See Mina’s
Connections.
Looking for US Pinoys to interview
From : Mina
delos Reyes Saha SPCM HS'77 < ConnectionsRS1@aol.com
>
Sent :
Monday, November 15, 2004 9:39 PM
To : Paulinian
Friends
Hi fellow Paulinians,
Once again, you’re first to come to my mind when I
was looking for help in finding people to interview. I am looking for Filipino
husbands or single men to interview for a Filipinas
Magazine feature. I will be asking these men about what being a Filipino
male in the U.S. means to them. I will be asking questions about being macho,
about having queridas, about doing household chores, being the breadwinner or
not, views on homosexuality, etc. Therefore, I would prefer men who have
immigrated here from the Philippines and are therefore familiar with those
issues. Filipino men who were born and raised in the U.S. would probably have a
totally different perspective and maybe even a different set of values. I need
interviewees who can be honest and frank and preferably are willing to be
identified and provide their pictures. This is a rush assignment so I need
people to respond as soon as possible. I'm looking to complete all interviews
before the Thanksgiving weekend.
Above: SPCM HS'77 mini-reunion at the Saha home in San Jose CA, 26
Jan 2002 (l-r from bottom): Mina delos Reyes Saha and daughter Tara, Audrey
Portugal, and Mina’s husband, Sujit Saha; 2- Victor, Menchie and Andrew
Portugal; 3- Alexa and Ana Velasco, Belle Salvador; 4-Jay, Zachary and Vicki
Brodrick. Source: http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs77.
If you know of anyone who wishes to be part of this
story, please ask him to e-mail me right away so I can set up a phone interview
appointment. All interviews will be done by phone or e-mail, whichever the
subject prefers.
Thank you very much!
Mina
Romina D. Saha
Correspondent, Philippine News
Contributor, Filipinas Magazine
Freelance writer and editor
San Jose, CA 95120
(408) 268-1927
Get that Edge
By Romina D. Saha, Correspondent, Apr 16, 2003
Philippine News, Life & Entertainment
http://www.philippinenews.com/news/view_article.html?article_id=6ae6771946377f9c562fe68748e3955c
Fil-Am
venture capitalist Dado Banatao and wife, Maria Cariaga Banatao SPCM HS’63 / AB Psych
’67. Photo from UC Berkeley Engineering.
AFTER earlier fussing and refusing to sit on her
grandfather’s lap for a family photo, two-year-old Isabel climbs on the chair
and proudly looks around. The photographer sees his chance and begins snapping
some shots. Grandfather clowns around behind the photographer, trying to elicit
a smile from Isabel. “Look at Lolo, look at Lolo,” he urges the toddler.
This scene could have been a Sunday trip to a mall
portrait studio by any regular family. Except this is no studio and this is no
regular family. The setting is the Palo Alto building lobby of Tallwood Venture
Capital, a multimillion-dollar firm owned by one of the most successful
entrepreneurs in Silicon Valley.
“Lolo” is Dado Banatao, the technology whiz from the
Northern Luzon province of Cagayan whose creations significantly affected the
course of the computing industry worldwide. But at this moment, he is just
Isabel’s Grandpa, her Lolo, and nothing else matters but making the little
girl, his only grandchild, smile.
When I asked him what the most important thing in
his life is right now, he answers without hesitation, “My family.” Success in
his career and business, the 55-year-old Banatao admits, came at the expense of
his family to some extent.
Especially in the earlier years when he was still
struggling to establish himself, first, as a technological developer in the
semiconductor industry, and later, as a businessman, Banatao spent many nights with
an average of five hours of sleep. Now he tries to spend more time with his
family. Nowadays, he says, only half jokingly, he can afford to sleep at least
six hours a night.
That he sleeps at all does not even seem possible,
as this man is a self-confessed workaholic. Banatao had realized early on that
the only way to get ahead in the cutthroat environment of Silicon Valley was to
work harder than everybody else.
“Always try to get that edge. Always solve the extra
problems in the back of the book,” he says, the latter a reference to his
school days strategy of doing extra math and physics homework.
His strategy paid off: He graduated cum laude from
the highly regarded Mapua Institute of Technology in the Philippines; he earned
a self-designed master’s degree in electrical engineering and computer science
from Stanford University; he has a permanent place in the history of
technology, not just in the United States, but worldwide; and he has made
millions and millions of dollars doing the work he loves to do, including the
“extra problems.”
In a nutshell, Dado’s innovations made computers
cheaper, faster, and more people-friendly.
“He has loosened up a little,” says oldest son Rey. “He
has found that balance between working hard and having fun.” Rey, 29, who will
earn his doctorate in bioinformatics from the University of San Francisco this
spring, is considering a postdoctoral position at Stanford University.
“Dado is one of the most grounded persons I’ve ever
met,” says Gemma Nemenzo, who is working on Dado’s biography. “It’s rare to see
one as focused as he is on what he wants to do and how he wants to do it. But
he can be fun loving, too. According to his college barkada, maloko daw yan at
pabling noon.”
Rey credits the Banatao work ethic and discipline
for his own drive and success in school. Dado Banatao was raised in rural
Cagayan with his brother and sister.
His father Salvador was a rice farmer who did
whatever it took to send the Banatao children to school: While his wife Rosita
tended a sari-sari store, he went to Guam and became a grocer and a butcher,
earning enough money to buy another rice farm when he came home.
In the late ’70s when Salvador and Rosita came to
live with them in San Jose, Calif., the young Rey gained another role model in
Salvador. Accustomed to long hours of work, the elderly Salvador found himself
a part-time job as a janitor at a Motel 6 in Santa Clara. “He would get up
before the crack of dawn, make himself his baon, and take the early bus from
San Jose to Santa Clara,” Rey recalls. “He enjoyed himself working there.”
For Dado, working hard was not enough. He had the
gift of foreseeing the uses of technology, years before they were actually
manufactured. “I remember him saying that someday, we will have this and that
product. He has always been a visionary. He has always had an innovative mind,”
says Maria, Dado’s wife of 30 years.
With a little push, Dado finally took the big leap,
giving up a big salary to go on his own. He sat Rey down and told him that he
was about to embark on something that could make them very poor if it didn’t
work. The whole family threw their support behind Dado.
There were three things Dado had to be confident
about before launching his first startup, Mostron, in 1984 – his abilities as
an engineer, as a manager, and as an investor. Mostron, funded with only half a
million dollars, was not successful because he did not yet have a track record.
He hit it big with his next two startups, Chips & Technologies in 1985 and
S3 in 1989.
Again, Dado is quick to point to hard work as his
key to success. “There was a little bit of luck involved but luck translated
itself into timing – who grabbed the opportunity first,” he says.
“Education had a lot to do with our success,” adds
Maria, who used her master’s degree in educational psychology as a counselor at
Foothill-de Anza Community College for 16 years until 1994. She says she and
Dado instill in their three children the value of education beyond college.
Desi, their second son, is taking graduate studies in materials science and
electrical engineering at UC Berkeley. Daughter Tala, a political science and
mass communications graduate of UC Berkeley, will go to law school.
Both Dado and Rey confess that their typical dinner
conversation often gravitates toward topics of science, technology, and
business. While Rey enjoys the mentorship of his father, he does not plan to
join him at Tallwood. “I have my own business aspirations,” Rey explains. “I’ve
always wanted to do my own thing.”
On weekends, the Banatao family enjoys typical
family activities such as attending Catholic Church, traveling, and eating out.
The manner in which they do these things may not be so typical.
Although Dado will not go on record in this
interview about his assets and finances, previous published reports say he owns
two jet planes, which he sometimes flies himself, homes in Sonoma and Lake
Tahoe, and a twin-turbo Porsche. His net worth is anybody's guess but it is a
fact that he has invested $50 million of his own money in Tallwood and will
reportedly pump in another $200 million this year.
In an article he wrote for the Startup Journal, a
Wall Street Journal publication, he admitted at one point having earned and
lost $350 million in the same day. Asiaweek magazine has reported that he may
be richer than the Philippines' Ayala family, whose fortune is reportedly
estimated at $1 billion.
Ever mindful of his humble roots, Dado and his family
have made it a mission to share their fortune in the field responsible for his
success: engineering. Through the Asian Pacific Fund, they have set up the
Banatao Filipino American Education Fund that yearly sponsors five high school
seniors planning to major in engineering, math or science.
