started dating the person I’m with. My significant other grew up on the other side of the world, in the always sunny, non-humid (he always likes to remind me that) southern California. To know him more was to visit where he grew up, and that would take a 10+ hour flight and a couple thousand dollars to get there. We first started planning this trip in the middle of last year. A few conversations here and there, in the back of my mind, setting aside money here and there to make sure I had enough if it did happen, but all the while expecting that there might be a possibility of it not really panning out for us.

 

I approached the trip to the embassy with a cautious hope, but expecting to be ultimately denied. I knew the odds were against me, but I had to try anyway, I owed myself, and the SO the attempt. When they told me I would get the visa after a week, it never really sank in. I found myself a few weeks later, on a plane, attempting a one stopover, 18 hour journey to LAX.

 

The trip was a blur, and three weeks was not enough to take in all the sights and sounds, meet everyone I wanted to meet, try all the food places I had read and heard about from friends, forums, and websites I scoured. I had my first encounter with prejudice at immigration, and experience that makes me shake a little to this day. I saw things I read about in books, saw in movies, followed on TV. I got to meet old friends, check off a line in my bucket list, rode in a car down the Pacific Coast Highway. The food experience was overwhelming. There were so many choices in not only cuisine but ingredients, many different ways of cooking I only heard from the SO before but never really thought would be THAT GOOD.

 

My favorite part of the experience though, was the people. In the three weeks, I experienced more generosity of spirit, genuine love of family, affection for my SO (which trickled down to me). The people I had with me were sincerely excited to guide me through the experience and show me what was there to see. They were caring to a point of absurdity that I find myself exclaiming how lucky I was to not just be there, but to be with the people I had around me, whether it be the SO’s family and friends, but also mine. People drove from hours away, spent a ridiculous amount of money, took time out of their busy lives to make sure we were happy. I have a mental list of how I will be more gracious to people from abroad from how I was treated when I was there. It is a humbling experience to see how much people can give of their own lives to you when in a foreign land, and when they go back to their roots, they ought to be treated the same way.

 

I will never forget my three weeks, and not the rides I went on or the food I ate (which was delicious), but the people I met and re-met. To hang out with my best friend from kindergarten in the happiest place on earth. To go camping with the SO’s family for three days, constantly eating and playing games. To hang out with his family, relaxed in their backyard on the fourth of July. To spend a few hours watching Minions with his nieces. To meet almost all his friends. To see my Lolo and the house he’s paid for, driving two hours to get there in his fancy car. To see my Ninang and get to hug her, after too long a time. To hang out with my other Ninang after a childhood of letters and photos. To get to see SF through the eyes of my Aunt and Uncle, walking around an interactive museum for a day. To see friends from my previous company and hang out, just catching up.

The memories are overwhelmingly happy, and incredibly bittersweet. I am happy to be there and to be able to do this with the SO, but leaving is hard, and we will never think of childhood in the same way, or have our families in the same side of the world for long. We will never be able to hug them as often as we want, or just spend time because we want to, because of the 7,000+ miles that keep us apart. But we will do better to be more visible in each other’s lives, and make time for each other when we can.

 

I will be back, and next time, I will be ready. 🙂

 

I am not a person who follows art. I do not understand performance art, or grasp abstract. I like the pretty landscapes or sculptures, preferring Van Gogh’s flowers and the Renaissance works of the pre-Raphaelites like John Everett Millais’s Ophelia.
However, five years ago, I heard of a performance piece by Marina Abramovic, a performance artist from Yugoslavia. Abramovic has done collaborations with Lady Gaga, and Jay-Z, and is friends with James Franco, so she is not completely unfamiliar to pop culture, but her piece, The Artist is Present (2010) is what stuck out for me.  It was a simple concept, the MoMA in New York spanned her four decade career by having other people re-create her former works, while she also performed. Her installation was a 736 hour ordeal of silence. She sat on a table while people sat opposite her for two minutes, not speaking.

Why is that moving, really? Until you bring up Ulay, her former partner and lover from 1976-1988. Ulay showed up on the first night of her installation, and the two minutes they spent together was, shattering.

You could see her eyes water and eventually drop a few tears. She could not speak, and neither could he. He shook his head a few times, and smiled a little. She could not help herself and reached out to take his hands in hers for a few seconds. After two minutes, he left.

My head just runs through all the feelings she would have felt. She could not speak, memories flooded her brain. If she wanted to yell because he sprung himself at her when she was at a public, vulnerable space. This is purely my musings, however, a flood of thoughts and theories from seeing the video footage of their encounter.

If you were afforded the same opportunity, would you do it? To be able to just sit, stare and not speak to someone who you loved, and loved you so much you thought you were one person. A person you gave your life and heart to, decades later becoming someone part of who you used to be, and is not part of your present.

The idea is so basic, elemental to the heart, and for me, what great art is supposed to make you feel something, and make you think.

So tell me, how present are you?

