My thought process

The personal is political + Be the change you want to see in the world = Do not be afraid to make waves

Do not be afraid to make waves + Big statements make the easiest targets = Be able to kick ass. Metaphorically and physically.

How much does it cost to be a good mom?

“I know it’s hard and it looks impossible,” Claire* said when she found out I was pregnant, “but everything will turn out right.”

When the words hit the air, I immediately agreed and yet rebelled against her sentiments. I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from exposing my biggest fear: that I wasn’t affluent enough to be worthy of motherhood. It was a doubt that only made itself known when my hormones reached critical mass, and it easily subsided after Rob calmed me down. But still, it were there, crouched between my mother’s knack for shopping and hording and my father’s materialistic bravado. Any second, I feared, it would bite me in the ass.

I looked at her, a 28 year old mom to a ‘tween. She’d been a teenage mom. She knew all about hardships and needing faith and worrying about money.

And yet.

She was so confident. Not just in me and my dormant maternal abilities, but in motherhood itself, in the power of loving someone more than you’d ever thought possible, in higher powers set in place to make things right, in humanity, and in life. Despite (or because of?) all she’d seen, she held on to a naive optimism that seemed too Hallmark card for me to take stock in. I craved the comfort of cold, hard facts. I wanted a fat paycheck arriving in my bank account every other week. I wanted to afford every pair of obscenely-priced jeans and every state-of-the-art video game console that my son would grow up to deserve. I wanted something more than financial security; I wanted financial superiority.

“The money part,” she said, eyeing me with an air of been-there-done-that, “that’s what you worry about.”

I nodded and winced, all the while suppressing a biting remark.

“Believe me when I say, you find a way to get the money you need when you have a child to take care of.”

I looked away. “Sure, I’ll have enough to get by,” I’d wanted to say. “But is that enough?” Instead, I let my mind cloud over with plans for my baby shower, and I let out a heavy sigh.

*****

I’d anticipated the gift since the moment Sully* had told me about it. When I opened it at my baby shower (along with the several other boxes of gifts that she so generously gave us), I felt giddy in a way that only good quality merch can make you feel. And maybe it was because I’d planned on being a Johnson’s & Johnson’s mom (out of sheer convenience and familiarity), or because I swore up and down I wouldn’t follow baby trends, or because I was afraid that going organic would mean that I’d somehow betray a part of my own childhood, but I felt hip and naughty for loving the gift.

Yeah, that’s right. Throw in a negligee with that head-to-toe wash, and I would’ve felt damn sexy.

Seriously though, a part of me  felt guilty for accepting such an expensive gift. I felt overwhelmed with Sully’s generosity, yet allowed only my appreciation to show.

And show it did. My appreciation beamed out of my pores like sunshine, and shot out of my fingers and toes. It wasn’t just that my friend was generous, it was that all of my friends and family were amazingly supportive and generous: despite the facts that times were tough, that some of them had either lost their jobs or were in danger of losing their jobs, that the prospects for making money were slim, and that they had bills to pay, they still made me and my family a priority. They showed us love. So. Much. Love. (I have framed cards of congratulations to prove it. And they make me cry every time I read them.)

We ended up receiving every possible baby necessity as a gift. An amazing crib, an adorable stroller, oodles and oodles of toys and clothes, a one-year membership to an organic diaper delivery service, bathtub and products, several breast pumps, our dream playpen, bottles and bottle equipment – the whole nine yards and then some. (Seriously, you should’ve seen Rob and I when we opened the baby wipe warmer. We were confuzzled because we didn’t realize such a thing existed.) We didn’t need to buy anything for Riley until he started eating solids. No bullshit. Read that again and feel the amazement creeping in.

We are fucking fortunate to have such fabulous friends and family.

*****

Despite all of my gripes, the truth is, my parents did a good job with me and my brother. They kept us safe, healthy, and happy, and they took care of us the best way they knew how. Never mind that that meant working around the clock to buy us the latest jeans and video games, and that we hardly saw them except during dinner. Never mind that my brother has never had a sentimental or meaningful conversation with either of our parents. Never mind that a lot of what our parents taught us about life, love, and money matters was ill-advised and wrong. Their intentions were good. They did their best. That’s all that any parent can really do.

