I was about to settle down on this entry, when I felt this nagging feeling that I should google this title first.
Turns out, Mr. Obama wrote the book on hope, literally.
So I should throw the man a bone and quote his speech from where I must have subconsciously lifted this title from. In the end, that's what this election is about. Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or a politics of hope? .... I'm not talking about blind optimism here — the
almost willful ignorance that thinks unemployment will go away if we
just don't talk about it, or the health care crisis will solve itself if
we just ignore it. No, I'm talking about something more substantial. It's the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the
hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young
naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta;
the hope of a millworker's son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a
skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for
him, too. Hope in the face of difficulty. Hope in the face of
uncertainty. The audacity of hope!
Ah hope. The nerve of that feeling, disposition to rally against the grain, to impose itself on us. Pushing us outside our comfort zones to chase shooting stars.
But how do we even catch falling stars and other such most precious things when they're out of our reach?
Perhaps Elon Musk said it best, When something is important enough, you do it even if the odds are not in your favor.
People have said that this one of the things I'm good at. My exuberance. My optimism. My chutzpah.
How and why I have come to be this beacon of confident aspirations?
I do not really understand why. Perhaps it was the steady diet of Disney films and their protagonists daring to dream of adventure in the great wide somewhere. Maybe it's just that they say I'm an "old soul" - whatever that means. That I dare.
Confession time. When I started writing this particular entry, about two weeks ago, I had intended it to be a treatise on why we should hope. I had envisioned this to be some sweeping inspirational epic - a dissection on hope, to be the be all and all.
However, now is not two weeks ago.
Now, I am considerably diminished. My spirit dissipated. Like a open bottle of soda under the hot summer sun. Sickly sweet with no sparkle.
It was simple really. It was something that could have been fulfilled by anybody. That was literally the word used, anybody.
I certainly had the gall to think I was that somebody that could have fulfilled that role.
As it happened, I failed in my quest. I had journeyed far. Under the pretense of accompanying others on an adventure I had hesitated to partake in. However, I could not pass up the opportunity to try. It was a covert mission of sorts - to woo that one person that had made me feel like I had never felt in my colorful life.
I don't understand why. Logic, in all its falsehood fails me.
Endlessly manipulable logic failed me. Emotion, on the other hand, however maligned, sang clarion songs in my heart - illogical but irrevocably true.
Yet, I failed, a quest that could have been accomplished by anybody. The conclusion is irrefutably definite, if I was not the somebody that could have been anybody, I was, in fact, nobody.
Hope - you cruel audacious beast. How dare you present yourself to me bearing your promises?
How dare you cheer me on, like the fool that I was to follow your song?
The found you some 200-odd kilometers away from your apartment. No one in your town knew you had left immediately after work, much less that you were at that moment 38 meters underwater.
And if no one else had seen you careen off the bridge, it was probable no one could have known. There was barely any mark on the barrier that your car breached before it flew down into the dark waters below.
I get it. It was raining and the road was slick. I don't know what maneuvers you pulled out of your skill set to accomplish this feat, but it must have been equally slick - as the road that Friday night.
I wonder what you were thinking as you plummeted. Did you have time to look at what you saw? The swirling waters that opened up to welcome you. This is what you wanted, of course, right? Did you have time to regret that decision that you must have meticulously planned out? Or quite as easily impulsively decided 10 seconds before impact.
I don't know why I'm driving towards you now. Every traffic light turns red as I approach the intersection, seemingly warning me to stay away, but I have to see you for myself, somehow this is how it all ended.
I pray, but I'm lost. Am I just praying to silence?
Martin Scorsese's 2016 film based on the 1966 novel by Shūsaku Endō of the same name, Silence (沈黙Chinmoku)beings with darkness and the subtle sounds of Japan in the summer, scattered insects chirping before they are engulfed by the deafening song of the cicadas. I could not conjure about a better opening as I too was greeted by same screeching sound when I first arrived. Away from the ceaseless blaring of the city's soundscape, I was faced with silence for the first time in my life. And nothing in the world in more deafening than silence.
In the film, two Jesuit priests enter Japan during the time of religious persecution in search of their mentor, another Jesuit priest who was rumored to have succumbed to torture and has since renounced his faith.
Scorsese wastes no time in depicting the creativity and cruelty of the Tokugawa shogunate. Scalding hot water slowly poured over naked bodies, crucified against the incoming tides, hung upside down over cesspits. And that's just what they did to the human body.
The goal is to crush the spirit. And they were equally skilled at torturing the mind as well.
Surprisingly, the film treats the shogunate and the Christians with a fairly even hand. At its core, Scorsese presents the characters exactly as they are - people, who have very set and firm beliefs that are at an ideological war.
There is no overt judgment of the shogunate, and neither are they clearly labeled as the antagonist. Of course the cruelty that they inflicted is not shown in a positive light, but at the same time they weren't portrayed as unthinking devils. Quite the opposite actually since the films spends time overtly debating the clashing ideologies.
A particularly compelling scene has Andrew Garfield's character, Fr. Rodrigues, in a heated debate with his captor, the historical inquistor, Inoue Masashige. Masashige argues that Christianity has no place in Japan because it is a swamp, where nothing grows - a disturbingly still-relevant analogy for Japan which is still a country set on its own ways of doing things - persistently resistant to new ideas. Fr. Rodrigues argues back that naturally nothing will take root, when the soil itself is poisoned.
The stalemate that they reached is that Masashige claims he does not wish to be cruel, and does indeed want to set Fr. Rodrigues and his followers free on the condition that he and his followers apostasize by stepping on an image of Christ, called a fumi-e. The priest unsurprisingly, and understandably refuses. In response, the shogunate tortures and executes his followers using slow agonizing methods of torture.
Rodrigues prays to God for help, and the response is always the titular silence.
If God were real, why does he remain silent and indifferent to the suffering of people who love Him? And even if He were real, would you want to follow someone who lets His people die such horrific deaths?