At UC Berkeley, they have set up the Center for
Information Technology Research in the Interest of Society, or CITRIS, with a
cornerstone pledge. Once a year, they also sponsor the computer sciences
department chair at the University of the Philippines to study at UC Berkeley
for a few months.
Dado’s advice to young Filipino-Americans? “Never
forget where you came from. Be a good person,” Dado says. “And always do the
exercises at the back of the book.” This is a mantra the Banatao children know
by heart.
Tara Rani Saha in Ballet San Jose's Nutcracker classic!
12-28 Dec 2003, San Jose (CA) Center
for the Performing Arts
Mina’s 20 Dec update: Ballet San Jose-Silicon Valley's
production of the Nutcracker ballet has been a very successful run so far. Tara
has already performed in two shows and has five more shows to do. For those of
you who have seen it or are planning to see it on the days she is performing,
it is easy to spot her: She's the first mouse to hop onto the stage, leading
the 29 other mice. Above are a couple of photos of Tara in her mouse costume.
The black and white one is her official photo. The other one includes me, taken
backstage just minutes before a show.
Merry Christmas to all!
Mina de los Reyes Saha
Mina delos
Reyes-Saha's INQ7 Connections
|
A compilation of articles written by Romina delos Reyes-Saha SPCM HS'77, posted in her column called "Connections" in www.INQ7.net, the Philippines' most popular news site. A 1991 Stanford University John S. Knight Fellowships for Professional Journalists alumna, Mina is a full-time Mom / freelance writer and copy editor based in San Jose CA. She can be reached at ConnectionsRS1@aol.com (Mina’s new address effective 1 Nov 2003). |
|
May 03: Spring in California: Salads and the labor movement - Apr 03: A big, fat Filipino wedding - Mar 03: Missing Mr Rogers: war and the age of innocence - Feb 03: Do nuns go straight to heaven? (*a must-read article ref SPC Vigil House and Paulinian Global Foundation) - Jan 03: A dozen promises - Sep 02: (4) Sept 11 through the eyes of artists (*ref Lorna Molina 82's Freedom in Our Hearts painting) - (11) A virtual memorial - (18) off |
|
Aug 02: (28) The invisible Filipinos - (21) A summer of promises - (14) Angels in my life - (7) Substance abuse makes victims of us all (*ref Meena Sehwani 77's Living Free Foundation -- a non-profit self-help center for codependency serving the Philippines and Asia.) |
|
Jul 02: (31) 'Tosino' by any other name - (24) I struck gold online (*ref SPCM HS77's 2002 Silver Jubilee / reprinted in August 02 PAAM Newsletter with sidebar on SPCM HS websites) - (17) Writing about people in a high-tech setting |
Spring in
California: Salads and the labor movement
(From www.inq7.net: Posted:1:51 AM (Manila Time) | May 28, 2003 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/may/29/opi_rsaha-1.htm )
SPRING
in California brings an abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables to both chain
supermarkets and farmers’ markets. Consumers enjoy a wide variety of produce:
asparagus, artichokes, strawberries, cherries, lettuce, spinach, arugula, and
many more I have not even tried. As I enjoy these bounties of nature on my
dinner table, I hardly remember the sweat and toil of the thousands of farm
workers responsible for growing them. In fact, as I savor each bite, that is
all I care about – that each mouthful be scrumptious.
Every spring, though, two
events happen in California that remind people to pay homage to farm workers.
The birthday of Cesar Chavez is celebrated on March 31 and his death
anniversary is remembered on April 23. These events, usually marked by marches
and rallies widely covered by local media, remind people every year who were
responsible for establishing California’s agriculture industry, long before the
state became high tech country. Why? Because Cesar Chavez was the president of
the United Farm Workers Union. In the ‘60s and ‘70s, he led and organized farm
workers toward better wages and working conditions in California’s fruit and
vegetable farms.
This year, on the tenth
anniversary of his death, the U.S. government honored Chavez nationally with a
37-cent stamp bearing his image. The stamp commemorates the Mexican American
union leader who grew up in San Jose for his contributions to labor.
Chavez rightfully deserves
credit for the principled battles he waged, making personal sacrifices to
attain his goals. Three times he fasted for weeks, drinking only water to
sustain himself, proving that violence was unnecessary to win. He also used
boycotts and pickets as weapons.
So every year, as I enjoy my
salads, I become more and more familiar with Chavez and his accomplishments. He
is regarded as a hero, a role model, and a source of deep pride for Mexican
Americans. Recently, however, a friend pointed out to me something I had not
seen in mainstream media: that Filipino American union leaders -- decades
before the United Farm Workers Union was founded -- began the fight that Chavez
continued and brought to national prominence.
Indeed, I found this
information as I did my research. An article written by Larry Salomon in the
journal Third Force (“Filipinos Build a Movement for Justice in the Asparagus
Fields,” Center for Third World Organizing, Oct. 31, 1994) contains this account:
“As the newest recruits into
the labor force, Filipino workers were paid the lowest wages in the industry,
and in the case of certain crops like asparagus, growers found it more
profitable to work more laborers per acre, ensuring efficient and more productive
harvesting. Of course, this profit-making strategy also had the effect of
decreasing the already low wages of the workers.
“Typically paternalistic and
complacent, the big growers believed that labor organization was too complex
for young Filipinos to master. Apparently, the growers were ignorant of labor
history in Hawaii, where Filipino and Japanese laborers went on strike in 1919.
Three thousand workers stood fast, demanding that sugar planters pay higher
wages, provide an eight-hour work day, create an insurance fund for retired
employees and give paid maternity leave. Despite attempts by the white owners
to break the strike by importing laborers from other countries, the workers won
most of their demands.
“So when conditions demanded a
similar response in California’s fields, many Filipino workers had the
organizing sophistication and experience, having already been involved in work
slow-downs, stoppages, and full-fledged strikes.”
In 1964, Larry Dulay Itliong,
Philip Vera Cruz, and Pete Velasco, organizers of the Agricultural Workers
Organizing Committee (AWOC), led the first grape strike in Delano. Chavez’
National Farm Workers’ Association (NFW) soon joined the strike. Later, AWOC
and the NFW joined forces to become the United Farm Workers, with Chavez as
president and Itliong as vice president.
As I enjoy one of my favorite
vegetables, the asparagus, I will try to be always thankful for the sacrifices
the farm workers from decades ago to the present -- of Mexican, Filipino, and other
races -- have made so the California agricultural industry can grow and prosper
in a just environment. For what would spring in California be without fresh
fruits and vegetables?
(From www.inq7.net: Posted:1:51 AM (Manila Time) | Apr. 03, 2003 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/apr/03/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
AFTER about a month of being
away from her Las Vegas home to attend her son’s wedding in the Philippines, my
sister sent me a three-line e-mail to let me know she was back. “Sige, wala pa
akong maisip sabihin (I can’t think of anything to say right now),” she wrote.
I, on the other hand, knew she
only needed a gentle nudge to get her going. “Tell me all about it,” I urged
her.
That started a feverish exchange
of e-mail and instant messaging between her and me. The text filled up eight
pages, single-spaced, when I printed out all the messages. The dam had broken
and my sister burst with stories of her son’s wedding at a “pechay” and “upo”
vegetable farm some 11 miles from her house in the Novaliches district of
Quezon City. Hungry for news, I swallowed every bit she threw at me and asked
for more.
It was so refreshing to hear the
details of a wedding that involved no catalogs, no couturiers, no rehearsal dinners,
no RSVPs, no vellum-lined invitations. It was just a simple family-led wedding
held at a friend’s field-sized garden smack in the middle of a subdivision near
the busy Caloocan City-Quezon City border. Well, actually, it was just the
reception. The marriage ceremony itself had been done a day ahead at a Quezon
City judge’s courtroom. That is a story in itself. In a hilarious incident
worthy of a Hollywood screenplay (in the genre of ”My Big, Fat Greek Wedding,”
which I have not seen but have heard much about), the non-professional wedding
planners (namely, the bride, the groom, and the family members) had announced
that the wedding would take place on a Saturday. It was to be followed
immediately by the reception. The desktop-published invitations had been
printed and delivered stating so. Shortly before the big day, they found out
that the judge couldn’t perform a wedding on a Saturday because the court was
officially closed. To do it on a Saturday would have required a special permit
that would have taken two months to process (in typical Philippine bureaucratic
speed). To wait for that, of course, was out of the question. So they had to be
married on Friday.
And so it was that my nephew
Charley and her new bride Mai signed their legal marriage papers one day and
received their spiritual blessings from a pastor the next. (They could not be
married in church because Charley was raised a Catholic while Myra was raised
as a member of the Iglesia ni Kristo (Church of Christ) sect -- but that’s
another story.)