I love my parents and I appreciate all they’ve done for us, but when I decided to become a mom, I knew one thing for certain: I would spend as much time as possible with my kids. If that meant working less hours so that I could take them to museums or parks, then so be it. If that meant sleeping less so that we could spend more time together, or carving time out of my yoga routine or writer’s circle, then so be it. If that meant forgoing social time, then so be it. I gladly make sacrifices so that my child knows me, and doesn’t just know of me. I know that in no time at all, he’ll have his own social life, his own classes, and his own romantic relationships, and before that happens, I want to create a legacy that is not limited to shopping trips, restaurants, and outlet excursions.

Those are my priorities. I believe that quality time between members of a family matters more than the money said family might have for, say, going to Disney World or owning luxury vehicles. Just as long as there’s a cushion of savings, everything’s all right.

Should I feel guilty for wanting a close-knit family instead of wanting to give my kids every imaginable extravagance?

*****

There is a conversation I had with Marjorie* right before I left New York City. She was driving her BMW from her Midtown penthouse apartment to her mom’s house in Queens. We hadn’t spoken in many months and there was a lot to catch up on. I’d missed her engagement and wedding while in my own whirlwind of life-altering events. Apparently, I’d missed her social climbing, too, and happily listened as she described the huge rock she sported on her left ring finger.

We talked about pleasantries and mutual friends, then having nothing left to add to our conversation, I turned to an old conversational stand-by. “Are you and your hubby planning on joining us in the p-’hood?”

“No,” she’d quickly answered. “We’re waiting to save more money.”

I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me, and answered, “Oh, okay. Good for you guys.”

“It’s not enough, ya know?” she whispered, conspiratorially. “There’s always more that a kid wants. I didn’t grow up with a lot, so I want to make sure that my kids have everything.”

Is it really that simple?, I wondered. Is everything defined in material terms? Is there a compromise between the two? How are people who have their roots firmly planted in the lower- or middle-classes supposed to navigate through the parental minefield of haves and have-mores?

*****

Ten years ago, I was 15 years old and in the Philippines, and as I walked with my aunts down the street, a woman came up and greeted us. My aunts explained that I’m their balikbayan pamangkin (niece from the States), and the woman commented on how pretty I was. I thanked her, and the next thing she asked was, “Are you interested in adopting a baby?”

I didn’t know what she meant. I had never heard the Tagalog word for adopt, and I was confused. It’s not like we were in her living room and she’d offered us lemonade. We were in the street and she’d offered me a baby.

My aunts laughed and explained that no, I was their 15-year old niece. I had lots of time to be making my own babies.

The subject of adoption has creeped up yet again into my life, and it’s forced me to think about how easy it is to adopt in the Philippines. People here literally give their kids away. For the most part, there is no legal paperwork involved. There is little exchange of money, except if the adoptive parents agree to pay for a mother’s prenatal care. It’s just part of the culture. Some parents simply can’t afford children. There is no abortion. There are no foster programs. But there are affluent individuals and there are orphanages. To many parents, the former seems like a better choice.

*****

I read this article, and it made me wonder yet again about the cost of parenthood. What is best for a child? Can anyone ever really know, definitively and truly, the answer to that question? Is it subjective? Is money really the answer? Or is there more? And if money isn’t the answer, why do we plan so much before having kids?

Why is your son wearing pink?

Inspired by a Jessica Hagedorn piece.

Because it’s really “salmon”.

Because it’s a hand-me-down.

Because it was on sale.

Because the rest of his clothes are dirty.

Because the rest of his clothes are dirty, and by the way, they’re all very masculine, colored blue, and have phallic symbols all over.

Because there’s nothing wrong with boys wearing pink.

Because we’re raising him to be a hippie.

Because we’re raising him to be gender-neutral.

Because we’re raising him to not care about socially-ascribed identities.

Because we’re raising him to not care about the opinions of people who are so ignorant and short-sighted that they’d make fun of a five-month old boy for wearing a pink shirt.

Because there’s nothing wrong with boys wearing pink.

Because it brings out his eyes.

Because it has a calming effect on people.

Because it has a calming effect on him.

Because he’s five months old and doesn’t care what he wears.

Because he’s five months old and we don’t care what he wears.

Because “pink” is just a color.

Because “pink” is not an indicator of anything but tint.