Ultimately, even if you choose to believe, how does one respond to such deafening silence?
It would all too easy to jump to the question is there a God or not? I personally believe that whole debate is moot, and somewhat shallow given that it is likely that a person watching this film would have already made up his mind about that question.
Rather its more telling if we consider what do we think of the person who persists to believe in a silent God.
Do we consider the faithful as foolish for listening to silence? After all, of what use is prayer if they are left unanswered? On the other overtly generous extreme, do we venerate the faithful for their faith against all odds? That the faithful should always remain that - faithful, as there is no room for doubt for the believer.
I feel the film ascribes to neither, as the Jesuit brand of Catholicism would as well.
I am all too familiar with this experience. It seems sometimes that no matter how much I pour into prayer and words, both to the divine or otherwise, I usually met with nothing but the hollow ringing of emptiness.
However in Jesuit spirituality, we believe that to doubt is not only human, but also an essential part of being believing.
"Faith begins, where reason ends" is a idea commonly thrown around that faith and reason are mutually exclusive. However, I believe that this is a misconception - faith without reason is not faith at all. It is what we call "blind faith" - where we follow just because, without fully understanding.
That's where doubt plays an important role. Doubting is a form of critical thought, and when other religions discourage it, it's understandable that people who are experience the harsher side of reality ultimately reject those religions. They're insular. And ultimately run into the danger of becoming irrelevant.
So what evidence do we look for when God is silent?
The Jesuit response is at the same time more enigmatic yet somehow quite all-inclusive - find God in all things.
It's a challenge to the faithful to find reason not in a literal voice of God booming from the cosmos, but rather in the mundane, and even in the morally ambiguous.
Take for example that bastion of logic: science. Can you find God in science, when in contradicts the Bible?
It's not so different from being a radio astronomer, I believe. Why search for life when there is nothing (so far) out there except cosmic noise? Many discoveries are found accidentally or in the most innocuous corners of the observable universe.
In fact, the Pope, who is also a Jesuit and a scientist, says that "scientific theories were not incompatible with the existence of a creator – arguing instead that they 'require it'."
Silence, therefore, isn't just about God being silent, but also the personal, internal silence of mind and spirit required to hear the "voice" of God. There are far too many concerns both consequential and petty in our everyday lives that create noise. It's only when we achieve that level of still that moment of clarity can be experienced.
For Fr. Rodrigues that moment is when God tells him to step on Christ's image to save his followers. Is that really God who spoke to him? Was it just his own mind? Or worse, the Devil?
To find the answer, one has to look at the ending - wherein Andrew Garfield's Fr. Rodrigues spends the rest of his life in silence.
And as always, I continue to listen for an answer.
Every so often, you come across a piece of writing that speaks to you. It was as if the author were looking at you straight in the eye and says, "I know you."
It was a moment of uncanny recognition that was much needed in the dreariness that came as the breathtaking snowscapes in the mountains that surrounded my town began to melt.
But first, a short flashback of sorts.
My heart had began to calcify in the past few weeks. The remedy was a karaoke session, something I hadn't really been into before coming to Japan. Back home, everyone was so much better - so passionate about their personal set lists, I couldn't gather enough nerve to really sing unless I was coerced.
Fast forward to the past year and half here, I've gotten a lot bolder at not only coming to karaoke, but also initiating it. I've gotten better at this whole confidence game, and I've been acquainted with the disappointment that accompanies a karaoke session being cut-off by time with my choice setlist still in the queue.
I have rediscovered my love for OPM (Original Pinoy Music - Pinoy being a national nickname for Filipino) since singing it allowed me the protection of ridicule (not that Americans are like that - Filipino has it's own special word for being tone-deaf: sintunado, much like the Japanese 音痴 onchi). More tellingly, it allowed me to reclaim my identity as a Filipino.
Filipino love songs are better than American love songs. I had struggled to explain why. While many American pop songs about relationships are not shy about expressing love, affection, sex and the like, there's something missing about them.
What was missing was hugot (ˈhü gôt), a concept so intrinsic in the Filipino psyche that it has become its own social media movement in the past few years.
Hugot literally means to pull or to yank, much like pulling the plug out of a socket. However, it also has the added layer of implied depth. Such as pulling out at the end of a sexual act, or to draw something out from the depths of one's memory. This of course also applies to emotion, like plunging a hand into the depths of your heart, yanking out a painful memory, and leaving it exposed to the elements.
Yeah, I may not have explained that as well as I could have. A struggle for words, not knowing what to say. So last week, over the hubbub on social media about Valentine's Day, I came across this gem of an article on CNN Philippines.
I've already outlined my initial reaction in the opening of this entry. The introduction, just the introduction, struck a chord and plucked at my cardiac muscles like it was nothing.
And in a very Holden Caulfield-esque moment, I felt the urge to get reach out to the writer, a certain Ms. Petra Magno. I wanted to explain to her how her innocuous introduction floored me, devastated me as a reader. I wanted her to know the potency of her words. On the other hand, as a writer, I wanted confess my (professional) jealousy over what she has achieved, and how I wished that I had written what she had so skillfully articulated.
So in a departure from my usual entries, this one in particular aims to extoll the the brilliance of Ms. Magno's piece and to write a commentary on my own choice of songs that I like to frequently belt out in that perpetual search for catharsis.
If you're interested in the entire article you can find it in the link below. I will just reproduce the passages (in italics) I want to comment on.
Anne Carson in 1986, inadvertently describing hugot: “Simultaneous pleasure and pain are its symptom. Lack is its animating, fundamental constituent.” Hugot,
the quality of confession, is produced in that lack. The beloved object
is far from you, and so you pull the feeling from within yourself with
even greater force.
