Happy Anniversary, Ophelio!

Today is my little sister’s 21^st birthday. I wish her nothing but health, happiness and growth. But today’s story is not about my baby sis.

Today, I also want to wish Ophelio, my new tow truck driving go to a Happy Anniversary. Today is his 15^th anniversary of being in remission from Hodgekin’s Lymphoma. Last week, while he was helping me with my organization’s exploded rat in car engine debacle, he told me his story…

~

Before driving a tow truck, Ophelio was an architect working hard on jobs and not treating himself so well –not enough rest, not eating right, etc. Every night, he would have a fever and break out into terrible night sweats. In the early, early morning hours, he’d be awake and still sweating, he’d shower, feel all right and go to work again.

One day, he had another feverish sweat, but still took a shower and went to work. As he was sitting in front of his computer, all of a sudden, he blacked out. By the time 911 came, his temperature was so high that they had to put him in a bathtub of ice at the hospital, just like in the movies! When I asked him if he was conscious and scared in the tub, he said, “No, I was scared when they told me I had 3 months to live!”

He began chemo at Columbia Presbyterian but the chemo, the hospital environment and the back and forth to just his hospital room began to depress him and he asked his doctor if his insurance would pay for outpatient treatment. They wouldn’t. “I’m tellin’ you. Insurance is there to kill you, not save you!”

His doctor wrote him a letter recommending him for Medicaid. They wouldn’t take him because he made too much money. It wasn’t enough for treatment, though. Ophelio decided to go to the NY Cancer Society for help. They accepted his request and paid for his outpatient treatment. Meanwhile, his mother taught him natural treatments and he began to eat healthier. He told me all about the seeds and drinks that he imbibed that he believes made him better.

When his last check for $13,000 from the Cancer Society came, he returned it. He didn’t need it anymore. “You sent it back?!!?” I exclaimed.

He grinned at himself broadly. “I sent it back! I knew the same way I needed that money, somebody else needed that money, too, so I sent it back, even though everybody told me I was stupid for doing it! Money is nothing. It comes and goes,” he shrugged.

~

Though that day was an awful and unproductive day, I’m kind of thankful that little rata exploded in our car. Otherwise, I would never have been able to meet Ophelio, listen to his story, learn from him and smile with him. It was one of those interactions with a stranger that’s just pure human connection and love.

So, Happy Anniversary, Ophelio. Here’s to 15 years more!

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian

I was finally able to read Sherman Alexie's The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian. It was fantastic -so fantastic it sometimes made my chest hurt. Arnold "Junior" Spirit tells the sometimes poignant, often funny, most times painful story of his journey through high school as a "Part Time Indian." He lives on the rez but decides to go to school in a nearby all white town -at times he finds himself to be too "Indian" and other times too white.

While some brown folks look back into their childhood, trying to identify specific moments where their double consciousness was most palpable. Junior brings us through his double consciousness, flipping open and shut the veil of his identity(ies), showing us that it's everyday. He reminds us how much it matters and how much it doesn't while highlighting life on the rez with his astute observations.

This is a definite must read for brown people of all ages.

Power Can Be...

From a book on deck called Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination, by Avery Gordon, this first paragraph is bomb:

"...the power relations that characterize any historically embedded society are never as transparently clear as the names we give to them imply. Power can be invisible, it can be fantastic, it can be dull and routine. It can be obvious it can reach you by the baton of the police, it can speak the language of your thoughts and desires. It can feel like remote control, it can exhilarate like liberation, it can travel through time, and it can drown you in the present. It is dense and superficial, it can cause bodily injury, and it can harm you without seeming ever to touch you. It is systematic and it is particularistic and it is often both at the same time. It causes dream to live and dreams to die. We can and must call it by recognizable names, but so too we need to remember that power arrives in forms that can range from blatant white supremacay and state terror to 'furniture without memories.'"