Because “pink” does not determine what he’s made of.

Because there’s nothing wrong with boys wearing pink.

Because his parents support breast cancer research.

Because “real men” wear pink.

Because there’s no such thing as a “real man”.

Because being a “real man” is a frame of mind, and he’s not yet old enough to adopt, ignore, or reject  it.

Because pink shirts are “in” this season.

Because pink shirts are “out” this season, and we just don’t give a shit about what’s “in” or “out”.

Because we don’t care what gender or sexuality our kids have, as long as they’re healthy and happy.

Because even if pink is for girls, what’s wrong with being (like) a girl?

Because we’re doing our part to make sure the next generation is a little less misogynistic than the ones before it.

Because we’re raising him to think for himself.

Because we’re raising him to be proud of who he is, and not just what he’s wearing.

Because we’re raising him to be an individual.

Because there’s nothing wrong with boys wearing pink.

Love & Marriage, Filipino-Style

Cross-posted at In The Fray.

When I was 13 years old, I’d decided that if Pat Benatar was right and love really was a battlefield, then I’d be proud to fight for the grandeur of romance, show off all of my scars, and maybe lose a few emotional appendages, too.

By the time I was sixteen years old and my father revealed that he’d had two children out of wedlock, and that he and my mom were considering divorce, the idealism of happily ever afters had sunken in so deeply that it wouldn’t bleed out of me, no matter how many times my heart broke.

And so it’s been, despite  the unhealthy dysfunction of my parents’ rollercoaster marriage, and my own many strange and twisted experiments with sex, love, and fidelity: I have always held on to the ideas that love is one of the most beautiful things anyone can know, and that the hope of an enduring, loving, and fully supportive marriage is an ideal worth fighting for.

Even though my American peers and I all know about single-parent households, divorce, remarriage, and blended families, there is a legitimacy behind it all, a logic telling us that what matters is not how a family is made, but the definite love and respect between a family’s members.  We carry this knowledge like a badge of superiority, an assured and assumably accurate claiming of life experience and maturity. Sure, bad things happen; sure, marriages end and parents divorce; sure, many teenagers navigate the quicksands of dating and relationships at the same time that their parents reenter those same assailing conditions,  but that’s life. We act out, we drink too much and do drugs, we go to therapy, we become promiscuous, we cry on our friends’ shoulders, and then, eventually, we trudge on with the business of growing up and getting over it all.Throughout these battles, our reverence for love and marriage remain intact.

Apparently, it’s a different love story in the Philippines.

There is no divorce in the Philippines, no empathy for unwed mothers or their bastard children, no faith in the loyalty of men, and no hope in happily ever afters. A hard crust of distrust coats the layers of bitterness which enshroud the Filipino’s romantic experience, and try as they might to shake off the negativity, “common sense” and experience have taught their lessons well: the only  happily ever afters are the ones that exist after you’ve contorted your romantic ideals into an unrecognizable blob of compromise and resignation.

Women are expected to fulfill their supportive and nurturing role of “girlfriend” or “wife” regardless of their partner’s loyalty or lack thereof; cheating and adultery amongst men is not only accepted, but expected. When a woman cheats, she’s a slut, or a whore, or a lunatic. But when power-wielding men do it, when down-and-out men do it, when young men do it, and when old men do it, the common reaction is “But of course!”Either they do it to show off their power, or to show that they still have some kind of power, or because they have the power of youth, or because they’re losing the power of youth. One thing is clear: love in the Philippines is an epic power struggle, and women are not the only ones losing.

Children grow out of these relationships feeling awkward and uncertain about their worthiness of love and their claim on a legitimately successful life.  They question the value of romantic relationships, and doubt their own ability at finding everlasting love. They half-believe what the culture dictates: that they are somehow less desirable as human beings because their parents do not have a storybook romance and marriage. It is in this climate of hostility that far-fetched notions of acceptable loves are brewed, and the significance of the institution of marriage is devalued.