Too many times, we focus on our pain. What we’ve been through, what it took to get here. What it took for us to survive. Rarely do we remember the people whose pain we’ve caused, directly or indirectly. The people who we’ve forgotten about because we were all too busy thinking about ourselves.

So today I want to apologize for the people I’ve hurt in the past with my actions, directly or indirectly. I have not behaved well in the past, and I’ve stepped on some feelings that I thought in my previous logic, was better for them in the long run. I’ve been a jerk, a d*ck even when it comes to people letting me know their feelings (in the past). I don’t handle it well. I’m not very good at confrontation, and for me, that is one of the most uncomfortable things one can go through, because I’ve been at the other end of that, and it really can be thoroughly humiliating (You’d think knowing that I would have been nicer, but I wasn’t).

I’ve not behaved completely scrupulously in the past, a fact that does not escape me, and still bothers me. I have behaved badly, unsure if what I was doing was affecting other people, and too in it, lazy, or scared to check. Deep down, I felt some things were off, but at the times, I was too insensitive, uncaring, chalking it up to youth, and thinking that we only live once.

But now I do.

And I apologize. I am sorry for what my actions has caused others. I know life is now where it needs to be and it took a lot of tears, sweat and screaming matches to get there. It’s been quite a ride, and it’s not over yet, but before we slow down, I’d like to brake before I break any more bones or bruise any more cheeks.

I am a different person from who I was years ago, even a month ago and I’m learning more and more about how things affect one another, and I hope that somehow, this universe will heal more of itself, and have less of the negative, hurtful things that it has been dealing with all these years. Because really, haven’t we hurt each other enough already?

Who have you hurt in the past that you want to apologize to?

 

Last week, I bought my first piece of jewelry. Why does this matter? For most of us, jewelry doesn’t. And in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t. A shiny piece of rock, a  glint of metal that catches the eye, and sometimes even brings you more trouble than its worth. Jewelry is affectation, meant to show success or just an affinity for things that are pretty.

My lola (my dad’s mom), loved jewelry. I remember growing up and going to her house 3 hours away on weekends to stay the night, and being asked to go into her room, and walking out with a ring, or necklace or a matching whole set. She liked the shiny of diamonds, and collected a lot, and us being her only immediate grandchildren, and only two girls, we were the ones who received them.

I am not saying in any way that we are wealthy. She was comfortable with her small businesses and didn’t like to spend on most anything really. She hated travelling. She wasn’t one to spend on food. She never liked shopping because it meant a trip to Manila, and was not a fan of being away from her home too long. She did like her trinkets. I remember not being impressed with diamonds and other rocks because I saw her a lot of times with a lot, wearing them to bed, and stretching out her lobes so much she needed surgery to fix them. (Ladies, this is probably sounding graphic, but it was true, so please, don’t sleep with your earrings on, or have to have your earlobes sewn back together because they’re so stretched out).

So I guess this is mostly a story of my lola, who had her birthday on April 2^nd, and I’m hoping nodding with approval up there when I picked up the eternity band and never put it back down. It is now sitting on my right ring finger, a little bit too shiny for my old fading shirt and ripped shorts sitting near a pond full of tilapia, but just too pretty to say no to.
So hello Lola. I hope this Easter you and Ninong bonded over coffee and pandesal, and watching over us, a little extra shiny now.

 

Those who know me know that I am not the friendliest of people, or the most talkative. I sit. I listen. I am there most of the time to lend an ear. This has perhaps lent me an air of coldness or superiority, but really, I am more just there for the people who I love.

I am not one to share too much, talk too long. I guess even at a point when everyone wanted to hear my story, I was wary of being the center of attention and masked my brokenness with humor, or sometimes anger. That is to say, when I want to vent, I will, but not really. I am happy to sit in the presence of my friends, listen to them talk, and be there.

You will gawk at me when I say that I feel more an introvert than one who thrives in the middle of a group, as I am often in the middle of one during work functions, or at a random restaurant. But yes, I do. I am not one to approach a person to introduce myself, or say Hi! to a person I haven’t seen in a long time unless I know them very well. I respect people’s space and am wary that I won’t be recognized because I have not kept in touch all that well, or reach out more often.

I guess that’s the appeal of this blog, that I will be able to express myself when needed, and better than I could in moments that I might regret what I say in frustration or fear. It gives me time to think, edit, and clean up my thoughts to a somehow logical train of thought.

But I will listen. I sometimes am afraid that I am not able to express how grateful I am to the people around me, or am more reserved than I wish, but if you are a friend, know that I am. I am happy just listening to conversations around me, and contribute when needed. It’s where I find myself most content.

So please, talk. Let me know if you need an ear, and I will be there. Or show up where I live. I am more than willing to listen, and if asked, tell you what I think. Because I like listening. People are infinitely more interesting than myself and I like getting to know them and their lives more than hearing myself talk.

So, do you want to talk? 🙂