Flypaper

There are few books I can read in one day, even a relatively short book like The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and yet The Ocean at the End of the Lane is one of the most majestic exceptions to my otherwise steadfast reading habits.

"It's a good thing to have your own books with you in a strange place... If you take a book with you on a journey...an odd thing happens: the book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while reading it...yes, books are like flypaper--memories cling to the printed page better than anything else." -Mo from Cornelia Funke's Inkheart

I had to bring books with me on this trip: a sixteen hour flight to Hong Kong then another two hours to Manila requires books more than it does electronics although to be perfectly honest, m iPhone's always near--something like a bad toupee as opposed to a necessary appendage.

Now, what books to bring?

I picked Surprised by Joy, Van Gogh: The Life (which is not travel friendly), Three Cups of Tea (still only 3/4 of the way through after six months), an unnamed daily devotional, my copy of the Bible, and my Kindle (which I charge periodically but have not had the chance to take advantage of). These books, while on my 'Can't Wait to Read' list also inhabited the more prominent list of 'Stop Ignoring Me'. Even after sorting through which outfits I had to bring, it was not until I was very done packing that my eyes came upon The Ocean- occupying neither previously-mentioned lists because, as I wrote, The Ocean- is the most majestic exception of my otherwise steadfast reading habits; but it stared at me. I stared at it; heard it calling my name and said, "All right, fine. You can come, too"

I did not read much on the flight but passed the time sleeping, writing, cloud watching, or watching in-flight films; wishing I had room to do some yoga in coach because my back was K-I-L-L-I-N-G me.

Then we landed at NAIA (Ninoy Aquino International Airport), the Philippine air brushing against my skin and washing my lungs with senses I hadn't recognized since my last visit when I was five years old. I jut turned twenty three.

Still, reunions after nearly a day of travel induce more yawns and heavy eyes than it did comprehensive conversation so I only allowed myself to stare and internalize: a death in the family two weeks past, and a wedding not two tomorrows later I had more than enough reason to be melancholy, but preferred the more instructive tendencies of thanksgiving because despite my own personal memories I had to make sure I'd be ready to intake others' memories which I was sure would unintentionally overwhelm me like Typhoon Yolanda unintentionally overwhelmed the better half of Southeast Asia. My lesser imaginations needed to give way to reality before I could be allowed again into thoughtful seclusion, thus upon entering my aunt and uncle's home I set to explore it in order to absorb some familial similarities.

Despite looking Filipino (although I also apparently look like every other race under the sun) I am not very culturally Filipino. Born and raised in the tri-state area of New York City my younger sister spoke my thoughts when we exited the airport: I have never seen so many Filipinos in my life!- better said considering the last time I was here, only one of my cousins was born, and now I have to add a new part to the family with my uncle's marriage- so many family members I haven't met, or have met but cannot recall the acquaintance. But I go on only to say I belong here as much as any wanderer belongs anywhere: suffice to say: nowhere, but everywhere.

But if my travels have taught me anything valuable at all, I've learned that 'All that is gold does not glitter'. Nothing on this earth is so bad that it is intolerable, and nothing is so good that it is unreachable. Just because I'm visiting my homeland that happens to be a third world country, I should not expect gloomy faces (same for first world residences where not all brings youthful qualities).

I found a bookcase in which should reside at least 480 books, but found only thirty books, and an odd assortment of photo albums. Examining their spines I came across The Graveyard Book, and concluded, I should leave The Ocean at the End of the Lane here. Six days later, the thought still creates turmoil for two reasons. One: it's my book, and two: I can't decide if I'm being selfish and therefore suffering from first-world-problem-syndrome, or if this is a sincere case of sentiment and heartbreak. (I am careful to separate the two because I often mistake the former for the latter: perspective matters a great deal more than situation.)

But, I don't want to give away this book. But I do. Anyone who enjoys The Graveyard Book is now destined to enjoy The Ocean-. But what if my cousin proves an exception?, indeed, I live in a world full of exceptions. I tend to deny 'surprises' convincing myself that they are instead 'better options'. What if I give away this book and book stores no longer sell hard cover first editions?! It's an entirely new year now- I'll have to buy it in paperback, and I know: content is more important than features... First world problem or sentimental heartbreak?!