Because there is no divorce in the Philippines, and also because women who have children out of wedlock sentence themselves and their offspring to eternal criticism and condemnation, there is a pervading sense that the solution to the mistakes of romance is not to learn from it all, grow, and move on, but to get married and stay married. And even though some teenagers are lucky to have a teacher deplore this ill-advised measure, the idea of marriage as panacea has sunken deeply into the core of Filipino culture. Shame on you for having sex before marriage. Shame on you for having children before being wed. Shame on you for being born out of wedlock. Shame on you for separating with your spouse and shacking up with someone else. In a country whose culture dictates that everyone know everything about each other, and that they all wield the power of judgment, shame is powerful. For these reasons, marriage becomes a last-chance or last-ditch-effort at keeping one’s life together, and not a lasting tribute to love.

Poster child for imperfection

In the Philippines, in sociology class and values class, we learn about marriage and its Filipino idiosyncrasies. The fact that there is no divorce is drilled into our heads, as are the cultural views on divorce, having children while not married, and the shame of being a biological product of an affair. We also talk about abortion, teenage delinquency, the sanctity of the family, and various other topics of concern. And while our teacher says she doesn’t agree with all of the espoused viewpoints, she doesn’t necessarily claim that they’re wrong either. It is what it is. You can’t change the culture. Bahala na.

By default, I have become the ambassador to all things American, and when these points are brought up, my starkly-contrasting opinions are thought of as American ideals. The fact that I’m pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, and pro-sex are believed to be symptoms of my citizenship, and not necessarily indicative of my own personality. And when I say that there are many Americans who have differing ideals than my own, I’m relegated to the role of the “New Yorker”, that ever-controversial breed of political liberal. For all intents and purposes, I am not a person, but a place. I am not just a foreigner, but a foreign land, a country whose borders flirt with all of the possibilities of morality run amok.

And yet.

I tell my anecdote about the last time I blacked out due to alcohol consumption; I mention the last abortion that I had; I wistfully reminisce about the gay wedding I attended, and I can’t help but see hope in the eyes of my predominantly teenage female audience. Is it my imagination? Or have they cast me in the role of savior? Am I telling them about a way of life that they hope for, aspire to, and wish to realize?

Behind the controversial aspects of my memories is a lot of love, a lot of trust, and a lot of humanity. I hope that my classmates – most of them fifteen to twenty years old, and one nun, too – acknowledge the throbbing, pulsating, quickening heart behind all of my actions and misadventures. I talk about how I hold on to the optimism that comes with every hard decision, how I am inspired to be grateful for my many opportunities at a life fulfilled. I warn against taking any decision too lightly. And somewhere between the first time I make a socially-conservative Catholic crack a smile, and the time I make them laugh, I become a poster child for all things provocative and beyond the norm.

And then, after class, in the hallways, at Jollibee, on the street, and at the mall, they approach me. I am mobbed by teenage girls as if it were 1999 and I were a Backstreet Boy.

“Hi, Ate,” they greet me, using the word used to denote respect to a woman. They giggle nervously and rush to me, an anxious smile plastered on their lips as if they’ve waited a long time to corner me with a question. Then they bashfully ask about tips for drinking and dating and sex. They shyly ask about what it’s like in New York. They hurriedly ask about birth control and wonder about abortion. Is it really okay for girls to drink and smoke in the States? Do abortions hurt? Are they affordable? Do you regret having one?

I tell them my experiences, every gory detail. I explain as best I can the ins and outs of every misstep on my road to Today. And I remind them that this is only my experience, and my experience is by no means the universal experience. I’ve fucked up a lot, and I’m living a charmed life, but that’s not a given. One does not necessarily follow the other. I am lucky. I am blessed.

Then they walk away, their curiosity satiated, but their knowledge still punctured with large gaps and huge holes. They have no doubt made up some picture in their heads, some idea of how things are and how they should be, some notion of how these many life choices fit into their lives and the way they ought to live.

And I have helped them make these conceptions.

Through the gauze of cultural- and language-barriers, I watch them walk away to their next decision. And I am left to wonder if everyone would be better off if I kept my big mouth shut.

What’s your take on needing drama to be a good artist?

I’ve been working on a lot of projects lately, and as much as I love the buzz of working at the grindstone, I’ve gotta admit: being on cloud nine doesn’t make for easy artistry.

See, it seems like the better my life becomes, the less I’m bothered; and the less I’m bothered, the more distant I feel from the frantic energy that used to shade all of my writing. The desperation, the urgency, the crazy desire – it’s so far away now, and I wonder how/if my writing will suffer from it.