My sister’s narrative
description of the reception at the farm was long, sometimes funny, and filled
with delicious details and names of people whose relationships to one another
confused me. Add to this that some of their names gave no clue as to gender and
that my sister, without missing a heartbeat, wove in certain events totally
unrelated to the wedding.
During the 13 years I have been
away from the Philippines, new nieces and nephews have been born, or nieces and
nephews have gotten married and borne children. Relations have moved in, moved
out, or made friends. In our emotionally charged culture, friends sometimes
become so blended into the family that eventually, everybody forgets they are
not blood relations at all. It took me a while to understand the entire,
endearing scenario. Did I say earlier this was a simple wedding?
This is a condensed translation
from Tagalog of my sister’s almost stream-of-consciousness narrative, from her
point of view:
“I cooked lengua con champignon,
beef caldereta, embotido, laing na kuhol (the Filipino answer to the French’s
escargot), and fruit salad. Rowena, wife of Arman who is the son of Ter and
Floring, cooked sweet and sour lapu-lapu fillet. Junie, my daughter, made buko
pandan. Agnes, my other daughter, cooked pansit bihon. Ate Luding, my
sister-in-law, made relyenong bangus. Omer, Junie’s husband, bought a lechon.
Mai’s aunt made 400 pieces of lumpia shanghai. She also cooked about 19 kilos
of halaya de ube, made from six pieces of gigantic ube (purple yam) dug up from
the mountains of Norzagaray by a friend of Eric, Agnes’ husband. The six
pieces, averaging three feet long and 10 inches wide, weighed a total of 25
kilograms uncooked. The son of Dikong Juan, my brother-in-law, helped cook the
ube in a borrowed humongous wok, stirring it with a borrowed boat oar. There
was so much ube that we were even able to pack some for the owners of the wok
and oar. During all the cooking, the friend who brought the ube taught us a
vegetarian recipe using minced banana hearts. We used the recipe to extend the
meat of our hamburger patties. We were able to make 25 five-inch wide patties.
We also made six kilos of menudo, a must because it is Omer’s favorite. We
served 10 cases of Coke and 10 cases of light beer. Somebody gave 25 gallons of
bottled water as a gift. There was also tossed salad and a three-tier lemon
chiffon wedding cake.
“We had about 300 guests. Mai
has 13 siblings. We hired a videographer-cum-photographer. Junie and Agnes did
the flower arrangements and decorations. Nads, Omer’s sister and owner of the
farm, had all the trees and walkways decorated with lights. We rented a videoke
(karaoke with video). Alvine, Agnes’ teen daughter with the golden voice, sang.
Somebody played the saxophone. A friend of Nads who was supposed to sing had to
leave because she had a singing engagement at 9 p.m. The party was supposed to
start at 6 p.m. but many people got lost and arrived late. Some people blamed
the map, saying it was wrong. The truth was that a lot of people had the map
upside down. So the blessing ceremony didn’t start till 8 p.m. The newly weds
did the sayaw sa pera (money dance). Olmos, Khaye, Alvine, and Nikoy, my
grandchildren, served as ushers. We used Styrofoam plates and plastic flatware
but reserved some nice plates for the five ninong and five ninang (godparents).
The entourage consisted of the maid of honor and best man, three bridesmaids,
and three flower girls.”
Now Olmos (for “almost” --
because his real name is Nicki and he was born on the same day as Nikoy, his
sister, whose real name is Nicole, therefore they are “almost the same” -- you
would never have figured that one out!) is a boy. Alvine is a girl whose real
name is Alvina. Khaye is a boy whose real name is Calvin Khaye. Alvine and
Khaye are siblings.
“Before the party started, we
watched Tsikiting Patrol at Emy’s house inside the farm compound. Emy is the
mother of Nads and Omer. Tsikiting Patrol is a children’s TV show. Khaye is one
of the stars. Nads is a co-producer. Emy’s house was packed with guests
watching a video of the show. By the way, Nikoy got a medal for Best COCC
(youth military training). Nikoy starred in a play. Nobody knew about it
because nobody saw her rehearsing her dialogue at home. Good thing Charley went
to the play with his video camera. Alvine graduated in the top six of her
class. She will also compete again in the aikido national championship. She is
now reviewing for UPCAT (college entrance exams). She had a medal but I forgot
to ask what it was for. Olmos’ name was displayed at the SM Arcade (a shopping
mall) with a score of 296 in basketball. He only had two misses. He’s already
been recruited to the varsity team for next year when he enters high school.
He’s also a killer in billiards, beating Richie (our nephew) the first time he
picked up a cue.
“The party ended at 1:30 a.m.
but it was more like 3:30 a.m. by the time we had packed up everything and
cleaned up.”
Now what kind of party starts
two hours late without losing at least half of the guests, goes on till the
following morning, gets everybody in the community involved in the cooking and
other preparations, and is loads of fun? Only a big, fat Filipino wedding.
Missing Mister Rogers: war and the age
of innocence
(From www.inq7.net: Posted: 0:26 AM (Manila Time) | Mar. 20, 2003 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/mar/20/opi_rsaha-1.htm
)
“IS it true, Mama?” my
six-year-old daughter came to me tearfully one night a few weeks ago. “Is it
true that Mister Rogers is dead?”
She wept in my arms as I hugged
her. I wished I could give her more comfort. My little girl saw the
announcement on the public television station PBS after she had just watched
one of her favorite cartoons, “Dragon Tales.”
“I’ll never see Mister Rogers
again!” Daughter sobbed.
“Of course you can,” I assured
her. “They have lots and lots of his shows on video, you know. So they’ll just
play them again and again.”
Later that night, my husband
and I tried to soothe Daughter’s feelings. “Do you know where Mister Rogers
will stay forever?”
Daughter smiled. She knew what
we were driving at. We had this conversation about three years ago when her
grandmother died. She put her hand on the left side of her chest. “I know, here
in my heart,” she answered.
My daughter’s reaction to the
death of Fred Rogers, the dearly loved star of the children’s television series
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, has been on my mind since President George W. Bush
started bearing down on Iraq. Now Bush is past the point of bearing down. He
has given Saddam Hussein an ultimatum: Get out or get bombed! The possibility
of war has become more and more real -- it could happen this week, it could
happen today. Tens of thousands of people -- Iraqis, Americans, soldiers,
civilians, torturers and innocents, non-Iraqis, non- Americans, anyone who
happens to be in the line of fire -- could be killed. All of them could die and
yet Mister Rogers and my daughter are still in my thoughts.
It is quite surreal. I will
always treasure the memory of a little girl’s tears for an old puppeteer who sang
about his neighborhood while changing into his sweater and sneakers. I would
like to preserve that moment of innocence when a little girl grieved for the
cheerful man who spoke calmly and simply, and explained complex concepts in a
way little kids can grasp. I am sure my daughter was not the only child who
cried for Mister Rogers.
I am also sure my daughter is
not the only child unaware that countless other children may soon be grieving
en masse for the fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, or friends they had just
lost in a violent event none of them is responsible for.
I wonder how Mister Rogers
would have explained this looming war to a small child. I wonder how he would
have explained death and destruction caused by war. I’m sure he would have found
a way to tell kids that it’s okay to be afraid, to be sad, or to be angry. He
always encouraged children to express their emotions.
I know what he once advised
parents about helping children deal with tragedy: “What they need to hear most
from us adults is that they can talk with us about anything they want and that
we'll do all we can to help keep them safe no matter what goes on in the
world.”
After the Sept. 11, 2001,
terrorist bombing of the World Trade Center, Mister Rogers advised parents:
“Don't wallow or obsess. It is not healthy for anyone to watch nonstop
television, especially coverage of terrorism and war. It can be very dangerous
for kids, especially those "little listeners" who cannot
differentiate between what is distant and what is close, what is pretend and
what is real. Older children know when they are being lied to. We must not deny
the reality of terrible events. But televisions can be turned off, sensational
newspaper and magazine stories filed away, and table conversations that add to
children's fears kept to a minimum.” I can almost hear him uttering similar
words in reference to the current threat of war. I am so glad he had written
down his words of wisdom.
Ironically, as I was
researching for this piece, I discovered that President Bush had awarded Mister
Rogers and 11 others the Presidential Medal of Freedom in July 2002. In his
speech, Bush said, “The Presidential Medal of Freedom is the highest civil
honor our nation can bestow. And we award it today to 12 outstanding individuals.