This simultaneous pleasure and pain is what I struggled to articulate. It's a difficult, almost masochistic, emotion that is widespread among Filipinos. It is not a giddy pleasure (we have another word for that: kilig - a sudden inexplicable sense of joy, butterflies in the stomach, good kind of shiver, usually over a romantic or ideal situation), but something closer to catharsis - a good cry over a sad novel. It's definitely addicting, and Filipinos keep coming back for more. Hugot, as a process and not yet the
product, is violent. It’s essentially a violent act to drag something
out from within, to dredge up something that was meant to remain
concealed. While not all hugot becomes a Filipino love song, all Filipino love songs are hugot. The most admirable quality of hugot is that it is essentially avowal upon avowal, and the most admirable quality of a Filipino love song is its core of hugot: guileless in the confessional, sans irony, sans armor. Defenseless in its honesty. Western love songs in the ‘90s adopted sardonicism, or awkwardness, as armor against the violence inherent in hugot.
“I talked for hours to your wallet photograph,” sang Rivers Cuomo, “You
laughed, enchanted by my intellect, or maybe you didn’t.” Hugot
is hardly self-conscious, though, and while “The World Has Turned and
Left Me Here” remains a love song, Cuomo is too self-conscious to have
achieved hugot; he’s escaped the damage by disavowing it right away.
While I had often dismissed many American pop songs that pertain to love as either shallow or too sexual (really check out most of the recent songs about love, like Taylor Swift), I liked how Magno points out that hugot is a confession sans irony, sans armor. I admit, I may have scared off many a guy with my forwardness. It's almost unbelievable how I could be so honest. In the wilderness of dating, there is too much posturing, too many games, which in turn have rules upon rules that complicate what is already complicated.
The world has taught many to be wary of honesty. As I have said before, I am not too good at this game. I play with my cards open, much to my own disadvantage.
Off the top of my head, the closest analogy I could think of would be like country music as a genre, or for singers, all of Adele's songs.
And yet the Filipino love songs counsels, “Huwag mong ikatakot ang bulong ng damdamin mo.” And yet the Filipino love song asks, “Ilang awit pa ba ang aawitin, o giliw ko?” The Filipino love song doesn’t suppress, and the Filipino love song doesn’t tire.
The Filipino love song does indeed counsel. It is a collection of wisdom and foolishness, very much self-aware of the absurdity of love and in its unabashed celebration of emotion, oddly intellectual in its dissection of the predicament. The first line says, "Don't be afraid of the whisper of your own feelings," while the second one asks "How many songs, do I have to sing, my beloved?"
Translation doesn't do it justice. Giliw as a word for the object of one's affection does have some old timey connotation, but is not as awkward and distant as saying beloved. It's at the intersection of beloved, dear, and desired.
And as the Filipino love song doesn't tire, so does the Filipino lover - well, as long as he is adequately drip-fed with love songs. My friends have asked why I do not tire of all this. Of course, I do get tired. There are many moments when giving up, relenting to the hopelessness and the futility of it all, seems to be the only recourse. However, somewhere within me, the amidst the ashes of the burnt-out coal of my heart, a piece of ember still glows.
“What
the lover needs,” writes Carson, “is to be able to face the beloved and
not be destroyed.” This is why we create things like music; we need
something to exist in our stead, to contain the feelings that would rip
us in half if we housed them for too long. How close is the product to
that which produced it though? I believe that nowhere are feelings more
pure than when they’re in a Filipino love song.
I cannot write more to explain this further. Isn't that the scariest thing of all? That fear of being totally obliterated by someone who has this power over you? The experience is universal. But the response is not.
And so as the Filipino heart whose rhythms are synched with the Filipino love song continues to beat, I continue to write.
Or perhaps sing.
The Songs
These are some songs that I have more or less associate with the best of the Friend of Mine
Ah, this one. This is the song that got me hooked on OPM love songs way back when. It's a friendzoned song way before that term even became a thing.
At it's core its about the tragedy of falling in love with your best friend, or someone who is out of your reach. However, in lieu of anger, the persona instead swears fidelity instead.
It's counter-intuitive, but it's also about the helplessness one feels about being in the situation. The persona did not choose to be in that situation, and the song is just about dealing with this far from ideal situation.
Back in the day, I fell in love with a best friend, and this song was my outlet for those feelings.
He may or may not have reciprocated my feelings. I suspect there was a point that he might have, because in hindsight, he was coming on to me. I pushed him away because I had a boyfriend back then, but the damage had been done and he withdrew from our friendship.
Hmmm, took me years to get over that one. The reason was probably because I loved him more than I actually loved my boyfriend. In my mind, which isn't too far-fetched, my rejected pushed him into the closet, if ever he was any shade of gay.
It's a little weird to sing this now, but it's a good one for old time's sake.
Don't Know What to Say
Another one with Lea Salonga. She didn't originate both of these songs, but I love her versions the best. If she sounds familiar, you may have heard her before in these movies by this little known company called Disney. She was the singing voice of Jasmine and Mulan.
This song, I always sing. I love this since it fits me to a T. It's the self-confession of a hopeless romantic. It's right there in the lyrics. What tickles me in particular about this is how it captures that lack of eloquence that despite having seen countless films, sung endless love songs, the moment of truth is botched by the sense of awe of encountering the beloved. Ligaya
At this point, I've moved on to the songs in Filipino. This first one is something that I only recently grew to love. The video here is a crude, fan-made music video, but I think it's adorable and captures the nostalgic experience of being in love when you're young.
This is a Filipino song that is quite specific. The title, "Ligaya," means joy, happiness and such. It's a list song of things that the suitor has done for the girl. The tone is not really a sense of entitlement, but rather of hope. He's done all these things for her, but he is fully aware that he is at the mercy of her decision.
The list of things he's done is a funny one, as he mentions how he bought a new shirt she didn't notice, sung songs for her, eaten grilled chicken gizzard skewers (it's a snack commonly eaten by college students- cheap and readily available, eaten standing up while taking to friends after class), even going as far to say that he'll write her thesis for her.
In exchange for her reciprocating his feelings for her, he promises her boundless joy. It's a naive assertion, but he acknowledges her fears and reassures her that his heart is true and has no qualms whatsoever.