I guess this is a throwback to all those long, winding conversations about whether drama is necessary in an artist’s life. I’m always flip-flopping on my opinion. Today, I feel like it’s a necessary component to any artist’s existence; we need to have personally known it in order to render it authentic in our art. But do we need to experience it all the time? I don’t think so.

What’s your take?

Hodgepodge: well-behaved kids, life insurance for babies, and being in love with Arwyn

She tells me nonchalantly about how her kids are perfect: two girls and a boy who play nice, never act out in public, and are always immaculately groomed, and before I can stop myself from saying it, the words are out of my mouth: “Perfect? You mean strange.”

The inflection in my voice was supposed to denote humor, but it came out as petty. I’m certain of this. Why else would there be such an uneasy silence?

In that moment where she evaluates my statement and I think about explaining, I wonder about her kids: They’re 6, 5 and 3, and though I’ve known them to quibble once in a while, she’s right. They do “play nice”; they are extremely well-behaved in public; they do keep their clothes spotless and as wrinkle-free as possible. And yet… There’s something, something I can’t put my finger on, something that tells me that this isn’t right. It’s not just the fact that she looks down at other moms for not being able to control their preschoolers from having tantrums in public. It’s not just that time in McDonald’s when her oldest daughter raised a superior eyebrow at a similarly-aged girl for crying because her dad wouldn’t let her have an ice cream sundae. It’s not just that she espouses the importance of “keeping children where they belong.” I mean, it’s all of those things, but I can’t really judge her for them, because then I’d be just as haughty and condescending as I believe her to be. And besides, despite our clashing viewpoints and sometimes-frenemy status, she’s still, for the most part, a friend, right? I shouldn’t be thinking this lowly of a friend, right?

Damn you, flip-flopping, over-analytical, overwhelmed brain! Reach a fucking conclusion and stick to it!

Before I can figure out what to say, I force a nervous laugh. “Maybe I’m jealous,” I offer, choosing to gracefully exit the conversation. “Riley’s not nearly as well-behaved as your kids are.”

My words are meant to come off as a joke since Riley’s five months old and discipline isn’t yet necessary – but she takes them at face value. “Yeah,” she says, with (mock?) arrogance. “You probably are.”

*****

Riley spends most of his time at home, and I have four good reasons for this: chicken pox, rubella, mumps, and measles. Those are four highly communicable diseases that my classmates and/or family members have come down with in the past two weeks.

See, here in the Philippines, it’s not mandatory that kids get their immunizations, so most parents opt – out of poverty and/or ignorance – not to have their kids vaccinated, and highly contagious diseases are as easy to come by as a tan in noontime heat. So my five-month old? He ain’t goin’ nowhere that’s not well-ventilated and/or hardly populated. For real.

I’m your run-of-the-mill, paranoid-as-all-hellm first-time mom, and the second my baby and I were discharged from the hospital, I knew the mission I’d been entrusted with: Keep. Him. Alive. Healthy and happy, yeah, sure, duh. But alive. That’s the important part, the part that ensures the other parts are possible.

So imagine my surprise when my might-as-well-be-mother-in-law asked Rob for Riley’s social security number… in order to buy him – dum dum DUM – LIFE INSURANCE!

Now, okay, the surprise was probably ruined by the title of this post, but geez louise, I can’t really wrap my brain around this concept. Because all this time, I’ve been keeping myself busy with the task of keeping my baby alive, and now someone’s made me think of a possible scenario wherein he’s not alive, and oh my god, I think you just told me that red + yellow = purple.

I’m thankful for her generosity. I really am. And she’s probably right: better to be well-prepared. But really? Is this necessary? Life insurance? For a five-month old?

*****

I was blog-hopping, catching up on my favorite people and finding more amazing people on the ‘net, and I came across Arwyn, aka woman who completely rocks my socks. Now, I’m not saying that I completely agree with everything she says, but so so so much of what she writes speaks to the kind of mom I want to be (specifically in the socially- and politically-conscious realms) that I can’t help but be a little in love with her. She’s the kind of writer who makes me jealous because I swear she puts my ideas down on paper more eloquently than I ever could have done. She’s a feminist. She’s awesome. It’s official: A is for Awesome is for Arwyn.