Because I understand that the best gift to give a book lover is not a light in the shape of a hard cover, or leather book marks, or gorgeous, sturdy bookshelves. The best gift to give a book lover is a book, so you can imagine how well I like to give away books to prospective or proven book lovers (done rarely).

If Funke's Mo is anywhere near right about traveling with the printed word, and I want to give away the only book that's left me immobilized (especially having read it along with the audio version, voiced by the actual Neil Gaiman) I will have to leave behind my memories: these parts of my heart and mind in the Republic of the Philippines. Besides, I am afraid to reread this book because of the 'new' things I know I'll find. Kind of like why I dread rereading the Book of Revelation.

Still, what better way to give away a book: one that I love to someone that I love. It's as natural as hour of fireworks and gun shots in every Filipino's back yard (so to speak) to celebrate the new year. Hello. Why live any other way?

I admit, my worst fear is that the recipient (in this case my younger cousin who, before this, I've only ever met over Skype) won't appreciate the memories I've given him in the shape of an immobilizing book, but to hell with that! My business is not what the recipient does the gift, only to make him the recipient of a gift.

Just give it.

The Empty Bookshelf and the Sleeping Cousin

Under Consideration

I don't know what it is about New York City but I always learn something new about myself and the world at large while I'm there.

When I found out Banksy was taking up a month's residence in the five boroughs I thought it would be a great opportunity to see his work in person since I have no hope of visiting his usual hits in London any time soon. I asked a friend to come with me to find his works, but we didn't do a very good job--we were distracted by other things, like food and used books. (For the rest of this blog post you'll have to know these two things: my friend and I are both girls; she's black, I'm Asian- a Filipino, to be exact.)

At one point during the day we caught ourselves in the MET. At the top of the grand staircase she introduced me to Stuff White People Like (SWPL). I knew it was a book, I didn't know it began as a blog. Apparently, white people like some of the following:

1. Banksy
2. TED Conferences
3. the Idea of Soccer
4. Manhattan
5. snowboarding
6. Non-Profit Organizations
7. Scarves

As we skimmed some of the listed blog posts we laughed very, very hard, never mind that we preferred the small screen of her smart phone to some of the MET's most treasured works. Anyway, we came across one that intrigued me: Asian Girls, but the page refused to load, so we resigned to view an external page: something of a reaction to SWPL's blog post about 'Asian Girls'.

I do not think I need to tell you what we discovered. The actual SWPL blog post wasn't horrible. In fact, when I read it later I found it moderately amusing. The reactions to it were, well, to say the least, surprising. Many of the reactions made me cry, which I suppose doesn't say much because it's not that difficult to make me cry, but, do you know, I can't remember the last time I felt diminished because of my ethnicity. I admit, I am plagued with self-inflicted derogatory statements, but I can easily deflect my own jabs. I am unpracticed when it comes to a stranger's jabs.

At the time of my initial reaction, I did not know if I was grateful or ungrateful that I was so ignorant of such ignorant, racist, prejudiced thoughts and beliefs. I was torn--make this #753 existential crisis of the year 2013.

Do I really look like an expensive hussy when I walk side by side one of my male white friends? What do you mean when you say that Sandra Oh is 'the Elephant Man of Asian women'? Have you ever seen an elephant man because right now I'm sure he's more attractive than you are.

Am I not supposed to age physically though many birthdays pass? Am I always to look like I'm a twenty-something with perfect skin and weight because I'm naturally genetically engineered that way- never mind I have ancestors who were also Spanish therefore making some people think I'm actually Puerto Rican, or Hawaiian, or, once, I got Somalian (I was really tan one summer).

But then I stopped crying. We were then distracted by other things, and who wants to talk about racism when you can talk about religious ignorance? (Feel free to interpret 'religious ignorance' as you wish.) Our day in the city was not to be ruined!

So, eventually we ended up in a used book store where I found a few books written by Thomas More; etc. I considered buying it, but then I put it down because (1) I already bought a new journal and (2) as much as I admire Thomas More, he's a European White male which usually would not deter me, but where are the Asian theologians? Did More have any Asian contemporaries? But ethnicity doesn't matter right?