The men and women we honor span the spectrum of achievement. Some are fighters;
others are healers; all have left an enduring legacy of hope and courage and
achievement.” I’m sure Bush was referring to Mister Rogers as one of the
healers. This just added to the surrealism of this time as I absorb the
constant media reportage and analysis of impending war while my daughter’s
mourning for Mister Rogers remains in the back of my mind.
Now that President Bush is
about to launch an attack on Hussein’s Iraq, I am even more saddened that
Mister Rogers is dead. As thousands are sure to die and small children in safe
homes will inevitably learn about it, either from their parents’ own
carelessness in allowing them to be exposed to adult media or from outside sources,
the calmness of Mister Rogers will be sorely missed. The constant reassuring
smile he brought into countless kids’ lives is the kind we all sure can use
now.
To read more about the Mister
Rogers’ thoughts, follow these links:
http://www.fci.org/corporate_information/current_releases.asp?get_ext=23
(“Helping Children With Tragic Events in the News”)
http://www.fci.org/corporate_information/current_releases.asp?get_ext=26
(“Kids Still Need Help with Sept. 11”)
http://www.fci.org/corporate_information/current_releases.asp?get_ext=32
(“Remembering September 11th”).
To learn more about Fred Rogers
and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, follow these links:
http://www.fci.org/mister_rogers_neighborhood/
Some helpful links to sites
with information about how to talk to children about war and death:
http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/health_advice/facts/death.htm
http://www.nncc.org/Guidance/understand.death.html
http://www.ext.nodak.edu/extpubs/yf/famsci/fs441w.htm
http://www.ext.nodak.edu/extpubs/yf/famsci/fs441w.htm
http://www.hospicenet.org/html/talking.html
Do nuns go straight to heaven?
(From www.inq7.net: Posted:0:13
AM (Manila Time) | Feb. 20, 2003 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/feb/20/opi_rsaha-1.htm )
IF you ever attended a Catholic school run by nuns, you may have
mixed memories of how these women affected you: Were you awed by their piety,
thinking they had a direct line to God? Were you comforted by their compassion
and readiness to listen, thinking they were lucky to have no problems of their
own? Were you moved by their selflessness and heroism, thinking they had
dedicated their lives to serving God and other people? Were you terrified by
their discipline, thinking they made up rules impossible for ordinary humans to
follow? In fact, did you think of them as extraordinary, people who are not
like the rest of us, in a category of holy and therefore superhuman?
Where do nuns go when they are old and gray? Do you think they lie
peacefully in a serene setting, perhaps a lovely cottage surrounded by a garden
that is spring-like all year round, until an angel comes for them to take them
straight to heaven? If you think that, you have been reading too many fairy
tales.
We may have a romanticized image of these ladies in gray, white,
or black robes, their hair veiled at all times. We may imagine them to be
saint-like, as many of them do exude such aura, and therefore immune to the
harsh realities of life. But the truth is that they are all normal people just
like the rest of us: They grow old, they get sick, and they suffer, before they
die.
In reality, the nuns of our childhood memories are regular people,
just like us. Before they go to heaven, their bones grow brittle, their joints
start to ache, their hair turns gray, and their memories become less sharp. But
where do they spend their last few years? They do not have spouses or children
to take care of them in their own homes. When they entered the convent in their
youth, they pledged themselves into the service of Jesus Christ, marrying into
his family, for the rest of their lives. They left their biological families
for their spiritual family. These "brides" of Christ call themselves
sisters -- and truly that is what they become: sisters who take care of one
another until their last breath.
If they are nuns belonging to the Philippine branch of the
international congregation Sisters of Saint Paul of Chartres, they live out
their final years at the "vigil house" in Quezon City, a home for
nuns who have "retired" due to old age or illness. Yes, they do get
old and they do get sick. The facility was originally built to house only 40
people but is now packed with 70 retired nuns, 30 of whom are non-ambulatory.
The cause to improve the living conditions of these aging nuns has
spurred into action Saint Paul College alumnae in the Philippines and in the
US, spanning many generations. E-mail after e-mail (collected in http://paulinian.homestead.com/files/2001vh.htm) tells of
emotional visits by the former Paulinians to the Vigil House.
"We were all teary eyed upon seeing our dear sisters helpless
and really wanting for attention. Sister Josefa would not let go my hand and
kept asking me to come back to visit her. I had a hard time fighting back tears
as I remember how she was when she was our Dean of the Commerce
Department," wrote Sol Balda-Ilagan, class of 1965.
Ilagan now chairs the board of the newly formed Paulinian Global
Foundation in Maryland, United States, a non-profit organization whose first
major project is to raise funds to build a new vigil house in Pasig City. When
this is done and the retired nuns have been moved from the old to the new
facility, the old vigil house will be converted into The Saint Paul College
Socio-Pastoral Development Center. The latter will be used as a home for the
rehabilitation of street children, specifically young girls in the Quezon City
area, a crisis intervention center for battered and abused women, and a
training center for caregivers caring for the sick and the elderly.
The new Vigil House being envisioned will be a four-story building
with medical and geriatric facilities, a chapel, and an elevator. It will have
enough room for the elderly nuns as well as for younger nuns assigned to care
for their retired sisters.
"We reminisced about old times. … The stronger, healthier
nuns hovered around us like we were VIPs. The frail, elderly ones looked on and
smiled. The three nuns in wheelchairs joined us at the courtyard but they
really looked sick and frail," recalled Nancy Guevarra Narciso, class of
1965. Narciso said the facility was so congested that only cloth curtains for
privacy separated the nuns’ beds.
Eileen Niguidula-Redoblado, class of 1976, found her second grade
teacher at the vigil house. "Sister Saturnine, 88, now totally deaf and
legally blind, walked with a cane but still needed to be helped by another old
nun."
Redoblado also found her fourth grade teacher, Sister Bienvenida,
who still "walked regally like a queen, despite being 86 years old."
She saw Sister Claire Scott, who recognized her immediately, despite her one
eye being shut. "She took care of my dad as an infant when she and my
paternal grandmother were together at the home for half-Americans in
Mindanao."
The alumnae who have already visited the vigil house agree that it
is a moving experience that all "balikbayan" Paulinians (visiting
foreign-based alumnae) should include in their itineraries. Organized visits
have produced not only gift bags containing toiletries and food items but have
also offered entertainment. Some Paulinians with the right connections have
even brought influential people, including Senator Nene Pimentel who reportedly
donated a five-figure amount to the cause.
Mary Ann S. Miranda, class of 1976, noted that the nuns use
firewood, instead of gas, for cooking to save money. She suggested that a
donation of kitchen appliances might be welcome. Miranda said other things
urgently needed are wheelchairs, adult diapers, and toiletries.
"I don’t know how many more of the girls found old nuns they
knew," wrote Redoblado. "Many of us just sat content witting with the
nuns."
"The stronger nuns helped the other nuns. Talk about
‘sisterhood.’ The arthritic nun guiding the blind. The deaf walking with the
old. The nuns were weak, old, sick, maimed. They gave us the best years of
their life. And now, they are in the Vigil House happy together, enjoying their
sunset years," Redoblado summed up her visit.
Nuns may end up in heaven but they retire first after a lengthy
service to humanity. In the case of St. Paul nuns, this service is mainly in
the fields of education and social service. Sister Mary George Siriban, my
former principal at St. Paul, told me a few months ago that nuns do not have a
set retirement age. "They continue to work as long as they are able to
because there is just too much work in the apostolate," she said. If
forced by old age or illness, they live at the vigil house to recover or to
live out the rest of their lives. Those who are still strong enough create
handicrafts for sale as part of their self-sufficiency program. They sell
rosaries, rugs, towels and other items to help support their needs.
When they retire, they know that they have helped mankind. When
they retire, they need help themselves. If you have something to contribute,
please write Sister Mary Magdalen Torres, Saint Paul of Chartres Philippine
Provincial Superior, Sisters of Saint Paul of Chartres, P.O. Box 1065, 1870
Antipolo City, Philippines or the Paulinian Global Foundation, Inc., 2328
Deckman Lane, Silver Spring, MD 20906, USA.
('75
webkeeper's note: For more info on the SPC Vigil House assistance program,
please email Paulinian Global Foundation chair Mrs Sol Balda Ilagan HS'65 at Silagan@worldbank.org. Thanks!)