Rediscovering New York: Palisades Parkway Sunocos

Everybody who takes the Palisades Parkway to and from the city stops at the Sunocos right next to the GW Bridge. This evening when I stopped for gas, I saw the most bittersweet sight at the gas station -all these older brown men pumping gas for folks while laughing and joking with one another in their neon yellow Sunoco jackets. Lots of them were Latino, West Indian or West African and while it was somewhat sad to see these older men pumping gas in the cold weather, it was just a heartwarming sight to see their laughing and joyful camaraderie. The folks always make something out of nothing. Always.

Unclench, Unwind, Breath Deep

Since arriving in New York, I've tried (not always successfully) to maintain the calm, relaxed state of being that I constantly found myself in in the Philippines. I was rarely wound too tight while I was there. Admittedly, much of this is because I was not working and did not have to surround myself by other people or live up to other people's expectations but my own. As my time in New York has gone on, I've found myself clenched tight more often than I would like and my forehead in my wrinkle inducing frown. Today, I realized that if I didn't consciously address the clench, I'd make it a habit. I'd make it part of my everyday.

Don't get me wrong. I love New York. I am sooooo happy here, but there's no denying the reality of the New York rush -folks speed on the freeway, people push on the subway and rush by on the sidewalk passing hundreds of people and looking into the eyes of none.

So for all those moments when I find myself burrowed deep in the negativity of the culture of the GRIND, I'm just gonna UNCLENCH, UNWIND and BREATH DEEP. If you're lucky, I might even add a smile to that.

Rediscovering New York: St. Charles Borromeo

Now that I have a few folks living in Harlem, I spend a lot of Saturday nights uptown. That means that I need to find a Sunday morning Mass to attend uptown as well. After doing the usual search this Sunday, I saw that the Church of St. Charles Borromeo was only blocks from my homie's pad on St. Nick's.

I walked over to the Gospel Mass and really enjoyed the Mass as a whole -the Liturgy of the Word, the music, but most of all the sense of community. It was extremely clear, that there was a fairly strong sense of community at the Church. One family seemed to be going through an extremely difficult time with two of their sons being racially discriminated against -innocent of a crime, but arrested anyway. It amazed me to hear a Catholic pastor speaking about racial injustice -something that I rarely hear at Mass. Of course, the few Catholic communities I have been a part of are rarely faced with racial issues in such a blatant manner -the privilege. It made me wish that more Catholic faith communities would better address issues of racism and of general oppression. While liberation theology is present within the Catholic Church, it's not often that parishes (I've been a part of) have shared this knowledge and the teachings around it. It struck me that a small, but historically important parish, that was struggling would be the one to have to address these issues. It was frustrating and beautiful at the same time.

No. No answers, but I'm sure glad I found that Mass on Sunday.

Immigraniada -Gogol Bordello

So crazy, but so ill at the same time!!

"To hell with your double standards...we comin' rougher every time!"

Gogol Bordello "Immigraniada" from Isaiah Seret on Vimeo.

Diwang Pinay -Spirit of the Filipina

When I heard about the production of Diwang Pinay, I was unsure of whether I wanted to attend. Would I want to see something about Filipinos overseas workers here after coming back? Would it be watered down compared to my last four months or would it be too much? Did I want to deal with either of those outcomes?

Ends up I didn't have to deal with either of those possibilities because it was perfect for my reentry to the us. I'm no critic but I felt and learned so much from the show which was brief but laden with the density of truth, love and struggle.

Each of the seven scenes focused on common themes experienced by real Pinay domestic workers living and working here in ny. The actors taught us about the struggle of raising other people's children, the interchanging monotony and rush of tasks, abuse, being away from one's family for years at a time, economic struggles, and coping mechanisms.

The play was powerfully created and produced using the stories and voices of the actresses themselves many OFW's for at least 5 years. because of the way it was created and produced. These were the stories of real women working in ny and they wrote the play themselves through a process that empowered them to have a voice.

