I know it's supposed to be Christmas. But I don't feel it.
There's no snow in the Philippines but everytime Xmas is around the corner, it's so real you can almost taste it. I wonder why I don't taste anything this Christmas.
Is it because my mom didn't bother decorate? Is it because there are almost NO decorations a mile wide? There's a wreath or two here and there, but it doesn't count for much.
The carolers are more annoying than entertaining. They sing the same songs off key again and again and are always in a rush to end the songs. Even when you tell them your parents aren't home, they keep on pestering you for coins.
There are parties here and there, but when food's free, it's not too exciting to get a third serving of fruit cake.
But I'm happy to be home. I've been interacting with my family more than I usually do: talking about band stuff with Karl, about High School with Deanne, Gaming with Raushan, Local politics with my mom, college life with ate Jean. I dont feel that alienated from them like I've been feeling ever since I moved to Cebu.
This is going to be a very short and very cheesy conclusion. Isn't christmas supposed to be about the family? I don't have to feel the spirit of christmas in kikay trees and men in red suits (PVC or not). It's been a while since I felt warmth. This may be the warmth most people have on normal days, but I realized this is all the christmas I'll ever need.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Stormy Cebu
I love storms...
I love staying indoors while the storms destroy everything in sight...
I love having a reason to snuggle up in bed with socks on my feet and a mug of hot choco in my hand. I don't like choco but I like the warmth from the mug.
I love sleeping to the sound of rain outside my window, and waking up to the sound of rain still on my window.
I love walking around town just before a storm ends-when it's only drizzling.
I love picking up the spoils from a storm. I love wondering how the dead bird ended up dead on the sidewalk beside a dead cat.
I love the cold breeze that can't hurt me no matter how hard it blows because I'm warm in my socks and my unwashed hair.
I love the silence in the aftermath of the storm that only he sun can break.
I love not having to live under the sun before life resumes order and the chaos is swept over by street cleaners and irate mothers.
I love staying indoors while the storms destroy everything in sight...
I love having a reason to snuggle up in bed with socks on my feet and a mug of hot choco in my hand. I don't like choco but I like the warmth from the mug.
I love sleeping to the sound of rain outside my window, and waking up to the sound of rain still on my window.
I love walking around town just before a storm ends-when it's only drizzling.
I love picking up the spoils from a storm. I love wondering how the dead bird ended up dead on the sidewalk beside a dead cat.
I love the cold breeze that can't hurt me no matter how hard it blows because I'm warm in my socks and my unwashed hair.
I love the silence in the aftermath of the storm that only he sun can break.
I love not having to live under the sun before life resumes order and the chaos is swept over by street cleaners and irate mothers.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Saturday, December 02, 2006
I Am A Victim of Stage Mom Syndrome
You think you have stage mom problems? Dig this- I have one mother, four aunts, and a dozen or more Titas who’re all convinced that I’ll be Miss Universe one day.
All my life, I’ve been surrounded with doting females who send me clothes with rules attached to them (wear this white skirt with those pumps; this blouse with that pair of pants…); turn their noses up at my interests; curse my inheritance of my father’s posture and later, his cynicism; match-make me with their sons, nephews, and song idols (my mom declared wanting Michael Buble’ as a son-in-law once); and ultimately dictate how I should live my life in order to become an ideal candidate. They’ve got it all figured out. To them, I’m the shooting star they’ve all been waiting for: I’m the only way they can fulfill their dreams.
When my aunts’ find out I’m in the area, they all invite me to their homes. Once, an aunt asked me to sing something for her. Little did I know that she was planning to drag me off to an audition for a singing contest on TV. Thank God for menstrual cramps. Another aunt wanted me to go to the mall with her. We walked around the mall until my poor footsies were pooped. Unfortunately for her, there weren’t any talent scouts in the area. They could all have been on a trip to Pluto, I suggested. If I were rich, I’d probably have paid for the trip.
One aunt seemed to live for dressing me up. It seemed to me that it was her life’s cause to turn me into a living Barbie doll. Whenever a new “wardrobe” would arrive, I’d be forced to try everything on for my persistent mother. Whenever I went over to her place, she’d pull me to her bedroom and throw me what would seem like a whole mall of clothes and demand I try EVERYTHING. I’d be stuck in a pile of tank tops and miniskirts, wondering how my Silent Hill game was faring without a player at the PS2 still running in the living room. She’d take me along whenever she had a party to attend to and I’d be stuck in the middle of housewives talking about starlets and models, feeling more and more like a bird in a gilded cage. Or better, a moose in a tutu.
One summer, I came to visit her in Manila. My suitcase was filled with clothes I chose for myself. I made sure that my suitcase wouldn’t be able to accommodate any stray pink tube tops my sneaky aunt could smuggle in while I wasn’t looking. The moment she opened my suitcase, I knew my frocks were history. “BLACK!!!!” She shrieked disdainfully. The very next day, we went shopping for white sandals (I wasn’t even allowed to wear my grey chucks). Since Vogue has declared “Goth” fashionable, my regular shipment of clothes from my saintly aunt has ever since included a poor excuse for a corset once or twice, but a corset all the same. I’m proud of the fact that crowds part when I pass because they’re afraid I might grab a handful of their hair and manufacture little voodoo dolls of them. I stopped wearing my usual smudged massive eyeliner the moment Hillary Duff started popularizing the smoky-eye effect. People used to fear me. I didn’t have to explain myself to them. Now I’m just like every poser/kikay you meet down the street.