(From www.inq7.net: Posted:11:19
PM (Manila Time) | Jan. 30, 2003 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/jan/31/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
Happy New Year, everyone! Yes, I know we’re almost a month into
2003 but to me, the year has just begun. There was a month there over the holidays
when I walked around in a daze, propelled only by pure adrenalin and a
combination of antihistamines, antibiotics, and ibuprofen. I survived the
hectic holiday season in medicated stupor.
Needless to say, I had to put a lot of things on hold. That
included coming up with a list of New Year’s resolutions. I guess I could look
at it positively. After all, I will only have eleven months instead of twelve
to have to actually act on my resolutions.
Before I list them, I must say that I believe the most effective
way of getting people to make good on their promises is to get them to announce
their resolutions publicly. That way, they can be called to account for them at
the end of the year. If a sense of responsibility doesn’t move them to keep
their promises, perhaps a fear of public humiliation will. (Of course, this may
not apply to politicians who are neither responsible nor thin-skinned.)
So, at the risk of shaming myself at the end of the year, I am
publicly sharing my list of resolutions for 2003:
1. I will read more -- books, magazines, newspapers, the fine
print in contracts, prescription medication directions and contraindications,
freeway signs (so I don’t keep missing turns and exits). The only thing I will
read less of is junk e-mail. For that, see the next resolution.
2. I will automatically delete more junk e-mail and unsubscribe
myself to as many commercial mailing sites as I can. I figure that by doing
this, I will save myself dozens of online hours a year, which would be better
spent reading (see above) or writing (see below).
3. I will write more – articles, personal letters, diary entries,
phone numbers and addresses of friends (who I keep bothering every year when it
comes time again to invite them to parties).
4. I will not forward any chain e-mail, no matter how heart
wrenching the story is or how worthy the cause might seem (you know, the little
girl with cancer who raises a nickel for cancer research every time the mail is
forwarded to one address; the prayer for world peace promising that its
attainment gets nearer for every forwarded mail; the promise of good fortune if
you forward a message to ten other people). I especially will refuse to forward
any mail that threatens me with bad luck or misery if I fail to forward it.
Most of these chain letters have been proven to be hoaxes.
5. In connection with the previous resolution, I promise to be
more careful and more selective in the e-mail that I do forward to friends,
including jokes, anecdotes, and heart-warming stories. I will take care to
avoid disseminating anything that promotes hate of race, religion, or sexual
orientation.
6. I will exercise more. Ooops. I mean, I will exercise, period. I
haven’t really exercised in the last fifteen years and the aches and pains in
my joints are telling me I ought to get started.
7. I will try to appreciate nature more. By this, I mean actually
going outdoors and touching nature – the redwoods, the sea, snow, the grass in
the park across the street from our home, my backyard – rather than just
watching nature shows on public television and the Discovery Channel.
8. I will try to learn more about sports. I’ve never been
athletic, not even a sports spectator. The only sports I enjoy watching on TV
are figure skating and gymnastics. But this year, I will actually try to learn
about sports that use balls – baseball, football, basketball, and golf. I will
try to learn the rules of these games and maybe even learn who their great
players are.
9. I will try to take up more creative projects. I will try to do
some painting (both on canvas and on the walls of our home, which badly needs
an interior makeover) and some crafting, perhaps some sewing.
10. I will try to pursue hobbies that I have always dreamed of
doing but have put off for years, using the age-old excuse "I just don’t
have time." This includes singing and guitar playing. I have enrolled in a
voice class and a guitar class but am not sure I can actually stick with them
through the end of the semester. Declaring it publicly might help.
11. I will try my best to share what I have – whether that be
skills, talent, or material things – with the less fortunate. This might be the
most important thing I can teach my daughter – that it is better to give than
to receive. This is not as selfless as it may sound. I have seen people who
have less than what I have and yet have given – to my embarrassment – more than
I have. They seem much happier and contented than I am. I want the same kind of
happiness and contentment one gets from giving.
12. Lastly, I will spend more time with my daughter doing the
things we both enjoy doing – reading, writing, singing, painting, and playing.
She is the reason I want to improve myself as a human being. In the end, she –
and not fear of public humiliation – will be my greatest motivation in keeping
my promises.
(From www.inq7.net: Posted:12:19
PM (Manila Time) | Sep.. 11, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/sep/11/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
THIS week, death and heroism are on the minds of many Americans. I
think it's safe to assume that for many years to come, these things will be
remembered whenever Sept. 11 approaches.
It is sadly ironic that often, people become heroes in a moment
that they will never be able to relive. They go home to no heroes' welcome;
instead they go to a place from where no one comes back. We prefer that our
heroes be alive to pin medals on, instead of in coffins over which we drape
flags. We prefer that our heroes be alive to shake hands with instead of dead
with their fingers stiff and cold. We prefer that our heroes be alive to wave
to us atop their floats in parades instead of dead for us to wave to them in a
funeral cortege. But when our heroes are dead and we have no choice but to
honor them posthumously, I hope to God we do so with such fervor as if we are
trying to make up for their shortened lives.
Today, there will be a proliferation of memorials for the heroes
and victims of the Sept. 11 tragedy. Speeches will be delivered, statues will
be unveiled, plaques will be engraved, and the mass media will recount the
events of that day and replay the images in print and on television. Every bit
of remembrance will help celebrate the lives of those who died. Every tear shed
in grief and outrage will help comfort their families. Every word of
condemnation of the acts of terrorism that led to these deaths and destruction
will help keep the fire within us burning -- for peace and freedom.
One form of memorial we may not readily associate with the
traditional kinds is that which can be found on the Internet. Doing a casual
search using the keyword "September 11" I was astonished to get more
than six million hits. From these search results, I culled a few websites that
seemed notable. You may find it worth your time to click on some of these and
spend a few moments in remembrance. You might forge a virtual solidarity with
those seeking an alternative outlet for their grief and anger. You might find
some of your questions answered, especially those pertaining to the minute
details of the events. You might read the accounts of other ordinary people --
where they were when the events occurred, how they felt, what they have done.
Individuals, organizations, schools, government agencies, and
others created these websites to document and preserve the memories of Sept.
11. As stated in one of them, "The web has no memory -- unless it is
created." Here they are in random order, some with a brief description I
have not thoroughly examined all of these sites so please do not take their
being on this list as my endorsements. Consider this list as a starting point.
http://www.september11news.com/
http://september11.archive.org/
http://www.interactivepublishing.net/september/ - Archive of
screenshots of online news sites on Sept. 11.
http://tvnews3.televisionarchive.org/tvarchive/html/ - Archive of
television news broadcasts from the period following the attacks.
http://911.gmu.edu/ - Sept. 11
digital archive, including a Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of
American History "Bearing Witness to History" project
http://www.uwnyc.org/sep11/ - September
11th Fund for the victims
http://web.archive.org/collections/sep11.html - A library of
web content from around the globe
http://www.familiesofseptember11.org/home.asp
http://people.bu.edu/xrpnt/ribbons/ribbon.html - A site
offering free downloads of "e-ribbon" images for posting on websites
http://www.legacy.com/LegacyTribute/Tribute.asp - A site
intended as "a place to remember and celebrate the lives of those lost on
September 11, 2001" where visitors may sign a "National Book of
Remembrance"
http://www.academicinfo.net/usa911.html - Resources
http://www.mediamap.com/Sept11.asp - Journalists'
resources
http://www.cnn.com/2001/US/09/11/chronology.attack/
http://www.september11victims.com/september11victims/ - According to
this site, 15 Filipino citizens were identified as victims as of August 2002
http://www.sep11photo.org/html/home.html - A project of
the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council Project
http://usinfo.state.gov/topical/pol/terror/terrormap.htm - An official government
site which lists 86 countries whose nationals were among the victims of the
tragedy
We relive every horrifying detail of September 11 in every way
possible and recount every inspiring act of heroism for every person who can no
longer relive his own moments of courage. Every bit of documentation that can
be found online, on paper, and in broadcast media goes into our collective
memories and into our own personal archives, right in our own hearts, where
they can always be accessed whenever we need a reason to believe in the future.
Sept. 11 through the eyes of artists
(From www.inq7.net: posted 1:24
AM (Manila Time) | Sep.. 04, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/sep/04/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
IT was a day that many Americans will never forget, a day when
terrorism hit them where they lived: in the worldly symbols represented by the
World Trade Center and the Pentagon -- financial success and internal security.
The crashing of those planes into mortar, steel bars, and glass, killing
thousands but injuring many more emotionally and mentally, was meant to send
the chilling message: You are not invulnerable.