Ewan
"Ewan" is a single word that expressed doubt and indecision. The connotation is quite dismissive, non-committal, and trust me on this one, quite frustrating. It can also be uttered as a exclamation of defeat and helplessness.
Even if the video I've chosen for this doesn't show it, this is a much older song compared to "Ligaya," and can be considered as a grandfather of sorts. The premise is similar. Young man courts the girl, and waits for her response. The newer version switches the gender, but it still works.
It's similarly a song that yearns for answer, with a confession of love "Mahal kita, mahal kita, hindi 'to bola" (I love you, I love, this isn't a joke) as it's opening and a plea at the end for the beloved to say something, just don't say "ewan."
Ikaw ang Lahat sa Akin
This last one is about (surprise) an unrequited love. However in this case, it seems to be more of the forbidden kind.
I'll just translate it directly instead of commenting to much, but at its core, it's an unrealistic, improbable promise of fidelity, that no less true as any.
Ikaw ang lahat sa akin Kahit ika'y wala sa aking piling Isang magandang alaala Isang kahapong lagi kong kasama
You are everything to me Even if you’re not with me It’s one beautiful memory A yesterday that will always be with me
Ikaw ang lahat sa akin Kahit ika'y di ko dapat ibigin Dapat ba kitang limutin Pa'no mapipigil ang isang damdamin Kung ang sinisigaw Ikaw ang lahat sa akin
You’re everything to me Even if I am not supposed to love you Am I supposed to forget you? How can one suppress one’s feelings When what it shouts is that You’re everything to me
At kung hindi ngayon ang panahon Upang ikaw ay mahalin Bukas na walang hanggan Hanggang matapos ang kailan pa man Bukas na walang hanggan Doo'y maghihintay pa rin
And if now is not the time For me to love you Then at the tomorrow that has no end Until whenever ends At the tomorrow that has no end There I will continue to wait
I've selected only three stanzas, but damn how the English cannot capture the power of the word choice in Filipino. The line "Bukas na walang hanggan," literally means the tomorrow that has no boundaries. The poetry of the original is in the transformation of an imaginary time, into a location of sorts, a transcendental place for the lover to wait.
Man, English makes the Filipino lover seem so foolish, doesn't it?
English as a language can be cold and unforgiving at times. It's good for science and other such things, but for the emotion, it's quite lacking, even the punishing the writer into feeling stupid for writing down one's feelings. So we resort to figures of speech. Whereas in Filipino, we can be more direct that. Our language may be too clumsy with words too long for scientific terms to be of practical use, but even the simplest, most common utterances of love are bursting with poetry.
He waited for him in the diner. Whoever he was anyway. No, it wasn't a diner. A phở shop. That's what it was. He found it as he grew tired from stalking the rainy alleys of the city from wanton loneliness.
The cold cut to the bone, and he knew that it would be for the best to find shelter. Inside, the wall of humid air created by the kerosene heater hit his face. Half-relieved at the warmth of the indoor climate thawed his well-chilled face, but still half-frustrated at the fruitlessness of his search. The menu was ragged at the edges. Splotches of ink had bled from splashes of careless slurped broth had made the menu at points incomprehensible. Something hearty would be good, he thought, as he untangled the wires of the earphones from his fingers. Nada. This seemed to be a bare-bones operation. None of the more substantial broths were there. At least not from what he could decipher. He settled for the thinly sliced beef pho. How he wished he could have something more along the lines of brisket simmered for hours over a dutiful flame until it barely held itself together. Again, he couldn't afford to be picky. Picky. Heartier fare. How did wish that he could have had it that way. He thought of those moments he ducked behind the heavy clear plastic that hung over the doors of the less than reputable shops and protected the silently perusing salary men from the cold, but not from prying eyes. He felt oddly liberated, yet exposed from when he entered. His own face held high for all too see, yet retained his anonymity as he was very much a stranger in those parts. The other patrons kept to themselves, never really glancing around, keeping their eyes low, as they went about their less than noble search. While the actual humans avoided his gaze, hundreds of other eyes stared back at him, from their perches on the shelves. The owners of those eyes were prostrate and contorted in every conceivable manner, chests bare and their dignities similarly flaunted for all to drink in their manly essences. He shook himself away from that memory from half and hour or two ago, and fiddled with his phone. Nothing. He looked around the lazy shop. Walls were lined with calendars, posters, and knickknacks from the restauranteur's country of origin and its current foster home. Asian kitsch was the only way he could have described it. Except he didn't. Instead he gazed outward, past from the trio on the table to the right who were either nursing an early hangover or preparing themselves for night that would inevitably lead to one, and out into the street. Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink. The fluorescent glow from the convenience store from across the street mixed the with unseen neon that hung above the store scattered in the glass giving the diner, no phở shop, a magenta sheen as Japanese salsa music bounced around the room. His meal came. It was weak. Just like his spirits that night. This was not what I wanted, he thought. But he took what he could get. The warmth of that soup was good enough, and his stomach appreciated what the tongue could not. He looked around for the waitress, hoping to ask for more condiments, but she had ducked into the kitchen. At that point, he was the only customer left anyway. So in a way her absence made sense. He buckled down and went at it. Soon it was just a stray bean sprout left in the bowl and a stray stem of a basil leaf on the saucer. His pocket vibrated. His heart skipped a beat. Reached in for the phone. Nothing. Phantom vibrations, he guessed. Some haptic bodily twitch responding to invisible signals that swirled in the ether above and around him. Perhaps more akin to wishful thinking. As he stared at that empty inbox, he resigned himself to that fact that he was not going to appear tonight. He collected his things, paid for his meal, and caught the train home. Defeated. Although I probably shouldn't, I wonder how he is tonight.
Today the world lost a great manga artist, Jiro Taniguchi.
I can't pretend to know the depth and breadth of his body of work, but his graphic novel, 遥かな町へ, or A Distant Neighborhoodin English, is one of my favorite literary works.
I had serendipitously found it when I was searching for a work in translation that I could teach my class. I took a chance on it, and it was a choice I never regretted.
