Please take a day off and call your senators

This just cannot go on

Can’t keep apologizing for my meekness

I want to stop looking over my Asian shoulders when I walk at night

I can’t keep worrying about my friend when she’s a few minutes late from putting coins in the parking meter

My Asian father who doesn’t like being called Asian

He is Chinese

He is Korean

He is Filipino

He is American

Why should he be called names he doesn’t even have in his lexicon?

My mother should not have to worry that she’ll be bashed on the head when she’s buying fish at fresh farms

Call your senators please!!!

Why must I worry about my Asian ass being kicked?

I know more Spanish than Japanese

My palate may be Asian but I cook Mac and cheese for my kids

I take them to Great America

I walk my dogs at Horner Park

Please call your senators right now

This just can’t keep going on

We are not the virus

It’s the hate we need to stop from spreading.

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Happy International Women’s Day!

On this day of reckoning, when women all over the world should be celebrated and uplifted, when we commemorate the sacrifices of the women who came and fought injustice before us, I just want to sleep!

I’ve been alternating between studying and working and this entails, well, mostly reading. When I encounter text-heavy material with academic research, I want to sleep. When I am grading unimaginative, deathly boring essays, I want to sleep. I don’t even mind the stomach-turning grammar. I just want some imagination, some creative language, por favor. But napping doesn’t seem to be in my DNA. Not since I was in kindergarten waiting for the brush of tassels to rouse me from pretend sleep. This aversion toward napping most certainly came from my mother whom I never saw take a nap growing up. I mean, not that i can remember.

Tell me, have you ever seen your mother take a nap? It seems they are constantly moving under the radar, and if we, for a moment, stop to observe, we will see them in action doing something, like the stars in the nightsky that twinkle and fall unobserved by most folks.

Today, I took my daughter to a medical appointment and after that, we had our little IWD brunch. It was sweet. And the day was usually warm and sunny! A bonus indeed. We talked about how important this day is, looked at some fun tiktoks, then the day passed like it always did, with studying, grading, cooking, streaming, feeding and walking pets melding with loving, laughing, kissing, and hugging my loves. All this, and still no napping. Can’t complain though.

IWD brunch with my baby girl.
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If I die tomorrow (Day 6)

Please make a fucking fuss

I traveled halfway around the world to be something

You will not not cry as if my dying means nothing

Once I thought I was

Nothing

I thought I could disappear and no one would even know

Or care

I liked disappearing

I made a career out of running away

when I first discovered the power of flight.

If I die tomorrow I hope it will be easy

I denounce difficulty

Hard work is too hard

Yet I did wash dishes 10 hours a day

I did walk in below zero temperature to get to work

clutching my lungs as if they were going to fall out

I did wait tables and dealt with messy eaters

Filled up empty condiment bottles with ketchup, soy sauce and vinegar

Smiled until my face hurt for an extra dollar tip

I did take care of children who colored their sky pink and their monsters, purple

When first I crossed the border and my savings ran out

I wanted to go back home

There, where people thought I could be something

I wanted to stay a teenager on my friend’s porch

Drink gin and seven up at dusk

Play mahjong all night

Smoke stolen marlboros until my lungs hurt and my throat, torn to shreds

Pray I do not wake choking in puke and blood-tainted phlegm.

Sometimes the things that keep us alive are the things that kill us

Remember the white guy in Kung Fu found dead in a closet?

Amy Winehouse, Whitney Houston?

The water was still warm in the tub when they found her

And what about that pretty young thing who inched her way to the brink to catch that perfect selfie?

Did she even get to post it?

If I die tomorrow, sure, say some prayers, although I prefer poetry

Toasts and tales and yes, a little karaoke

My dog would lay on my side of the bed waiting for me to pet her

I know at least my daughter would cry

She always cried when sending me off at the airport

I know my husband would tell jokes

And my son would smoke weed all day and hide his grief in the fog.

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Paradigm Shift (Days 4 & 5)

Spent most of the day attending training for a federal grant that my school received from the Office of Violence Against Women. Paradigm shift: I have not heard this term used so much in one training conference! But it is true. We have been so used to doing things a certain way that we have forgotten to reflect and question how it’s working or if it is at all.

The issue of violence against women is a very important one for me. I grew up in a culture where women are told “to lay back and enjoy it if rape is inevitable”. Where men are told it’s okay to “put their women in their place” as long as they “don’t leave any visible marks.” Domestic violence is a thing that happens behind closed doors and it is none of anybody’s business but the family involved.