Today, even as America tries to heal and move forward, that day a
year ago is remembered in many ways. Artists are using the pain as an impetus
for creation, perhaps to encourage the audience viewing their work to make
sense of the violence, to put it in perspective, or just to use their art as a
collective outlet to vent anger and frustration.
Two Filipino American artists have risen to the challenge of
allowing their work to serve as a motivation to create, instead of to destroy.
Lorna Molina Sanchez, a
Filipina artist based in Florida, has created "Freedom in Our Hearts"
a 30-inch x 80-inch painting in oil on raised panel bi-fold wooden doors. The
painting, a vibrant explosion of colors depicting three firefighters raising
the American flag on a flower-lined path, is currently displayed at Silent
Heroes LLC, 304 Hay Street, Fayetteville, North Carolina. Sanchez will donate
the work to the fire department in Fort Bragg, North Carolina on Sept. 11. (Photo
of Lorna on the right -- with "Freedom in Our Hearts" in the
background -- was from http://www.geocities.com/freedomhearts911/story.html. A SPCM HS'82
alumna, she's the webmaster of http://www.spcm82.artshost.com/, -- '75
webadmin.)
Sanchez felt she could relate to the thousands who lost loved ones
in the attack or who suffered anxiety while awaiting the safe return of their
loved ones who had been called to duty. She is married to a member of the Air
Force who was called to join others in defending and protecting freedom.
Feeling the need to do her own share, she began painting. Sanchez has produced
1,000 numbered and signed prints of her work. The 18-inch x 24-inch prints can
be viewed and purchased for 50 dollars through any of the outlets listed at http://www.geocities.com/freedomhearts911. Proceeds
will benefit the Families of September 11 Fund and America's Fund for Afghan
Children.
The colorful garden in the painting symbolizes "peace, hope
and the heroes that paid the price," the artist says, while the choice of
doors as a medium symbolizes "the door to our hearts." The painting
may also be viewed at http://www.mcny.org/virtunsq/virtu70.htm, the Museum
of the City of New York's "Virtual Union Square."
Another artist, Oakland, California-based photographer Rick
Rocamora, has chosen to do his share by depicting Muslims in their everyday
lives. Rocamora, who has photographed numerous subjects in his remarkable
social documentary style and received awards for them in the last two decades,
is exhibiting his work in a collection called "Freedom and Fear: Bay Area
Muslims After September 11, 2001" at the San Francisco city hall
throughout September.
In a recent interview with the San Francisco Chronicle, Rocamora
said he was moved to document the Muslim community after he heard about the
fatal shooting of a Bay Area Sikh who was mistaken for Middle Eastern. "My
goal was to convince the public that Muslims are not just from the Middle
East," he told the San Francisco Chronicle, "They're everywhere among
us, with many different faces. They're Americans, too."
Rocamora, whose photographs have been published coast to coast,
has also documented the lives of Filipino World War II veterans, children in
Manila's jails, and Indian Americans in Silicon Valley. "As an
immigrant," Rocamora says, "I have focused a great portion of my
social documentary photography work on issues affecting my own community in
America and issues that concern me in the Philippines."
"With passion and purpose, I have taken these images for
those who live in my dual communities to remember their lives and their
struggles. This is my personal statement as a Filipino photographer living in
two worlds," Rocamora writes in http://www.cac.ca.gov/CAC/rocamora/, the California
Arts Council's web page for the 1998-1999 Visual Arts Fellowship Awardees.
Some of Rocamora's photographs for the Sept. 11 exhibition may be
viewed at http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2002/09/01/LV192285.DTL.
About last column
JOURNALIST Howie Severino wrote in response to my last column
("The Invisible Filipinos," Aug. 28, 2002) that Filipinos are not the
largest Asian group in the United States -- the Chinese are. As of last
official census count (see http://www.census.gov/Press-Release/www/2001/tables/dp_us_2000.PDF), Chinese
outnumbered Filipinos by more than 682,000. My apologies for using an outdated
source.
Far from being invisible last week, Filipino-Americans made a big
splash in San Jose and San Francisco by holding the First Global Filipino
Community Networking Convention and the First Global Filipino Business
Conference. The events were attended by Filipino American business, community
and academic leaders.
(From www.inq7.net: posted 11:04
PM (Manila Time) | Aug. 27, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/aug/28/opi_rsaha-1.htm )
NOT a few non-Filipino friends of mine have expressed surprise
when told that Filipinos make up the largest Asian group in the United States,
and the second-largest immigrant group next to Mexicans. "Really?"
they ask. "I thought there were more Chinese."
This common reaction might be because Filipinos do not seem as
visible as other ethnic groups here. This may be due to the fact that
assimilationist tendencies have been deeply ingrained in many Filipinos, just
as the American colonizers in the early 1900s wanted.
Physically, Filipinos easily blend into many different ethnic
groups. They are often mistaken for other nationalities. I myself have
experienced that. In New York, I was mistaken for Puerto Rican. In Bangkok, I
was mistaken for Thai. In Bali, I was mistaken for Balinese. In Calcutta, I was
mistaken for Indian. In California, I have been mistaken for Mexican and
Vietnamese. I have realized that if I spoke a thousand tongues, I could easily
disappear into many different cultures.
Filipinos also are very Americanized in their manner of dressing.
While you can still see some elderly Chinese and Vietnamese in California
wearing their chinoiserie for everyday use, and certainly see numerous adult
women of Indian heritage shopping at malls in their elegant, flowing sari, you
would never see a Filipino man or woman wearing "barong Tagalog" or
"baro't saya" as everyday attire. Such clothing are typically
reserved for the occasional formal Filipino gathering or historical
reenactment. We are so accustomed to Western clothing that our men often travel
or do business wearing their business suits, which we call
"amerikana", of course.
Filipinos speak English well. With or without a college degree,
many of us can speak, read, and write in English fairly fluently, compared with
immigrants of other ethnic origins. While this is considered a definite
advantage in employment, it can be a cultural disadvantage. Even among
ourselves, we tend to speak in English. Many of us do not speak to our US-born
children in Filipino, lest they acquire an accent.
I believe this attitude is a result of the American-style
education that began to be enforced on us a century ago. I remember a rule in
my elementary school in Malabon in Metro Manila that forced us to speak only in
English while on school premises. My school, which was run by American nuns,
must have collected quite a bit of money, as even "aray! (ouch!)"
resulted in a five-centavo fine.
Today, I am hearing more and more about second- and
third-generation Filipino-Americans trying to reclaim their "lost"
heritage and rebelling against the fact that they cannot speak their parents'
mother tongue fluently, while their peers of Mexican, Indian, Chinese or
Vietnamese heritage easily switch from English to their ethnic language in
everyday conversations.
Even food, usually a distinguishing cultural element, does not
easily define the Filipino. The most popular dishes are "lumpia" and
"pansit", but they are usually thrown in the general category of egg
rolls and noodles. Because of this, in fact, most non-Filipinos think Filipino
cuisine is basically Chinese. When you speak of "adobo" or
"mechado", many of them think more readily of the Mexican dishes of
the same names. Many of them are surprised to know that we have sour soups such
as "sinigang", or that we use green papaya in a dish called
"tinola", or that only a few of our dishes use chili, or that we use
both fish sauce and soy sauce. Many of them are not aware that we use tomato
sauce and coconut milk in many of our dishes. Moreover, Filipino restaurants in
California are few and far apart, while there is a Mexican, Indian, Chinese,
Thai, or Vietnamese restaurant every few blocks.
In terms of work habits, I have often heard of Filipinos being
described as hardworking and reliable. Many of them here in California are
highly skilled, employed in technical jobs at high-technology manufacturing
firms. They come to work and do what is expected of them, with nary a fuss
about anything. This has probably also contributed to their being
"invisible."
So where are the Filipinos in America? We are everywhere. We are
not lost. But somehow, we have hidden ourselves in the folds of American
culture and everyday American life. Yes, we have assimilated ourselves -- so
well, perhaps, that sometimes we don't even recognize or acknowledge one
another. We have become the perfect immigrant: We are everywhere and yet we are
not noticeable.
Silently, over the years, we have done our share in shaping our
adopted homeland, especially California, whose agricultural success -- which
preceded its high-technology achievements - owe much to the early Filipino
settlers who tilled its land and picked its fruits.
Perhaps it is time for us to be more visible and make our presence
known.
(From www.inq7.net: posted 0:31
AM Manila Time | Aug. 21, 2002 --http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/aug/21/opi_rsaha-1.htm.)