So I’m discovering the nooks and crannies of Arwyn’s blog, and I come across this post and instantly realize what it is about my friend that bothers me so much. It’s not that her kids are well-mannered and well-groomed, but that they don’t act like kids. They act like little adults. And ya know what? That’s fine. Her kids happen to have adult personalities, and she loves them for who they are. Beautiful. Great. As it should be. But to look down on other kids because they act like kids? Um, no, not cool. And clinging to the “kids are meant to be seen, and not heard” belief? Completely unacceptable. Thank you, Arwyn, for putting into words what I’ve been feeling.

What goes up…

More conclusions from letter-writing

I screamed at Riley. I feel like I’m a huge failure as a mom because I did that. I haven’t been able to sleep since then, and I keep telling myself that he’s only four months old, he probably won’t remember it, I was overworked and not sleeping well to begin with, it’s only my imagination that now he doesn’t seem to smile as much. I don’t know… I was just so tired and lonely and frustrated. The house was a mess, there was no food in the house, none of my laundry was clean, I was fighting with my brother, I had homework and schoolwork up my ass, and the maid and nanny were on an extended vacation. I hadn’t slept or eaten or showered, and he just wouldn’t stop crying. He was screaming so I started screaming, and that made him scream louder which directed my attention to him and before I know it-

It’s inexcusable, I know. I swear he looks at me with fiery hate now. I cry and ask his forgiveness. And I wonder just how insane I am, asking forgiveness from a four-month old. I look at all the photos I’ve taken of him: he looks so confident, serene, and happy. I pray to God I didn’t fuck that all up with one scream. I hope all the negativity is just part of my trumped-up emotions. I hope that all the child psychology articles are right, and babies don’t have long-term memory until they’re at least six months old…. God, parenthood is hard.

I knew that, but I hadn’t experienced it till that day.

This is what I’m up to:

I’m doing freelance writing for money, and I’m working on pet projects that are supposedly gonna earn money in the upcoming year. I’m on deadline for those writing gigs; plus school takes up soooo much time, with 7 classes and having to keep a high average in order to qualify for academic scholarship (which I really want to do for money reasons, as well as pride reasons and “it will look good on a CV”); plus keeping a healthy relationship with Rob and friends and family that are in the States while building relationships with my family and potential friends in the Philippines; and of course being a domestic diva (5 people in the household – including the nanny and maid, who I have to treat like “nieces” because of the culture and despite the fact that the nanny is old enough to be my mother – and 6 dogs!)… I’m pretty overwhelmed. I de-stress by blogging and reading and planning the future.

No joke: I fantasize about all the money I’ll make as an RN and Rob will make as an RN, and the fact that we are thisclose to already having 3 houses in our names, and our “real life” which will start when we catch up in NYC, and are able to do lots of traveling and working at glamorous jobs (writer for me, physicist for him) and have more genius, beautiful children.

How sad! How predictable I have become! How common!

I smoke all the time now, and I exercise until my bones ache. I think I’m punishing myself for screaming at Riley. I think I want some kind of absolution. Or maybe I need problems in order to function at a high level. Or maybe I just really, really need therapy. For the first time in my life, I’m really trying to be as close to “perfect” as I can possibly be, and I realize that I’m fitting the profile of a potential food disorder case. I’m high-strung, a perfectionist, easily upset by mistakes and flaws that I find in myself. I’m working so hard to achieve so much, and if I feel like any part of it is less than awesome, I buckle down, resist sleep and food, and sigh because at least I’ll be thinner and can fit into more clothes.

I tell myself this is all just a phase. Rob will get here (maybe as soon as February!), we’ll keep house, we’ll go to school, we’ll build a life free of instigating from all of our parents, and things will work. I tell myself that this is what I’ve been waiting for my entire life: a chance to write, reset my priorities, plan the future, earn degrees affordably, raise a beautiful child… I tell myself all of this, but I’m so wrapped up in performing, in acting, in being as close to perfect as possible that I don’t know what’s what anymore. I’m not sure who I am or what is real or how I’m supposed to get a hold of myself. I pray that I’ll wake up one morning and feel normal again. But right now, I just feel quick, moving, functioning at the speed of light, feeling and thinking and producing at the rate of a million breaths a second. And I say that it’s about time. Compared to how I was in NYC, I am now so productive, so good at fulfilling my potential, so active and full of momentum. Compared to how I am now, I was stagnant, static and inert. Now I’m learning science, how to be a nurse, new languages, how to be a mom, how to be a partner, how to be a daughter, how to be a sister – these are all things I feel like I thought I knew, but I’m realizing that I was always too self-involved to really know anything at all.