I myself am a survivor of child molestation, sexual harassment, stalking, and rape at different times in my life. I remember the first time I acknowledged that none of it was my fault. I attended a Violence Against Women conference in Montreal organized by Filipino-Canadian organizations, and a young woman spoke about the sexual abuse she experienced in the hands of a family member she had trusted. A dam broke inside me that day and released all that pent-up guilt and shame. As a teen, they manifested in hash marks on my arms and in self-destructive behavior that continued on to adulthood. That conference woke me. I felt empowered to be an agent of change myself through my writing and by doing advocacy.

At the OVW training today, we talked about the need to find different ways of engaging the community and I totally agree. In the early ‘90s when I attended that conference in Montreal, I was moved to action by the sight and sound of brave women in my community speaking out against violence against women. I think a lot of it has to do with having struggled with the issue myself. However, for many, this issue is not seen as a priority. Just the other day, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez responded to the non-apology of Republican rep Ted Yoho for calling her a “fucking bitch”. He denies saying this — he claims he referred to her comments about the rise of crime being the direct result of growing poverty as “freaking bs”. Sounds very similar indeed. He mentioned being a husband and a father to girls as if these things make him “a decent man”. AOC politely berated him by saying it’s “treating people with respect that makes a decent man.” But she also ably lambasted a misogynistic culture that has allowed for this kind of behavior to persist. This is no different from getting harassed as a waitstaff or a commuter on the train, which AOC and a lot of women have experienced.

And so how do we begin to do a paradigm shift to more actively involve our campus community in eliminating gender violence? Well, we need to be more proactive than reactive. We need to move from simply raising awareness to providing skills to students, faculty, and staff to recognize and immediately address it when it’s happening. To be honest, I am getting compassion fatigued at the numbers being thrown at me. Yes, I know, 1 out of 3 women have experienced gender violence in some shape or form, some more violent than others, but let’s do something about it already! Let’s stop being and feeling like helpless bystanders.

What should we do when we see someone being harassed for being a woman or a girl? Or what if it’s a more subtle form of abuse — like a micro-aggression in the workplace? How do we make sure our guests feel and are safe in our homes when we have crazy parties? In our classrooms, what do we do when students write about their experiences of sexual assault or domestic violence? And so on and so forth.

I also learned about the idea of intrinsic motivation and why it’s important to activate this among our community members. We don’t get buy-ins from mandating things, but if we are able to tap into their sense of justice and humanity, then we would be more successful. We do this by including their voices in creating a culture that will counter the rape culture we are living in.

Well, day has turned to night and then day again. I’ve not stopped writing and, in between, I’ve walked the dogs, taken loved-ones to get their covid shots (my school has made it possible for us and two members of our families to get the vaccine—yay), gone to Seafood City, had Luis’s delicious mostaciolli, watched 90-Day Fiancé with my daughter (some of these people need serious therapy and I hope they’re getting it), and oh, my daughter told me her class got bombed by someone with porn while they were watching a serious play about slavery! WTF!!!! Fortunately, she was in the bathroom at the time. I slept at midnight, but now it’s day again and I’m still not done with my homework.

And by the way, I got this email and it made my heart sing. Thank you.
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Bringing the Outdoors Inside – (Day 3 of My Coronavirus Journal)

I know I casually talked about feeding the farm in my last post, but we didn’t always have these many pets. We had Ringo and Gidget when we moved to our new home in 2019. Ringo was our elderly schnoodle, black with specks of grey, and the appetite of a hungry school of piranhas. Gidget is a 6-pound possibly Maltese terrier whose boundless energy and sweet disposition endear her even to the pet-aversed. My husband and his coworkers found her abandoned in a community garden untagged and unchipped; they all thought she was a rat as her fur was covered in dirt. I thought we would just foster her for a few days as we already had a dog and my 16-year old cat Mila, who passed away in 2018, same year my mom died. Well, Gidget had me at first lick. My friend Anna aptly named her after the mischievous teen played by Sally Fields in the ‘60s.

When the pandemic hit, I started imagining a garden in our living room. Couldn’t go outside so why not bring the outdoors in. I took an old curtain rod and installed it above the windows. Instead of curtains, I draped it with hanging plants. One, two and now there’s eight of them.

Luis wanted a project too, and he thought about getting aquatic turtles. Where you gonna put it? I asked. He said downstairs with the bearded dragon and the snake my son decided to raise. But I thought it was perfect to have a pond in the indoor garden, and so we built it with a concrete mixer tub and some rocks, one of which was from the ruins of the old building where I used to work.