THE SUMMERS I remember from when I was a child were hot and
unbearably long. Summer meant school was out and therefore there was neither
homework to be done nor tests to study for. I was glad for that until boredom
set in. Holidays and long vacations meant staying home with nothing to do. My
mother, an only child, always had to be home to care for her ailing mother. So
we never went anywhere farther than a jeepney or bus ride away.
This is probably why I had resolved to provide my daughter with
summers to remember, summers filled with fun and adventures I never had,
summers worthy of colorful scrapbooks and photo albums and stories to be
repeated for years to come.
Naturally, it is always easier to make the resolution than to
carry them out, as anybody who swears on New Year's Eve to cut down on sweets
and to exercise regularly knows.
I had made a mental promise to my daughter that she would have
wonderful childhood memories to look back on when she grows up. I thought it
was safer not to speak this promise aloud, just in case I couldn't make good on
it. But more than that, I knew it would take some time before I could really be
spurred into action.
There were always excuses, after all. It's too hot today. It's too
cloudy today. I'm too tired today. I'm too busy today. We have to do laundry
today. We have to do shopping today. We have guests today. We are somebody
else's guests today. That's too expensive. That's too far. That's too hard.
That's impossible. But that's what they were -- excuses.
Finally, at the beginning of this summer, I asked my five-year-old
daughter what she would like to do during her school break. She had a short
list, I was happy to know, of things that actually seemed doable. Why, this was
probably going to be the year when wonderful things could happen!
On top of her list was to get a pet hamster. (This had been a
long-postponed granting of a Christmas wish, repeated as a birthday wish in
February.) So we got Harry.
Then there was summer day camp, in which she spent a full month.
In those four weeks, she went on her first field trips -- two chaperoned by me,
two with only her teachers and fellow campers. She had other firsts: played
mini golf, went on the water slides, visited a ranch with a petting zoo and
hayrides, and rode the bus. And her biggest summer camp adventure -- spending
her first night away from her parents at a make-believe campsite her teachers
had set up at the school grounds. My husband and I, almost unbelieving that she
would actually go through with it, stuck around on camp night till it was
almost time to roast their marshmallows. We secretly wished she would change
her mind and ask us to take her home. She didn't. We half expected to get a
call in the middle of the night from her teachers, asking us to come get our
daughter. There was no call. My daughter was ready for the separation more than
we were.
After summer camp, I took a leave from work and planned to carry
out the rest of our "must do" list. We went to the library more often
and signed her up for its summer reading program. We went to the Discovery
Museum by light rail -- another first for her. One Saturday, we went to the
zoo, another long-delayed wish granting. Another weekend, we went to the beach,
still another first for her. Though it was too cold to swim in the ocean, as it
typically is on Northern California beaches even in the summer, my daughter had
a blast just walking barefoot on the sand and collecting seashells.
We also managed to arrange a play date with her best friend in
pre-kindergarten, whom she had missed dearly. My husband and I and her friend's
parents spent a day at a nearby lakeside park, where together we fulfilled one
of the most important summer promises to our daughters.
Last week, I took out my old painting supplies, in storage for
more than two years, and showed my daughter the basics of oil painting. We
painted a picture together first and then, the independent little girl that she
is, she struck out on her own and painted a portrait of Harry.
And then there was the haircut, for which my daughter received a
first haircut certificate, and the ear piercing, which, once she had decided to
do it, she could not be dissuaded from doing.
Summer is not yet over and there are more things to do. I've
learned that it doesn't really take that much time or that much money to create
the memories of a lifetime. What we really shouldn't have room for are excuses
not to do things.
My daughter is already showing signs of being fiercely
independent. Before we know it, she may want to spend summers away from us. We
hope that's a long time away, and that it doesn't happen till we've fulfilled
the rest of the summer promises I'm already making -- mentally, that is.
(From www.inq7.net: posted 10:57
PM Manila Time | Aug. 13, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/aug/14/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
I HAD a couple of surprise visitors these past two weeks: two old
friends whose sudden communication made me look back -- so far back -- to some turbulent
periods in my life. Though the visits were virtual -- only through e-mail --
the memories they triggered almost caused my chest to tighten, my eyes to well
up with tears.
Did you ever have friends who had little in common with you and yet
seemed to be inexplicably connected to you? Did you ever wonder if they were
serving a purpose in that particular moment in your life? Perhaps their
presence helped you overcome certain obstacles you might never have tackled all
by yourself? And yet, years later, you lose touch, go on with your own life,
get busy with endless mundane chores, and never give them another thought. Some
call friends like these angels -- they mysteriously appear in your time of need
and just as mysteriously disappear. Until you get an e-mail from them.
The first was from a college friend who couldn't have been more
the opposite of me. We sat together in journalism class and somehow hit it off.
She was from a well-off, intact family; I was a struggling, self-supporting
student from a family that might as well have been defined dysfunctional. She
was studious and diligent and never missed a class; I always struggled to keep
my eyes open in class after a long night at the press for our student paper, or
after an exhausting student demonstration for something or other. She was
always well-groomed and stylishly dressed; I wore faded jeans, oversized
T-shirts, and leather sandals. And yet she liked me, and I liked her.
We only hung out together at the mass communications building. We
each had other friends -- friends who were more similar to ourselves -- outside
the building. Strangely, the short time we spent together in class seemed to be
enough to develop a deep friendship.
I call it a deep friendship when that friend takes you into her
own home, offers you a bed in the middle of the night, and asks no questions
about why you were knocking on her door so late. I call it a deep friendship
when all that mattered to us was one question: "Are you happy?"
Years later, we became reporters for competing papers. We saw each
other occasionally, usually in professional circumstances. We rarely had a
chance to talk, always being under pressure from deadlines. I thought she might
be going through some tough personal times, and I hoped she would come to me if
she needed someone to talk to. She never did, making me think she was tougher
than I might have been. I secretly wished she was happy.
Now we are both mothers. And she has e-mailed me after reading my
column, saying she wished to keep in touch. I hope she will because I never got
to tell her how much her friendship meant to me. In some of my darkest nights,
she kept a light on for me in her home. Who knows what might have happened if a
door didn't open for me when I needed it?
Shortly after I received the first e-mail, I got one from another
old friend. Like my college friend, I didn't think I had much in common with
him. He was my co-worker, married, and the father of a little girl; I was
single. I was a beat reporter; he wasn't. I hung out with other beat reporters;
he hung out with the editors. We hardly spent any time outside the building and
yet we somehow bonded deeply enough for me to introduce him to my mother. In
his e-mail, he mentioned that he remembered the time I asked him to listen to a
song I had written (and which was set to music by another friend). I don't
quite recall that incident but I have no doubt it happened, as he could not
have otherwise known about that song. It was extremely personal to me.
We are now both living overseas, in different continents. He
contacted me after reading my column. His daughter is now in college; mine is
about to start kindergarten. We have a lifetime of experiences apart, and yet
he remembers my song.
I am thankful for friends like these -- friends who would rather
know I'm safe than know where I had been out so late from; friends who want to
know if I'm happy; friends who remember a song I had written a lifetime ago.
They were there for brief periods in my life, or so I thought. Actually, they
have been there all along.
Substance abuse makes victims of us all
(From www.inq7.net: posted 10:57
PM Manila Time | Aug. 06, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/aug/07/opi_rsaha-1.htm . Photo from http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs77 : L-R -- Meena
Sehwani, Honey Tordesillas, Marice de la Cruz, Christine Cruz; taken during
SPCM HS77's Silver Jubilee Grand Reunion at Manila Polo Club, Forbes Park,
Makati, 25 Jan 2002.)
RECENTLY, I learned about a
remarkable story of connection through a former schoolmate. Several years ago,
five women who were struggling with their loved ones' drug or alcohol addiction
found one another in recovery group meetings. Finding strength in one another,
these women decided to impart what they had discovered to others who may need
the same help they once did. They founded the Living Free Foundation in 1998 as
a nonprofit, self-help center for codependents, the term used to refer to
people who are indirect victims of drug abuse or alcoholism. Today, my
schoolmate Meena Sehwani is chair of LFF, which is one of the recipients of our
class of 1977's fund-raising proceeds.
In a society in which these destructive diseases are often denied
in shame, it is extremely courageous to encourage bringing them out in the open
and helping people whose lives have been changed by them. The LFF recognizes
that drug addicts and alcoholics are not the only victims. Friends and family
members whose lives have been affected by them are victims as well. I take my
hat off to you, Meena. And congratulations on your newly launched website, http://www.livingfreefoundation.org.