Then there’s the time even my hair became an issue. That was when Hair Rebonding became the “in” thing. My aunts started cursing their own genes for the natural curling of my once-so-straight-and-shiny-hair. I didn’t care. I was happy with my locks. At least if I got lost in a crowd, I’d be easy to spot- I’d be the fur ball in black amidst the sea of straight, shiny, boring hair. An aunt offered to pay for the parlor fees. I refused. I said I’d only let her have my hair cut. No thanks for the proposed hair overhaul. The parlorista somehow got a wind of what my aunt wanted. After my haircut, she ironed my hair straight to give me a taste of things to come. I have to admit, it looked good. My aunt looked at me like the devil’s advocate as if to say “This could be permanent you know…” After a day, I got bored and wanted my curls back. When curly hair became trendy, she stopped pestering me about the hair. I also had my hair relaxed that season. My mom has yet to know.
One of my mom’s gay friends kept on hinting of the “possibilities” that could happen if she let me go under his training. When I was 13 or 14, he’d come every day to work with me on “the walk”. I was supposed to glide through the room. I felt ridiculous. After a while, I psyched myself into thinking this’d be just like theatre, and I began to enjoy myself. I was starting to get from faulty hovercraft to delicate swan when I realized what perfecting the catwalk would mean for me. There’d be lights everywhere; a long ramp in front of me; make up and sweat on my poor nearly naked body; and at the edge of the stage, an obnoxious bunch of people who barely even know me, yet whose judgment of the personality I’m supposed to “exude” onstage will brand me for life. I realized that this sort of thing WAS different from theatre. In theatre, you take off the mask when you go offstage. In beauty contests, you wear the mask all your life. That’s a very dreadful thought. That’s when I devolved into a homo erectus. My mom’s friend gave up. “Maybe when she’s older” he said.
I may not be adult yet according to the Philippine constitution, but at the rate I’m going, the chances of me turning into an ideal young woman seem bleak. My mom curses college for my smart mouth (which is growing smarter and sassier every sem), and to add insult to injury, I don’t even care about my grades. I spend way too much time in front of a computer or buried in a book/sketchpad to even join Personality Development classes or go to a shrink. I associate myself with the “wrong” type of people and I have way too many secrets to keep. My joining a Beauty contest would be disastrous. Instead of ending my answers with “World Peace”, I’d probably say something like “Chaos is beauty”.
I hope I do not offend any title holders with this article, I happen to respect beauty queens. I believe it takes grit to put yourself in situations where anyone can just bash you and mock you for anything you say or do. Unfortunately I do not have a quick wit when it comes to charming people. What I can do is crack a joke only few people understand. If you want me to write a paper on the relevance of social customs in an Ant farm, I can do that for you. But I cannot talk while consciously trying to win people over. I don’t even want to win anyone over.
Call me insensitive, but I do not think I’m cut out for fulfilling other people’s fantasies. I may be idealistic but I am far from ideal. And I am not a doll. I am a far cry from a symbol of truth, beauty and justice. I cannot reach the status quo because I’ve long lost faith in the society that upholds it. Because as far as I’m concerned, this society feigns support for individuality yet whenever someone rises above the rest in an attempt to try something new, they castigate this deviant, “put them in their place” then follow their footsteps (or at least explore the path they left behind). The deviants of today are the gods of tomorrow. Sorry aunts. I appreciate the efforts you take to make me “beautiful”, and the clothes prevent me from having to go shopping(which, due to my indecisive nature, is a very difficult ordeal), but I like myself just the way I am. If it helps, if my brother suddenly turns gay and wants to join a beauty pageant, I suggest you support him all the way. I know I will.
PS. People actually say Raushan’s prettier than me.
All my life, I’ve been surrounded with doting females who send me clothes with rules attached to them (wear this white skirt with those pumps; this blouse with that pair of pants…); turn their noses up at my interests; curse my inheritance of my father’s posture and later, his cynicism; match-make me with their sons, nephews, and song idols (my mom declared wanting Michael Buble’ as a son-in-law once); and ultimately dictate how I should live my life in order to become an ideal candidate. They’ve got it all figured out. To them, I’m the shooting star they’ve all been waiting for: I’m the only way they can fulfill their dreams.
When my aunts’ find out I’m in the area, they all invite me to their homes. Once, an aunt asked me to sing something for her. Little did I know that she was planning to drag me off to an audition for a singing contest on TV. Thank God for menstrual cramps. Another aunt wanted me to go to the mall with her. We walked around the mall until my poor footsies were pooped. Unfortunately for her, there weren’t any talent scouts in the area. They could all have been on a trip to Pluto, I suggested. If I were rich, I’d probably have paid for the trip.