It's not one of his more famous works, but I think it's criminally underrated.
I won't speak about at length tonight. I intend to reread it tomorrow, as means of celebrating his life. Hopefully by the end of the year, I could read it in Japanese as well.
In the meantime, here's the trailer for the film version of 遥かな町へ. Surprisingly, it's not a Japanese movie, but a French film, Quartier lointain, as Taniguchi was apparently especially popular in France.
Rest in peace, Taniguchi-san. May you finally be home in that distance place of eternal rest.
A repost of the well-worn Kipling poem that is so oft-trodden by inspirational posters and other similar hawkers of sentiment that it has lost most of its power.
That is until you have a week laden with frustrations and disappointments that words not necessarily written from you and that you yourself have written off as schlock then suddenly the verses regain their potency and luster.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make a heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
And man what a week has it been.
Nothing really tragic happened, but the dullness of the moments are mirrored by the grayness of the winter skies.
The skies themselves do not help as the cold once again descended upon my corner of the world after that moment of temporary warmth.
I had wished that it was snow rather than rain. That cold winter rain that seeps into your bones is enough to embiggen those feelings of self-doubt that draw you to more closely, and more unforgivingly examine your self-worth.
It's not that the problems are by themselves huge. Not at all.
It's the fact that they seemed to congregate around me at the same time. One disappointment after another, echoing externally what I had feared inside.
The dreariness of the winter draws attention to one's inadequacies from the trivial (I really should have been more responsible and bought winter boots) to the existential (Why am I waking up each morning again?).
Even the moments of triumph are lined with bittersweet reality. Last two sessions with my favorite class. Little do they know that they were some of the biggest reasons I stayed. Students I will probably never see again. My own plannedobsolescence. Yet, we do what we do. When beaten down, we find the strength to stand up. Not quite there yet. I'm sure I will be, eventually. Hoping to stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools. In the meantime, it's cold. And I cocoon myself in my blanket. It's snowing now at least. I remember that first day I experienced snow. It was as beautiful as I had dreamed it would be. And yet as jarringly normal as I should have expected it to be. That day was also the first day I saw dog shit as it was being dusted with freshly fallen snow. It was still dog shit, but at least it was slightly more beautiful. Nice.
Filipinos are way too proud to be Filipino. Every single time there is good news that hits world news, we're all over it like flies to a honey pot.
Oh, so-and-so's a Filipino.
Or perhaps, oh his or her mom is Filipino.
Or worse, his nanny is Filipino.
This national pride is a manifestation of a nationwide sense of insecurity brought about by 333 years of Spanish rule, 49 under the US (4 of which under Japan). Colonial history is our history. The very reason we became a country was that we were a collection of islands colonized by Spain and collectively decided we weren't going to take their shit anymore.
And like a kid whose parents got a divorce right in the middle of adolescence, we had an identity crisis.
We want to be Western, but we're not. We eat rice a like good chunk of Asia, but we also love hamburgers and Hollywood movies.
So we latch on to celebrities. Manny Pacquiao. Lea Salonga (Google her, she's fantastic. Our real national treasure. Singing voice of Princess Jasmine and Mulan. God, I'm at it too).
Or the half-Filipino Hollywood types. Bruno Mars. Nicole Scherzinger. Vanessa Hudgens. Darren Criss. Dave Bautista/Batista. Even Rob Schneider.
And with any addition comes to the list you hear the collective groan "Why are we so proud/insecure?"
Well, from the birth of the nation, we were repeatedly reminded that we were lesser than our colonizers. At first our humanity was up for debate. Or we were uncivilized [ye gads, we eat with our hands). Or uncultured (oy vey, we eat using a spoon and fork - the proper (i.e. European way) is with a knife and fork. Well, fork you! Try eating mounds of rice with just a knife a fork!).
So yeah, I am quite insecure about being Filipino.
A friend shared with me the other day an experience she had with a Japanese friend.
She had met this Japanese lady at a Canadian party in her prefecture (she had been invited by a Canadian friend). It seemed that she made fast friends with this Japanese lady. However recently at another social event, Japanese lady found out that she wasn't really Canadian, but rather a Filipino.
Now she wonders if she's just being overly sensitive, but Japanese lady stopped responding to her messages on Facebook. Perhaps even liking her posts less frequently. Maybe there was no malice, but somehow the revelation of her nationality made her less...impressive.
I'm reminded of a couple of times last month when I tried to meet guys on dating apps. Twice this happened. I begin chatting with a guy in Japanese. At some point, I apologize if I make mistakes because I'm not really Japanese. This piques their interest. However, once the guy finds out I'm Filipino, he not only stops talking to me, but blocks me and deletes our chat history.
Twice.
Now, it's clearly not an issue of looks or race. They were interested, but only up to a certain point.
Friends have told me I shouldn't mind them. And that I don't really want guys like that.
Of course, I don't!
But that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. In fact, it stings. A lot.
The sad reality is that I have my work cut out for me to prove to people that I can, and should, be considered as an equal.
Of course, at the same time, I am terribly proud. My gym bag is a Philippine flag for crying out loud.
But still it remains. From finding a dates to applying for jobs, I proceed with caution.
Will people ever consider me as good enough to be considered as an equal?
I am not very good with dreams. You know the thing that happens in your sleep kind.
In those moments when our eyes twitch about beneath our eyelids do we see things that our cognizant mind would not dare show during the day.
Perhaps they're too dangerous. Those deep dark fears of that would send your amygdala relentlessly hitting the panic button are best kept under wraps - preferably with all the trappings of a high-security prison.
Dreams where your feel your gut drop as your soul crashes back into your body are common, but are usually not threatening enough to be more than jolt you awake, sweaty but relieved that it was just a dream. Same thing for monsters that stalk you in own home that don't look quite like your home in reality but uncannily feels like home.
However, the most dangerous dreams are the ones the cross into reality that continue to play even as you are roused into consciousness.