*sigh*

This is long. My head hurts. I should try to sleep. I’m supposed to see my nephews tomorrow, and I’m not sure how much posturing I’ll have to do. They’re sweet and respectful to me, and part of me assumes it’s only because I’m American and they think I’m rich…

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I don’t know how to be happy. It sure feels like it. Here I am, in the best possible situation – writing a storm (and getting paid for some of it!), living it up on a tropical island, away from my crazy parents, with my gorgeous baby and (most of the time) awesome brother, and with hired help… And I want to write “with the love of a good man”, but I’m not sure right now if “love” or “good man” apply, and I don’t know if I’m fixated on disproving either/both because a hidden truth is gnawing at me or because I’m feeling a general malaise and needing to accuse something as the culprit.

I just know that happiness is new to me, and I don’t know how to handle it, and I don’t know if I’m able to fully achieve it. Like I wrote on Facebook recently, “life is so sweet, it’s giving me toothaches. I have to chew on some grit to fill in the cavities.” Maybe I’m not meant to go through life all fluffy and light. Maybe heavy and dark suits me.

Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time. LOL Let me know how you’re doing. Also, let me know: Am I going crazy? What’s this I’m feeling?

I was killing time on Facebook…

And looked through Rob’s friends so I could add some to my proof of popularity friends list, and a thought occurred to me: jealousy has never been a problem with us.

I thought about my other relationships – like the one that lasted seven years (on and off), and the very short but very poignant one that abruptly ended around the same time I met Rob – and it dawned on me that I’d always been quick to feel inferior to other women. Maybe it was because I grew up with a dad that always cheated on my mom, so I saw other women as competition. Maybe it was because, in my house, there was an unspoken rivalry between my mother and I for my father’s attention (which he provoked). Maybe it was because I was a victim of the “ugly duckling complex.” Maybe I just like feeling fiery. Whatever the reason, I vividly recall accusations flying through windows, out of doorways, into telephones; my screaming, his screaming (no matter who “he” was), our mutual suspicion and paranoia and general immaturity…

And I remember the suspected “other women”, all of them runway models in their own right, strutting down New York City streets like they belonged on Parisian catwalks, darkened eyes, full lips, and bodies that belonged to women named Naomi and Cindy and Christy and Elle and Stephanie and Linda and Claudia. This was my competition.

I killed time on Facebook, thinking about the future, realizing that if Rob really moved here in a few months and we managed to live together on the other side of the world, my entire life would be planned out. We’d get married, have more kids, become nurses while pursuing our dream careers, travel, buy real estate, be boring old people with exciting stories to tell from our younger years. And none of that jealousy would be there. All of that intensity, the need for white-hot arguments about insignificant others, the torturous pangs of envy that we could fling like arrows at each other, the haughty angst and hot make-up sex – none of it would be as it was before, with those other men.

Now we argue about the banal and the mundane: not just who did what and why, but also are we right for each other? Does the fact that we don’t see eye to eye about the most fundamental of issues mean that we’ll eventually get tired of having to settle for not understanding each other? Is our relationship worthy of the rest of our lives? Are any relationships worthy? What if we do this, follow our guts, seize the moment, promise to love, protect, cherish, respect, and obey each other, and then realize that it was all because of a momentary blip of confusion, or of inexact emotion, or of misplaced affection? We argue because I have doubts, because I have complaints, because I have desires that I fear will never be fulfilled because Rob is Rob and I am attaching myself to him, ball and chain.

But then again, something tells me I’ll always feel this way. No matter who I promise myself to. No matter how perfect he is for me, on paper, in real life, or where it counts. I’ll always have doubts. Because love has never been easy for me, and relationships have always been temporary. Because I don’t know how to be happy. Because I’m not sure about the important abstractions: love, trust, and loyalty. They are all colors bleeding into their opposites, too closely related to their antitheses to mean anything definitive or real.

At least I know I’ll never be jealous of any of Rob’s friends. He’s related to all the attractive ones.