The turtles came in the mail. They were the size of a silver dollar! Luis named them Bonnie and Clyde. He has an affinity for any old-school gangster. We got Curly, the goldfish, along with Larry and Moe, at Petco. They were feeder fish worth 18 cents each. Larry and Moe died within an hour of release in the pond. Curly lived and is a hefty four inches long! He steals turtle feed and holds his own among the growing turtles.

The parakeets came after. My friend’s co-worker has had enough of their squawking during zoom meetings and the mess they made with their bird food husks. I wanted to get a canary after I read that they learn songs the way humans learn language — from their caregivers! But I didn’t want to spend $150 for a male canary! The females are worth half the price because they don’t sing, or their songs are “broken”. Parakeets sing too, just not as melodious. And these ones came as gifts. I named them Pepe and Pilar.

I love working among the plants and with the sound of water running through the filter. I think my plants have kept me from being sick and the house, oxygenated. The birds, I notice, do like joining in on discussions. Needless to say, I can’t teach remotely in my “office” unless I cover their cage but I don’t like doing that in the middle of the day. So, I drive to work to teach remotely. Well, it’s not the only reason. I leave home to teach remotely elsewhere because sometimes my garden is not enough. I need an actual workspace. Because when you’re a parent, the “Do not disturb” sign on the door is just a suggestion.

So today I drove to work like I used when remote learning was not a thing. Talked about writing a definition essay to my students via Zoom. (Note to self: I have to write a definition essay.) Chit chat with my embedded tutor Josh who was a former student and is now becoming a friend. As I was packing my stuff to leave at the end of my “office hours,” I found out that my colleague and good friend just lost her best friend to covid. I had texted her about a deadline we had yesterday, and she texted back distraught about her friend’s passing. I told her to take a break. I got this. I got her. I asked Luis to take care of dinner. I unpacked my laptop and took off my jacket and got our task done within an hour.

At home, I lay in bed to rest my abused screen-weary eyes. We had yummy Mexican food from the carniceria. Always a winner. We saw an episode of 90-Day Fiancé, our 15-year-old’s current obsession. I tried to do homework in vain. Rinse, repeat.

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Rinse and Repeat- (Day 2 of My Coronavirus Journal)

This is the first day of my birth month. To be honest, I’m not as excited to have another birthday. Not anymore after I turned 50, and then later on, my birthday became a grim reminder of my mother’s death. In 2018, she died three days before my birthday after being in a coma for 15 days. I stayed with her every night, probably the longest time we stayed together in one place after I became a teen and her worst nightmare. We cremated her the day after I turned 55.

I do so much in a day but I think the thing I do the best is waste time. I play scrabble after every thing I do that I deem worthy of taking a break for. I stream shows on my device and, if I’m feeling too carefree, on the big screen TV.

Today, I woke up at 6:40 and did what I usually do. Drew my face on with tinted moisturizer and an eyebrow pencil. Turned on my plant light and fed the farm. The turtles, goldfish, parakeets, and two dogs. Made coffee and had it with an egg and buttered blueberry toast. Walked the dogs and made breakfast of fruits and ham and cheese sandwich for my remote-learning high school freshman. Then I embarked on grading papers. In between, I set up a doctor’s appointment for my child and appliance repair for our broken Electrolux dryer. This is the nth time since we bought it that we had had to get it fixed. Why they refuse to replace it when it’s the same damn issue frustrates me to no end. It’s like they’re waiting for the warranty to expire so we can just buy a new one or pay for repairs cost ourselves.

In the evening, I made Filipino paksiw na pata for the meat eaters and panang curry mung beans for the vegetarians. (I decided to be vegetarian with my 18-year old son three times a week!) I snuck in an episode of Law & Order as my husband rested in our room and then we all watched my daughter’s current obsession— 90 Day Fiancé. At least not Dr. Pill Popper or 600-Pound Life, thank God.

My son came home from work washing dishes at a chicken place bringing food that customers forgot to pick up. We’re getting a bit sick of it, really, but he’s so sweet to bring it home. Like most teens he rarely thinks outside his own needs and wants. I tried to finish my homework for my Linguistics class called First Language Acquisition. Truly fascinating how babies acquire language over a very short period of time. More about this later. I didn’t sleep til midnight but still didn’t finish my homework. I’m worse than my students sometimes!