One of the earliest, that I can't shake was when I was around 5 or 6 years old, when I slept on the floor beside my parents' bed. I was in the mouth of a cave of sorts, peering down at the cavern below me. Illuminated by the light of the unseen fire, I saw the shadow imps and demons dancing. They were alerted to my presence and gave chase to me.
I awoke sweaty and groggy in the dark room of my parents. Only the light from the street lights that filtered through the curtain gave the room a bluish hue. I couldn't stand up, as if something was holding me down. I struggled to lift my head, which was weighed down by something. On the mirror of my mother's vanity, I saw my shadow of the longest horns, like a demonic antelope, emerge as I slowly rose from the side of the bed. I had become the demon and those red eyes that stared back at me had me fall back onto the floor and pray the demon in me to go away.
I don't know why I remember that all these years later, but I still do.
There are dreams of course when I die. And the coldness that comes with it. Why was I dead? Did I live my life well-enough? Am I even alive? Was I even alive?
This is usually followed by some kind of morning amnesia, an existential crisis of sorts.
Where am I? Who am I? Do I even exist.
Real heavy stuff.
Another old dream that never left me happened in an abandoned supermarket. Well, something like that. I was with an unknown best friend of mine, a grandmother, not sure if she was mine or his. We were shopping, when the lights went dim and a pack of wolves or werewolves, not quite sure which exactly, stalked us from aisle to aisle. One or both of them were attacked, and I was left hugging one of them as they bled to death.
Again, heavy stuff for a kid. But what had lingered with me was the sense of connection with that "best friend" whose face I cannot remember, but a mournful sense of longing to get to know him, that was cut short by that tragedy.
Dreams can also serve as a medium for some kind of wish-fulfillment. Although in a way, they are the most cruel. Bad dreams are terrible, but at least when you wake up, the reality is more preferable than the nightmare.
Good dreams are cruel because they tease you with the possibility of an alternative reality.
When I was kid, it was always about Disneyland. It was such a pipe-dream for me. My first visit was when I was 4 years old, too young to fully appreciate it, but old enough to know that I liked it.
Lately, I've been plagued by similar dreams. Thoughts that I try to purge from my mind, but my subconscious betrays me time and time again.
When I wake up, I convince myself that it was just that, but when REM rolls back it reassures me yet again that it's real.
Yeah, dreams can be a bitch.
Good thing that last one was about arguing what kind of fish tempura it was at the buffet.
This is a look back at one of my favorite short stories, Frank Stockton's classic, "The Lady of the Tiger"
If you haven't read it yet, you can find it right here.
Warning, spoilers abound.
But if you have read "The Lady or the Tiger," you'd know that that warning is moot.
The frustration that one might feel upon reaching that particular ending can be likened to asking someone for advice and instead of that moment of clarity that you were seeking, the response is a passive-aggressive, "Well, what do you think?" As if a magic mirror held to your face will solve everything.
Of course, it's these moments when we are faced with the most insurmountable of conundrums that we actually do have to face ourselves, and recognize who we are.
Because whatever we think the ending may be, the lady or the tiger, is a reflection of how we view the world.
It may seem obvious to many that the semi-barbaric princess would choose the tiger, since the evidence stacked against the lady seem insurmountable. The semi-barbaric nature, the jealousy one would feel, all point that the youth is doomed.
However, as much as she is semi-barbaric, I choose to see the princess as semi-civilized, and that her love for the young man is indeed true. Thus, if it were true then somewhere mixed in that cold semi-barbaric blood of hers, flows the warmth of compassion that concurrently pumps through her veins.
After all, what else would explain the unwavering trust that the youth placed in the hands of our fearsomely beautiful princess?
Well, love, of course. Or perhaps foolishness.
If foolishness is indeed the answer, then I fear there is no hope left in the world.
We are all, after all, semi-barbarians in this semi-civilized world. It's as if we were dangling in a pit with no choice to but to plummet to the certainty of our demise, rather than climb the precarious, improbable rope to which we are clinging on.
If we let the darkness take hold, then we will never really be able to see the light.
Of course, the certainty of the outcome is never truly guaranteed. We half-make our choices in life blindly. Perhaps the only real fools are the ones who are certain of the certainty of their choices.
Take the semi-barbaric monarch, who is probably more barbaric than anything else. His brand of justice ensures an unhappy ending for the young man, perhaps more so for his daughter. The Tiger brings not only death to the young man, but also the guilt of killing her beloved; The Lady on the other hand brings about potentially a lifetime of jealousy.
He is justifiably proud of his creation - a justice system that not only ensures his personal satisfaction, but one that presents itself as impartial judge that is at its very core - fair.
How could it not be fair? The judgment is based not on the discernment of a human judge or jury, both of which are susceptible to bias. Real justice systems are always subject to the danger of this imagined sense of fairness, so why not remove this variable and just accept that the outcome is inherently absurd, thus any judgment, as long as it is swiftly, and even-handedly passed can be deemed acceptable. In this case, the judge is the combined choice of the accused and the equally imagined concept of poetic justice. The illusion of free will, when the outcome has already been predetermined.
For someone like me who is perpetually insecure of my place in life, I cannot help see but doors in front of me that either lead of success or failure. The blindness to the outcome and necessity of choice leaves me with a sense of powerlessness.
For instance, with this whole immigration brouhaha in the US against illegal immigrants, as a holder of a powerless passport, I have to apply for a visa just to even visit the US. The rigorous preparation process, not to mention the literal high cost, can take its toll on you as it chips away at your confidence. One can prepare all you want, but at the end of the day once you get to your personal interview, you are assigned to a consul who will go over your documents and determine your credibility as an individual.
Of course, they're professional. I'm not even being sarcastic here. Even when you ignore all the myths and hearsays that a certain kind of consul will be kinder, the truth is there are illegal immigrants granted access to "the land of the free" and perfectly legitimate travelers are denied entry.