One aunt seemed to live for dressing me up. It seemed to me that it was her life’s cause to turn me into a living Barbie doll. Whenever a new “wardrobe” would arrive, I’d be forced to try everything on for my persistent mother. Whenever I went over to her place, she’d pull me to her bedroom and throw me what would seem like a whole mall of clothes and demand I try EVERYTHING. I’d be stuck in a pile of tank tops and miniskirts, wondering how my Silent Hill game was faring without a player at the PS2 still running in the living room. She’d take me along whenever she had a party to attend to and I’d be stuck in the middle of housewives talking about starlets and models, feeling more and more like a bird in a gilded cage. Or better, a moose in a tutu.
One summer, I came to visit her in Manila. My suitcase was filled with clothes I chose for myself. I made sure that my suitcase wouldn’t be able to accommodate any stray pink tube tops my sneaky aunt could smuggle in while I wasn’t looking. The moment she opened my suitcase, I knew my frocks were history. “BLACK!!!!” She shrieked disdainfully. The very next day, we went shopping for white sandals (I wasn’t even allowed to wear my grey chucks). Since Vogue has declared “Goth” fashionable, my regular shipment of clothes from my saintly aunt has ever since included a poor excuse for a corset once or twice, but a corset all the same. I’m proud of the fact that crowds part when I pass because they’re afraid I might grab a handful of their hair and manufacture little voodoo dolls of them. I stopped wearing my usual smudged massive eyeliner the moment Hillary Duff started popularizing the smoky-eye effect. People used to fear me. I didn’t have to explain myself to them. Now I’m just like every poser/kikay you meet down the street.
Then there’s the time even my hair became an issue. That was when Hair Rebonding became the “in” thing. My aunts started cursing their own genes for the natural curling of my once-so-straight-and-shiny-hair. I didn’t care. I was happy with my locks. At least if I got lost in a crowd, I’d be easy to spot- I’d be the fur ball in black amidst the sea of straight, shiny, boring hair. An aunt offered to pay for the parlor fees. I refused. I said I’d only let her have my hair cut. No thanks for the proposed hair overhaul. The parlorista somehow got a wind of what my aunt wanted. After my haircut, she ironed my hair straight to give me a taste of things to come. I have to admit, it looked good. My aunt looked at me like the devil’s advocate as if to say “This could be permanent you know…” After a day, I got bored and wanted my curls back. When curly hair became trendy, she stopped pestering me about the hair. I also had my hair relaxed that season. My mom has yet to know.
One of my mom’s gay friends kept on hinting of the “possibilities” that could happen if she let me go under his training. When I was 13 or 14, he’d come every day to work with me on “the walk”. I was supposed to glide through the room. I felt ridiculous. After a while, I psyched myself into thinking this’d be just like theatre, and I began to enjoy myself. I was starting to get from faulty hovercraft to delicate swan when I realized what perfecting the catwalk would mean for me. There’d be lights everywhere; a long ramp in front of me; make up and sweat on my poor nearly naked body; and at the edge of the stage, an obnoxious bunch of people who barely even know me, yet whose judgment of the personality I’m supposed to “exude” onstage will brand me for life. I realized that this sort of thing WAS different from theatre. In theatre, you take off the mask when you go offstage. In beauty contests, you wear the mask all your life. That’s a very dreadful thought. That’s when I devolved into a homo erectus. My mom’s friend gave up. “Maybe when she’s older” he said.
I may not be adult yet according to the Philippine constitution, but at the rate I’m going, the chances of me turning into an ideal young woman seem bleak. My mom curses college for my smart mouth (which is growing smarter and sassier every sem), and to add insult to injury, I don’t even care about my grades. I spend way too much time in front of a computer or buried in a book/sketchpad to even join Personality Development classes or go to a shrink. I associate myself with the “wrong” type of people and I have way too many secrets to keep. My joining a Beauty contest would be disastrous. Instead of ending my answers with “World Peace”, I’d probably say something like “Chaos is beauty”.
I hope I do not offend any title holders with this article, I happen to respect beauty queens. I believe it takes grit to put yourself in situations where anyone can just bash you and mock you for anything you say or do. Unfortunately I do not have a quick wit when it comes to charming people. What I can do is crack a joke only few people understand. If you want me to write a paper on the relevance of social customs in an Ant farm, I can do that for you. But I cannot talk while consciously trying to win people over. I don’t even want to win anyone over.
Call me insensitive, but I do not think I’m cut out for fulfilling other people’s fantasies. I may be idealistic but I am far from ideal. And I am not a doll. I am a far cry from a symbol of truth, beauty and justice. I cannot reach the status quo because I’ve long lost faith in the society that upholds it. Because as far as I’m concerned, this society feigns support for individuality yet whenever someone rises above the rest in an attempt to try something new, they castigate this deviant, “put them in their place” then follow their footsteps (or at least explore the path they left behind). The deviants of today are the gods of tomorrow. Sorry aunts. I appreciate the efforts you take to make me “beautiful”, and the clothes prevent me from having to go shopping(which, due to my indecisive nature, is a very difficult ordeal), but I like myself just the way I am. If it helps, if my brother suddenly turns gay and wants to join a beauty pageant, I suggest you support him all the way. I know I will.
PS. People actually say Raushan’s prettier than me.
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