Breakfast of champion remote learners!
Tried to finish homework in vain. 🤣
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Family Outing in Downtown Chicago

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Coronavirus Journal

I’ve decided to participate in the National Women’s History Museum’s project to document women’s daily experiences throughout the pandemic. If you are interested to participate, please feel free to sign up. My hope is that it will get me writing on a regular basis. Here’s the link. It’s been a rough year for most everyone, which is why maybe recording daily events may help me focus on what’s in front of me. In the last seven months alone, I have lost three dear friends to cancer and perhaps Covid-related stroke. And then there are the 400,000 people and more gone in the U.S. alone. Part of how I document these tragic times is by writing poetry. They are not as intentional as a journal may be, but words and images come in fragments like grief. They are embedded in the everyday, and they just want to come lose sometimes and present themselves in text. They may not have value beyond self-therapy or a need to release pain, but that is what a journal is, isn’t it? And if by chance someone reads them and connects with them, then that is a good thing. I think for many women for whom compartmentalization seems more of a challenge, getting through the monotony of lockdown activities is worth reflecting upon. Here are some poetic grieving in the last few weeks:

Ann (1/27/2021)
Grief in America can be put on hold
It is like waiting on the phone as elevator music plays in the background
Must clean kitchen
Must help with homework
Must grocery shop
Must make fun fifteenth birthday

Must schedule dental appointments, appliance repair, meetings with students
Must keep things from breaking
Must do this to keep from doing that which hurts

I can smell laundry soap on my shirt
Perhaps I have no covid
My car is buried in a blanket of virgin snow
My daughter just texted I love you, too
But your face hovers like a cloud

I’m having a hard time wanting to live with your dying
It doesn’t seem fair
That I should keep breathing
Keep appreciating the fine line of snow that makes this tree so beautiful
And now a pinging 26 days after you wrote 30
But how can I help celebrate your birthday now that you’re gone?
Fuck Facebook

Alex (1/02/2021)

It is 3:30 p.m. and the clock is heavy
The painted smile fades on the ceramic clown’s face
Snow covers this house that is not in Puerto Rico
A music box clown spins slowly as the music plays
Fur Elise, of course
A punk rocker’s secret delight
It is dressed in gold and black tiger print,
Same as the bathrobe you liked to lounge in
On your bed, your shirts lay spread as if for wearing
But you are already gone
You took your painted boyish smile with you
And left your candles burning
Your records playing
Your beer chilling in the fridge

The carpet trapped the dreams you whispered
I vacuumed the dust that muffled them and hope
Perhaps now the colors will be free.

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Hay na kus at the 2019 Babaylan Conference

I had the honor of presenting at the conference with my beautiful bff, visual artist exrraordinaire and community activist Melanya Liwanag Aguila, and we enjoined participants to write to find home/to be home/to make home. Most of them took the challenge of writing hay na kus, a form invented by the fabulous and among the most prolific Pinoy poets I know, Eileen Tabios. Here they are:

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A Name Like the Desert

This beautiful young woman walked into my classroom, one day and 30 minutes late. She had pursed lips, dreamy eyes, glistening curly hair tied tightly in a long ponytail, and a pair of starkly white earbuds. She had a name that sounded like the desert in the wintertime, and she wore a short, black, tight overalls/onesie? Not sure quite what to call it. She stayed for a day, barely there, talked about a twin sister that does not want anything to do with her and keeps her from seeing her niece/nephew, when I asked students to write about a problem they have concerning their neighborhood.

The next day, she asked to talk to me outside, motioning me with her beautiful ear-budded head. I was distracted at first, trying to do the stupid grammar diagnostic with my students, which I think intimidated her. We spoke by the window at the end of the hallway, and I closed the book after a few words. She said she’s not made for the classroom or that education is not her “thing”. That she belongs to the streets. Only 20, she works in security, and I could not imagine that brave bold body in a boring security uniform. I told her I am not going to convince her otherwise, if she believes she’s not ready for college.

“You don’t understand; I’ve taken this class three times. I know myself. I’m not gonna pass,” she reiterated.

In my head, I wondered why she was telling me this. Did she want me to convince her otherwise? Did she want me to reassure her that, yes, it’s gonna be fine. You’ll make it this time, eventhough I wasn’t certain.

At the beginning of the semester I always tell my students not to be deceived by my calm and patient demeanor, because many have failed my class because they simply were not ready. Not emotionally. Not mentally. Mostly emotionally, really. They are still in high school, cutting classes or coming to school glassy-eyed, submitting crammed homework peppered with run-ons and misspelled words. Why should I give reassurances now?

At the end, I felt that we talked but did not really have a conversation, because I was not really hearing what she was saying. I just wanted to get back to a classroom full of students who actually wanted to be there.

When we got back in, she took her stuff and left. I wished now that I had listened better, because I think that’s all she wanted. Someone to talk to, someone to reiterate her beliefs to. But I can’t deny that I was not annoyed by her nonchalance, the way she thought she could just waltz in to my classroom as if she was going to a party, dressed to impress, fashionably late.

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