Yeah, I got my visa in the end. It was inevitable, as many of my friends said. After all, how could they deny you given all my credentials? Well, I can tell you that all those words of encouragement and assurances don't mean much when they come from people who never had to, and never will, go through that. Especially when you're there at that moment, being talked down to and scrutinized from head to toe.
Was the system fair? Possibly. Justified even. However, in the grand scheme of things, it was nevertheless quite ludicrous. Because, even with the visa in my hands right now, I never had the satisfaction of feeling like I won. Only Uncle Sam has that. Much like the semi-barbaric king of our semi-barbaric kingdom.
Faced with such absurd odds, how does one even gain a sense of satisfaction, when the system itself is designed to make you fail?
First, it is essential to identify what is inherently cruel about the system. In this case, it is the illusion of fairness hidden behind a binary choice that is thrust upon you. This is absolutism that things are only either right or wrong. Guilty or innocent. When of course the spectrum of human experience tells us otherwise. This in itself is encoded in the story. The princess isn't good or evil, she falls somewhere in between.
Even if the choice itself in this situation is binary, within that choice is enough wiggle room for us to own that it. Perhaps bravely face death? Or steely kiss the other maiden as a key to a second chance at life. Either way, like the semi-barbaric king, the ending will always be half a relief and half a tragedy.
All the self-control can wear down one's defenses.
I was asked many times if I was okay, and out of politeness, I guess? Perhaps a sense of shame? An adherence to duty. I said, yes.
I didn't want to be seen as unprofessional or perceived to be weak, so I sucked it all in.
In many ways, I'm like a balloon. Inflatable, flexible. Capable to absorbing many of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
However, as nearly limitlessly adaptable and considerate as I can be, when spread out too thinly, stretched so expansively, my skin thins out to the point that the lightest touch turns hair-trigger and in the blink of an eye, that taut enclosure that is keeping everything in, ruptures, unfolds, and peels back on the ill-will that has built up from within. Half a second unspools like eternity, tortuously protracts time as it is mercifully quick.
And I was left there, fist tightly clenched. Trembling in anger.
Raw nerve exposed to the unkind cold winter air.
Flinching with every twitching stroke of winter's icy fingers.
"Ultimately, we bask in the immortality that written words afford us."
Apparently today, 7 years ago, I said this in one of my classes. And it was important enough for someone to post it on Facebook as it so kindly reminded me today.
Well how does one reverse engineer a memory?
I've said so many things - shot from the hip too many times to recall accurately.
Let's see, what am I certain of?
I'm sure it was a 9th grade class, and at around this time, I would usually be teaching "The Merchant of Venice," and the introduction to Shakespeare would be: Sonnet 18.
Ah, soggy, sappy, sentimental Sonnet 18; this old chestnut.
Shakespeare writes to an unknown "thee" (although a quick research would identify that this particular set of sonnets were dedicated to a certain "Mr. W.H.") with the central conceit of contemplating the appropriateness of comparing thee to a Summer's day. Summer takes on the paradoxical role of being desirable and not so desirable. I mean, Shakespeare's English, why would he not find summer desirable? He enumerates Summer's trappings as temporal, even temperamental. And yes, flowers are beautiful, but they will fall. All beauty would fade. Of course, the volta turns this idea on its head by suggesting that the kind of summer that "thee" has is of a different ilk. Rather, it's an eternal one, and it defies the laws of nature. And the kicker is that this eternity is tied to this sonnet, thee shall never die. And by gum, did Shakespeare accomplish just that. Mysterious thee, does live forever. Far more than any of us, with our petty, less notable lives, could ever really accomplish. Life, if we are to strip it down to its cold, impersonal essentials, is about dealing with death. We are dying the very moment we are born. Living and dying are two sides of the same coin, and we just choose which side we would rather look at. (Hint, it's both.)
The basic premise of existence is to eat, drink, breathe, and procreate. To ensure the survival of ourselves as organisms, so we may reach a particular age that we may pass on our genes, so that our species will continue. Hence, some genetic immortality is achieved.
Thank goodness, we are not mere organisms. We are humans, blessed and cursed with self-awareness. Beyond the practicality of logic and science, are art, literature, ethics and their ilk that suggest that there is more to life than just existing.
So once humanity has gotten this survival thing down pat, we created culture - a by-product of our success as organisms. A collection of our beliefs, artifacts, practices, and creations that affirms that we are not just nihilistic blobs of sentient carbohydrates, lipids and protein.
Some men build skyscrapers, others win medals, and others write.
Writing, naturally, has a special place in my heart, as it should in yours. Back before when history and literature was essentially the same thing, writing afforded us humans to collate our ideas and experiences, which allowed us to share this knowledge with other humans. Not only did this facilitate the transfer of said ideas, but it created the idea that we, collectively as a species, have a shared story - an identity. That our tribal experiences, are as different as they are the same. And yeah, to re-appropriate another work of our old friend, Bill Shakespeare, are we not all "fed with the same food" and "hurt with the same weapons"?
And so I write, hoping to contribute to this grand narrative. Sometimes, I end up do say the "write" thing every no and then.
I just wish I remembered exactly what I meant back then.
This is the third entry in the Potter-themed series.
Memory Charms are best used as a last resort.
Hermione Granger famously used this in the film version of Deathly Hallows Part 1, when in a dramatic scene early in the movie, she tearfully wiped her existence from her parents' lives. In the book, she merely modified their memory, which is less permanent.
Not nearly as heart-wrenching as seeing Hermione standing behind her parents, wand extended, whispering "Obliviate,"almost as if she wasn't going through with it. This hesitation intensified the severity of the spell and the decision that led to it.
It is not to be taken lightly.
Hermione's hand was forced by circumstance, an act of love. The cost is hers to bear, and while we can imagine her parents' memories were restored, it won't ever be the same.
Life sometimes makes this decision for us. In "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," the Muggle/No-maj population's memories of the events at the MACUSA were using Swooping Evil venom delivered through a thunderbird-induced rain.