So often I've seen the lines of OFW's in the airport and my heart always wrenches at the sight of modern day manongs and manangs who still have to make it work away from family, in a foreign place with so few resources. Diwang Pinay allowed us to hear intimately those voices on the OFW line and the voices of those who never or rarely even make it to that line.

In the last scene, the writers came to the front to share messages written to their families, mostly to their children. The room was filled with the tears and sobs of both the actresses and the audience who felt the separation, "the distance" as Geologic says "between our souls and our hearts."

I'm so grateful I was moved to go, even though I was uncertain of how it would make me feel. It's the little things that can keep us connected and it's the little things that will keep us apart. Diwang Pinay was definitely a bridge to home for which I am so thankful!

Economic Hitmen Animated Video

I know, I know. I'm waaay behind. Hasn't everybody read Economic Hitmen already? No, I still haven't, but I sure did like this animated short.

Supple as the Wind

"Knowing love, I will allow all things to come and go, to be as supple as the wind and take everything that comes with great courage…Life is right in any case. My heart is as open as the sky."

The Radiant Child

Recently watched the documentary Basquiat: The Radiant Child. What an amazing piece -really beautiful, really interesting, and really insightful.

It really paints a wonderful picture of a beautiful soul and the amazing work he did.

What a gift.

Watch it.

Sensual Dissonance aka Withdrawal

“As the expressive and sentient landscape slowly faded behind my more exclusively human concerns, threatening to become littler more than an illusion or fantasy, I began to feel –particularly in my chest and abdomen –as though I were being cut off from vital sources of nourishment. I was indeed re-acclimating to my own culture, becoming more attuned to its styles of discourse and interaction, yet my bodily senses seemed to be losing their acuteness, becoming less awake to subtle changes and patterns….

There [Nepal] the air was a thick and richly textured presence, filled with invisible, but nonetheless tactile, olfactory, and audible influences. In the United States, however, the air seemed thin and void of substance or influence…Hence, in America I found myself lingering near wood fires and even garbage dumps –much to the dismay of my friends –for only such an intensity of smells served to remind my body of its immersion in an enveloping medium, and with this experience of being immersed in a world of influences came a host of body memories from my year among the shamans and village people of rural Asia.” –Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous

~

There’s a painting of a beautiful sunset where a person sits on the boat by the shadows of the trees at my friend’s new apartment. The colors are familiar –orange, gold, purple, blue, and pink. I stare at it, letting every part of me travel to those moments where I was the one sitting in that boat, watching the sun, surrounded by warmth, water, and spirits. I breathe in deeply and catch a whiff of the thick island air, half praying that the spirits I encountered will manifest themselves so that I can just remember.

Just let me remember.

A siren squeals loudly outside and a cold gush of air sweeps over me through the window I’m sitting next to and I’m back in New York.

~

Every part of my body wants to remember the Philippines. Every minute back here in the States, I’m afraid I’ll forget it all. I’m afraid that the old images of things that I love will overcrowd the things that I love from my most recent home. I’ve kept myself inside for the past 3 days, subconsciously afraid that overexposure will make me leave it all behind completely. My heart warms at the sight of the New York skyline, but I foolishly fight the warmth I feel, thinking it will make me forget the bundok, the bukid, the dagat, the ilog…lahat –everything.

Like Abram, my nose itches to smell the scents of diesel mixed with heat, dust, and burning garbage of the city or the warm, gentle air of the waters or the clean, crisp air of the mountains. Walking down 139^th, I catch a quick scent of something burning. The familiarity excites me for a brief moment until the cold hits my nostrils with a shock.

My skin roars at the cold –cracked and itchy, screaming for moisture and the natural oil produced by the heat of the islands that kept my sin safe and protected. Granted, I’m not dusty like I was in the PI, but that’s what tabos are for. My hands reach for warm waters to dip into while my toes wiggle in winter boots, desirous of the freedom of tsinellas.