What it’s like here

It took us about two hours (with loads of traffic) to drive to Metro Manila. My aunt lives in Malabon, which is a part of Metro Manila – and don’t ask me if Malabon’s a city, a barangay (neighborhood), a province, or a town. I can hardly tell these divisions of land apart from each other, so the answer I give you will probably be wrong anyway.

What I do know is that in order to get to my aunt’s neighborhood, you have to take a series of one-way streets. This is the reason that my brother doesn’t know how to get home from Malabon: he always gets confused from all the one-way streets. My aunt accompanied us home, and when we reached the neighborhood in the video, whose name, by the way, roughly translates into “fucks with you” – AND I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING ABOUT THAT – my aunt tells us a sweet little story.

Years ago, my aunt, Tita Quel, was in an Oner with her brother-in-law, Tiyo*, and they were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the rough part of town. There was a traffic officer at the intersection, and because the Philippines is the land of corruption and irony, the fact that the traffic jam was as bad as it was didn’t seem out of place. Tita Quel had her purse on her lap, and she looked out into the sea of traffic with weary eyes. Night was only now taking root in that part of the world, and the dusty sidewalks looked like they belonged on the set of a Clint Eastwood western.

A man made his way through the crowded street. He was non-descript, even slightly attractive. He wore neatly-starched and -pressed clothes, and this wasn’t some thread-bare outfit, either. The fact that he was walking through traffic was as normal as the fact that roosters were fenced-in on the tiny triangles of grass that divided the wide boulevard. Tiyo faced the front of the car, but his eyes scanned the entire scene: a police car was about 75 feet away; a few Oners were scattered in the crowd, easy targets because of their lack of doors; one Oner had two female passengers who wore lots of jewelry.

As the well-dressed man made his way through the crowd, Tiyo muttered under his breath that Tita Quel should put her purse in the middle console. Quickly, she did as she was told. The good-looking stranger walked past, and though she found him attractive she couldn’t help but shiver with fear as he neared. She covered herself with the curtains that clung to the car where doors should have been. She held her breath, hoping that she wouldn’t be noticed. She smelled predatory instinct in the air: danger, blood-lust, potential violence and sweat mingled in the sweltering humidity. Her eyes followed the stranger as he deftly maneuvered through the muggy cacophony of mufflers, voices, and exhaust fumes.

The stranger stood by the side of the Oner that had the two bejeweled passengers. He brandished a knife, and held it to the neck of the closer woman, who sat in the passenger seat wearing a purple dress. He instructed the woman in the purple dress to give all her jewelry to her driver-friend, who wore a pink dress. With shaky hands, the purple dressed-woman did as she was told, then the man said something that made her begin to cry. Her lips quivered as she looked from the man to her friend, who also began to cry. The man tauntingly danced the blade close to the woman’s face, then slid his penis out of his trousers. The woman sucked him off while the crowded street of cars watched. No one tried to stop it.

Tita Quel’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. She couldn’t help it: her voice, raised an octave, began to squeal on the stranger.

“Sshhhhh!” admonished Tiyo. He warily eyed the traffic officer, who was probably in on the scam and purposely keeping the cars in grid-lock. Who knew who else was in on the assault? The officers in the police car? Passengers of other cars? Were men hiding in bushes? Did the stranger have accomplices milling in the traffic? Anything was possible. A shoot-out could occur from a single concerned act. “Stop. Looking.” Tiyo said, glaring at my aunt.

She did what she was told. The stranger came in the purple-dressed woman’s mouth, then zipped up as if he’d just taken a piss on a public wall (another common occurrence here), and told the pink-dressed woman to hand over all of the jewelry. He sauntered off into the crowd. The cars had hardly moved. My aunt had barely breathed. The Philippines had only proven its tough-as-nails image.

Until this day, my aunt wonders about the purple- and pink- dressed women. Did they seek counseling after the incident? Were they able to go on with their lives just as if nothing had happened? And what about the stranger: Was Tiyo right? Were the police officers and the traffic cop in on the assault and robbery? Or was the stranger a lone criminal, taking advantage of the fact that people would assume he had accomplices? What would have happened if someone had rushed to the aid of his victims?

I feel like, if that same incident happened today, I would say something, do something, do anything. But who knows? Being here makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

What would you do?