Jacob Kowalski, the No-maj whisked into the midst of all the events of the film, willfully subjected himself to this memory-wiping rain, and tearfully bade goodbye to Queenie Goldstein.
In my life, I tried to wipe your memory of me, little man.
The last day I saw you, you climbed into bed, gleefully looked at me with those innocent eyes, blissfully unaware of my plan. That night, as we said goodbye, you smiled at me, gave me a hug and a wet kiss on the cheek. I did not want to let you go as you clung to me. I held you for a second longer than forever and let you go, knowing full-well in my heart that that could be the last time I would see you.
The drive home was wet. Blurry eyes did not make the trip easy. Entering a freshly empty apartment was even worse.
I suppose it's better now. That you have time to forget me. You're still very young.
You don't know how I would have gladly given my life for you.
Yet in my mind, I imagine in the future, perhaps I will see you again.
I will admire you from afar. And maybe, as Queenie gazed at the oblivious Jacob, maybe I'll see that you'll remember parts of me, somehow.
Ah yes. RENT. The 1996 Tony Award-winning, Pulitzer Prize-winning rock opera/musical by Jonathan Larson, who tragically died of aortic aneurysm before he could even see his life's work open on the New York stage.
I was a teenager back then, but I was enamored by the exuberance, the passion, and the romance of the bohemian characters living for the art and giving it to "the man."
RENT is without a doubt the single piece of literature that has formed me as an individual and informed my decisions and philosophies. If someone wanted to know me better, RENT is definitely one of those places one should start.
I first learned of RENT when I was watching the 1996 Tony Awards on a local channel. I didn't know it back then, but this clip would change my life.
As the iconic open chords, to "Seasons of Love" played it immediately caught my attention as the company lined up, "A Chorus Line" (or firing squad) style, and was enraptured by their question, "How do you measure a year?" The call to quantify the quality of one's life is answered by the eyebrow-raising suggestion, "How about love?"
To consider love indeed as a unit of measurement. The great unquantifiable mass noun that is love. How audacious. How cheesy. How true.
When the rebellious anthem to the bohemian life, "La Vie Boheme" erupted onstage, complete with Anthony Rapp's spastic dance moves it was something I had never seen on stage before. No one else had. It called out to all the misfits and deviants who did not belong to the mainstream of society, "To faggots, lezzies, dykes, crossdressers too," and I answered back with the rest, "To me!" and "To you, and you, and you, you, and you!"
It spoke to me like no other work ever had and gave me a template to live my life by.
That said, the years have changed me quite a bit. I no longer yearn for the bohemian life. I may have started out as an idealist-dreamer, but I've settled now more as a realist with ideals.
It was therefore quite interesting to have been able to see it again onstage after ten years. I had grown up quite a bit. I'm a different person now, a full-fledged adult who has been knocked out by life and had for all intents and purposes adapted to life in society, playing myself up to its expectations and marching to its beat.
The 20th anniversary touring cast that played in Tokyo, wasn't the best one that I saw. Granted there were some standout performances, Christian Thompson as Benny being one of them, it lacked the energy and urgency that the piece required. It felt more like people singing along to their favorite songs rather than really embodying the heart of the message.
By that I mean, it lacked the fear of the phantom threat that is AIDS and the isolation that life at the end of the 20th century. It's quite disappointing especially since it's themes of isolation ring especially true now in this social media era where there's so much isolation despite being so interconnected.
Most disappointingly was the lack of chemistry between Roger and Mimi, the tragic lovers who hid feelings for each other and were fighting off their own respective emotional baggage of living and dying with AIDS. Roger fearfully retreating from it, while Mimi simultaneously recklessly and admirably fighting to live her life.
This is best captured in the scenes, "Life Support" where the characters attend a meeting for people living with HIV and AIDS and facing the uncertainty of having live and knowingly die with the disease. The mantra, "Forget regret, or life is your to miss." is questioned by a small but no less significant character Paul, who argues that the mantra is good and all, but reason says otherwise.
What room does the human soul have for emotion and hope when reason says that it is all going to end anyway.
The scene shifts to Mimi in her apartment preparing for her effusive number, "Out Tonight" where even at her relatively young 19 years of age declares her determination to live her life despite all the pain and heartbreaks from "all the scars of nevers and maybes." Really, it's all an elaborate and lusty setup to ask the emotionally unavailable Roger out on a date.
Roger's response is not what she hoped for as he pushes her away to come back "Another Day." Mimi, along with the rest of the chorus, sings in counterpoint that in fact that there is "No day, but today."
I had almost forgotten about this mantra. Rather had written it off. Last week, I was thrown back into the moment of being 17 again, and how I had sworn that I would live each moment as my last.
In many ways, that seems unwise. To take it literally of course, is exactly that. We should temper our decisions with the reality at hand. No sense in living out every single fantasy. However, we shouldn't always brush off our hopes and dreams aside, if they're real, just because it's difficult or fear that it might not happen.
Fear can be our friend. It protects us from being hurt. It compels us to survive. But it cannot be our primary driving emotion in life, because at best, fear just allows us to survive, to merely exist.
You may exist and alive, but if life is filled with regret, then have you really lived your life?
You may be safe and intact, but are you really whole? As a person.
Last weekend, I sat and watched both as a 34 year old man, and as a 17 year old. I had prided myself in deciding at 16 that I would take control of my life, and that I would act like an adult. It was somewhat foolish, but I have to say, as I looked back on my life, I was had been true to my word.
I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted even back then. I had lived each moment as if it were my last, more or less. I mean I wasn't jumping off buildings or anything, but I certainly worked for what I wanted. My personal measure of success is to be ready to die at any moment and say well, I least I did all I could have done up to that point.
I did not always succeed, as these blog entries serve as testament to my folly as well, but I never really lived with regret.
Perhaps now, I'm more of somewhere in between Roger's pragmatic (and defensive) stance and Mimi's idealistic (and reckless) beliefs. A little older that before, but surprisingly, still the same.
So amidst all the uncertainties and pain, I continue to choose to understand, to empathize, to love.