My ears strain for the sounds of birds, crickets, frogs thrumming in the day and the night and the constant chatter of Tagalog. I liked listening to people talk, trying to figure out what they’re saying and being happy when I could get the gist of it. I liked hearing the women gossip and the men guffaw. It always made me smile. Instead, I hear sirens, trucks, and loud voices bantering in English. I guess that’s all right too.

Meanwhile, my tongue trips over both English and Tagalog. I find myself eagerly chatting with my parents about what I experienced in the Philippines and what needs to be done at the house, but shying away from too much unnecessary chatter with other folks, afraid that falling back into my old gregariousness will signal a clutter in the mental space that I had just spent four months clearing. The space for Tagalog is even more limited now that I’m back home. I want to drop Tagalog into my sentences with friends, the Starbucks girl, the waiter at Queen Sheeba, but I can’t. I mean, I could, but you know…it wouldn’t make sense.

My eyes get tired from the screen -staring at photos from my journey over and over again. They long for the bright, burning sun and the green of plants and trees that I would wake up to. I look for Filipino faces all around me, but there are few. Instead, I’m met with the sight of snow, bare trees, and gray pavement. The connection to earth blocked by the concrete weights. Driving into Harlem, I’m shocked to process the sight of other brown people, not just Filipinos –Dominican flags, Black faces, Central Americans. "Oh my GOD!! A Black person!!" I scream at Leigh while she shakes her head at my weirdness. (I probably saw like 8 while I was in the PI. And yes, I was counting.) When’s the last time I saw a Latino…not on Facebook?

~

I look back at the painting longing to let myself be transported again. But it takes so much energy and I’m here now. I can’t always wish for there when I’m meant to be here, now can I?

Anyway, it’s all stored in my cellular memory. Any day now, it will all come back to me.

Western Identity vs. The Drums

Totally stole this from Chucky's Archival Blog. Reminds me of the Tribal Tour:

"As horrified witnesses of ecstatic ritual, Europeans may have learned very little about the peoples they visited (and often destroyed in the process) - their deities and traditions, their cultures and worldview. But they did learn, or imaginatively construct, something centrally important about themselves: that the essence of the Western mind, and particularly the Western male, upper-class mind, was its ability to resist the contagious rhythm of the drums, to wall itself up in a fortress of ego and rationality against the seductive wildness of the world."

– Barbara Ehrenreich, Dancing in the Streets

The Distance

"If you’ve never seen the distance in an immigrant’s eyes,

Then you’ve never seen resistance in the form of a cry.

...His hope...to one day return to his town,

To join his ancestors in their burial ground,

Almost forgot how the countryside sounds,

...In the distance between home and where we live,

It’s the distance between a mother and her kids

It’s the distance that keeps us apart,

And it’s the distance between my soul and my heart." -Blue Scholars

No, I'm technically not an immigrant in the U.S., but I'm definitely in withdrawal. I arrived home yesterday from my other home and as we drove around town this morning, I looked at little things around me, grasping for memories of the places that I just left -a ring statue reminds me of the circles I left behind, the clouds remind me of the sunsets at home. My mind bends itself to fit the two places into congruity -the ice of New York clashing soundly with the heat of the Philippines. My body wants to remember what I just left. My soul reaches for the spaces and images that I grew to love so much. I'm afraid of forgetting. I'm afraid of letting go. But I have to be here. And isn't it always the case that you lose or forget something when you travel that sea?

So, don't mind me if you see my eyes travel somewhere else for the briefest of moments. They're just trying to cross that distance, look back and get me back to the other side.

PI Day 33 -Crossing Boundaries in Cotabato

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PI Day 39 -Remontados and The Nayon

Quilombo. Cimarron. Remontado. Mawon. All of these are words that mean Maroon.

I was a sophomore or junior in college when I first learned of Maroon Societies –communities that grew from runaway slaves, often in the mountains or far from town/city centers where people could live free from the oppression of slavery and colonization. Over time, I began to pay more attention to the concept of “marooning” through history and its possiblities today.