When I was a college student (two years removed now) I was one of, like, I think, six Asians on campus- I attended a predominantly white school- and the other five Asians were international students from Myanmar, so they were much more Asian than I was. Anyway, I was reading a book in the hall way when one of my favorite professors, Godblesshim, approached me:

Professor: Justine! There you are. I'm glad I spotted you. I have a question: you're Filipino, right?

Me: Yes? Haha, why?

Professor: Well, you know that class I'm teaching [something about diversity in classroom, I don't remember what it's called], well, in our textbook we have a chapter on Filipino students so I was wondering if you'd like to come in and- I mean, I know you're not speaking for the entire Philippine nation, but just for us to hear your perspective.

Me: Sure, that sounds fun! Actually, it's funny you ask because I've been talking with another professor about ethnicity and identity- I would love to come into your classroom.

So, I bought my own copy of the text book. I get to the chapter, which is entitled "Families with Pilipino Roots". I'm excited: I'm about to have a text book definition of my culture that will act as a foundation I can build upon when I read this (both quotations are from Developing Cross-Cultural Competence):

Understanding the Pilipino American character is complex. The differences among Pilipinos in terms of history, language, familial and other forms of affiliation, religion, education, and individual experiences can be great. Although this chapter provides some general insights into families with Pilipino roots, great caution and consideration must be taken to prevent perpetuating stereotypes. Although many Pilipino Americans have a shared history and common cultural experiences, other factors not related to being Pilipino may have a more decided influence on their self-identities. 

Damnit! My culture doesn't even have a text book definition! Generally, all the other ethnicities listed in the text book have definitions, why doesn't mine? Because

' "Neither history nor geography permitted the Filipinos time to consolidate their parochial and isolated strands into a culture integrated enough to repel outside pressures and influence." Throughout centuries of colonialism, Pilipinos have nevertheless avoided becoming 'carbon copies' of their colonizers. They have pursued a dual historical path of understanding, accommodating to, placating, or opposing the overwhelming power foreigners have exercised in their lives while simultaneously preserving what is essentially Pilipino in themselves. '

Oh, dear God, who am I?

When I attended the class as a guest-speaker I spoke solely on my behalf, and can recall saying (this isn't word for word): "Students are students, no matter the ethnicity. Don't just assume that this text book will offer you everything you need to know about how to deal with students who are Native American, or European, or Latino, or Hispanic. Your future, potential students are still individuals."




So, if students are students; if students are still individuals, why do I care so much for Thomas More's Asian contemporaries?

Why does it bother me that I don't know any of Lewis' Asian contemporaries?

Don't even get me started that religion is predominantly male-oriented (although some of them still act like immature, spoiled thirteen year old girls). Where are my female role models?

St. Patrick's Day, yes- if Patrick were a Patricia, would we have St. Patricia's Day?

I hope that I am not diminishing the importance of God's work in these men's lives. I am not.

I'm not saying that Native Americans and Europeans and Latinos and Hispanics are easier to define that Filipinos.

Because we are all individuals influenced by internal and external situations.

I get that, I do.




A little later in the evening my friend and I were eating at Whole Foods (ironically, another thing that white people like), when a few seats away were these really loud black guys. Just- they were loud; and I was already tired, and subconsciously cranky from my own dealings with racism, and I made some comment to my friend about how I could never date a black guy- Godblessher, she didn't slap me right then and there.

The day after we talked about my revelation: I am racist.

Friend: Justine, you're not racist. You're prejudiced. If you were racist- racism means you hate people of that race. You don't hate black people.

Me: Ha, if I did, I wouldn't be your friend. Thank you, you're so wonderful to me. If I ever become racist, shoot me.

Friend: Hey, I got your back.

And yet I am still haunted with questions of race/ethnicity and gender.





Upworthy recently sent me an e-mail with this video:


He expresses everything I have ever thought, much more cleverly and precisely than I ever could, or would dream, and it's ironic because he's still a white male, although he himself recognizes that women of every color have expressed these very thoughts. Then I realize: the messenger is not as important as the message. 

"I always get asked, 'Where do you get your confidence?' I think people are well meaning, but it's pretty insulting. Because what it means to me is, 'You, Mindy Kaling, have all the trappings of a very marginalized person. You're not skinny, you're not white, you're a woman. Why on earth would you feel like you're worth anything?'" -September 2013 issue of Parade Magazine