Oli spent some time working with Haile Gerima on his Maroon Project in D.C. and as she learned more about the maroon societies, we talked about what it might mean to be a maroon in today’s globalized, industrialized, hierarchical world. While neither of us may have a clear answer for that, we both knew that self determination and creativity were qualities of Maroon Societies that we wanted to learn more about and highlight in our Third World/Global South communities. There are so many stories about how globalization and neo-colonialism has negatively impacted our towns, cities, and countries, but there are so few stories about the people in the communities that are working to rebuild the strength and identity of the people and places that have lived under a colonial thumb for years –neo-maroonism? Doesn’t sound that great, but you know what I mean.

In our historical studies, we came up with examples of Maroon Societies in the Caribbean, in South America, and North America, but while I was reading Francia’s A History of the Philippines: From Indios Bravos to Filipinos, I finally found an example of Maroon Societies in the Philippines! As I was reading more about the Spanish colonial period I read about Dagohoy’s Republic in Bohol.

Francia writes:

“The longest uprising during the Spanish colonial period took place on Bohol and was led by a cabeza de barangay, or barangay chief, Francisco Dagahoy. From 1744 to 1829 –an astounding eight four years –Dagahoy and his followers numbering in the thousands lived in self sufficient farming communities they had built in the mountainous interior of the island, for all intents and purposes declaring independence from Spanish sovereignty.

…they…emphasized the traditions of bayanihan, thereby eliminating tribute and forced labor… In effect, they had become what the Spanish termed remontados –literally, “those who remount,” i.e., take to their horses and leave the Spanish controlled barangays, or people who had chosen to live outside the jurisdiction of the colonial state. Hampering the Spanish authorities’ campaign to subdue the rebels were the well entrenched positions and fortifications the latter had erected in their mountain lairs. Additionally, sympathizers provided them both supplies and information regarding possible Spanish attacks” (84-85).

Another form of rebellion that Francia notes in his writing was the nayon, the barrios that still exist today:

“outside the main population areas, where small groups of inhabitants had enough to sustain themselves sans extravagance, lived in a spirit of cooperation and harmony (bayanihan), and usually had a village elder to shape communal policies and adjudicate conflicts. In the nayon, life was a hybrid, an amalgam of traditional and Hispanicized mores…It was a rebellion, sans violence, sans fanfare, neither accepting colonial rule completely nor rejecting it outright” (90).

While I’m sure there were negative aspects to these communities (all communities have weaknesses) it was nevertheless nice to read about the everyday revolutionaries that the history books don’t always cover. Next, the modern day maroons! They live. I know they do.

I Miss My Friends and Cuzzos!!

I've jokingly been saying, "I need friends" here. But I'm not really joking. lol. I am beyond grateful for this time to be mentally alone. When I was teaching, the grind did not give me the time to read, write, and think at my own leisure for myself primarily. At the same time, I hecka miss being able to kick it with people my age that I love and trust.

I miss my cousins.

While I have my dope cousins here in the PI, they work and aren't always free to bum around with me.

Thankfully, I've reconnected with my homegirl Cris, who was one of the coordinators of my PI 2003 trip and have found an amazing friend in her while here.

Spending time with Cris made me grateful for her presence in my life and even more grateful for my family at home. Yall make my days move with meaning and love. xoxo.

Riot in the Sky and Surplus Dropped!

My sister Sahra has done it again. After a short hiatus from the blogosphere Riot in the Sky is back online and better than ever. I didn't think it could look any better, but it does! I could say the same for Sahra girl as well! :) My friends are too fly for their own good!!

Sahra also dropped her new epic poem Surplus on the website as well. Download it asap. You need to read her genius! I had the pleasure of reading it before its release and was moved by its imagery, honesty, and its call to truth and action.

Sahra always says, "No homie bias," but I have some straight up, forreal homie bias because my friends are DOPE!!