I know too well how destructive addiction to drugs and alcohol can
be. I have seen its devastating effects on some people I love. I have seen how
these addictions can take over the lives, not only of the addicts, but also of
those around them.
I only recently heard of the term "codependency." When I
searched the Internet, I was surprised to find more than 48,000 sites about or
related to this concept. Some of them summarize the hundreds of books that have
been written about codependency. Some of them are reviews of these books. Some
of them contain in-depth discussions of the concept in psychoanalytical terms
while some of them place it in biblical context. How do you know if you are a
codependent? On the Web, you will find extensive descriptions, lists and
do-it-yourself tests to help you determine if you are one.
Simply put, you are a codependent if, in caring for someone you
love who is chemically dependent, you have entrapped yourself in the victim's
needs, whims and lifestyle. You have set aside your own life goals in favor of
full-time care for the victim. You have defined yourself by what and how much
care you are giving to the victim. You have lost your own sense of self, just
as if you were dependent on a chemical substance yourself.
In Philippine society, it seems that there are so many cultural
and social attitudes that hamper people from acknowledging the existence of
chemical dependency, more so codependency. These traits often even contribute
to the development of chemical dependencies.
"Nakakahiya naman (It's too embarassing.)" is an all too
common excuse not to butt in on other people's business, as is "walang pakialam
(none of your business)."
"Nakikisama lang (I'm just going with the group.)" is
often heard to justify one's excessive drinking.
"Hindi ako makatanggi (I couldn't say no.)" is another
dangerous social alibi for getting in over one's head. On the codependent's
side, family members are expected to stick it out to the end if one of their
own is a substance abuser, no matter if it is to the detriment of the
caregivers. They are expected to care for their "sariling dugo (own
blood)," often to the point of becoming codependents.
If someone you love is addicted to drugs or alcohol and you have
devoted your own life to caring for him or her, it's time to claim back your
life. Throwing your own life away will not cure your loved one of his or her
addiction. An addict needs professional help and you need to help yourself.
Seek support from others who have gone through the same things you have by
contacting organizations such as the LFF or learn more about codependency from
the countless available resources on the Web.
(Fromwww.inq7.net: posted 10:57
PM Manila Time | Jul. 30, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/jul/31/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
IF you were driving around California, what's one of the surest
signs there are a lot of Filipinos living in that area? Well, a Jollibee
restaurant is one. We discovered one last week as my husband and I drove
through Daly City to take our daughter to the San Francisco Zoo.
I knew, of course, that Daly City was well known for its sizable
Filipino population -- about 32 percent of its 100,000 residents. And I knew
from TV commercials on the Filipino channel that there was a Jollibee there
somewhere. I just had not planned on eating there that day.
In fact, my husband and I were looking for a McDonald's for a
quick snack and a restroom stop before heading to the zoo. We drove for blocks
without seeing one, and we thought that odd. Well, we should have known. In
Filipino country, of course, you'd find a Jollibee before seeing a McDonald's.
We had to stop at Jollibee. Or rather, I had to, and I convinced
my Indo-American husband to do so. Overcoming a mild protest from my daughter,
unfamiliar with Jollibee, I led the way.
I expected to see tapsilog and tosilog, shortened terms for the
combinations tapa, sinangag at itlog and tosino, sinangag at itlog, on the
breakfast menu. Instead, these were the choices given: tender beef rice, smoked
breakfast sausage rice, tasty corned beef rice, and sweet pork rice. I quickly
figured out from the pictures on the wall that the "tender beef" was
the tapa, the "smoked breakfast sausage" was the longganisa, and the
"sweet pork" was the tosino. I had to explain what these dishes were
to my husband and daughter.
What disappointed me was the use of English words for the dishes I
enjoyed back home. Why couldn't they call tapa "tapa," longganisa
"longganisa," and tosino "tosino"? To me, just hearing
these native names evoke fond memories that trigger sensations on my taste
buds. I can almost taste the sweet tosino in my mouth as I pronounce the word.
So to me, a Filipino client hungry for not only my native food, but, more
important, for the memories I associate the food with, it makes sense for a
Filipino restaurant outside the Philippines to call the Filipino dishes by
their native names. If I saw the word tapsilog on the menu, I'm more than half
won over as a customer. It makes no sense to me and stirs absolutely no hunger
in my stomach nor in my soul to see tapa called "tender beef" or
tosino "sweet pork."
What's more ridiculous is that being in Daly City, you'd expect
that majority of the restaurant's clientele would be Filipino. And therefore,
there would be no need to translate into English the dishes' native names.
Even if the goal was to attract more non-Filipino clientele, it
still doesn't make sense to me. I have eaten in a number of the many Indian
restaurants now scattered all over California. I have yet to see one calling
samosa a "spicy turnover" or murgh tandoori just "grilled chicken."
Do you think the Vietnamese restaurants that abound here would call their pho
just plain "noodle soup"? Or would the numerous Thai restaurant
owners here refer to their tom yum as simply "spicy soup"? Even a
French restaurant would not dare call foie gras "fattened goose
liver." It just wouldn't be the same.
As a result, so many non-Indians, non-Vietnamese, non-Thais who
frequent these ethnic restaurants are now familiar with the names of the
popular ethnic dishes. In contrast, the only Filipino dishes many of my non-Filipino
friends know by name are lumpia and pansit.
Weren't Filipinos in California long before all these other ethnic
groups? You'd think that by now, kare-kare, sinigang, or tinola would be part
of the American vocabulary. The use of native language names, I believe, is one
way of introducing the native culture to foreigners.
Jollibee's website says it has eight restaurants in California
alone and it has restaurants in Hong Kong, Vietnam, Indonesia, Brunei and some
U.S. territories. I don't know what its menus in other places look like. But
wouldn't it be nice if eating in one brought you more than just a fast-food
meal -- the feeling of being home because of familiar language -- even if its
restaurant interiors and menu style (down to the "value meals") do
remind you of McDonald's?
(From www.inq7.net: posted 1:05 AM
Manila Time | Jul. 24, 2002 -- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/jul/24/opi_rsaha-1.htm. Photo from http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs77 : L-R
--Menchie Noble, Vicki Villongco, Ana Velasco, Belle Salvador and Mina de los
Reyes; taken during their Silver Jubilee reunion at Mina's home in San Jose CA,
26 Jan 2002. Not in photo was Gee Leano who was sick.)
Late last year, I became
convinced of the awesome power of the Internet to find connections to people I
would otherwise have never found, not in a day at least.
I was testing what the Internet could do for me. So I decided to
see if I could find some of my high school classmates at St. Paul College of
Manila. I started a search. Within one day, I struck gold. Or rather, green and
gold, the Paulinian colors.
Finding the school's official website had led me to other links
until I reached the class of 1977's newly created website. I was one of the
first to make contact. Over the next few weeks, more and more of our classmates
had discovered the website. Pretty soon, there was a flurry of e-mail messages
going back and forth, each containing questions and answers and stories and
reminiscences in a frantic effort to fill the gap of 25 years since we parted
ways. I was one of many giddily anticipating the string of e-mail messages at
the end of the day. By the end of the year, a core group in Manila that had
been meeting for two years had firmed up plans for our class' silver jubilee
celebration. Paulinians who hadn't visited the Philippines in years now had an
excuse to go home. Arrangements were made for more meetings, mini-reunions, and
parties. Finally, the day of the silver jubilee came and the girls who
tearfully said goodbye to one another in 1977 now met again as women - mothers,
doctors, lawyers, writers, business owners, teachers, and so on. These women
who shared their precious formative years together have reconnected.
Meanwhile, back here in California, I hosted a small luncheon
coinciding with the day of the reunion in Manila. I invited a few of the
Paulinians I had discovered were within a short driving distance. (One, an
international flight attendant, flew all the way from Detroit and spent the
previous night at my home.)
Strangely, as the party wore on, an unexplainable bonding seemed
to blossom. None of us had been close in high school. We each had hung out with
different people. And yet, it was as if seeing one another had brought us back
to high school. We giggled like little girls, relished old gossip, retold old
jokes. Suddenly, we were back in the '70s.
All my apprehension about the meeting disappeared. I had wondered
how it would turn out. Would we have anything in common? Would we have anything
to say to one another? Perhaps we'd eat lunch and after a few pleasantries, say
our goodbyes again and never see one another for the next 25 years. After all,
I was close to none but a handful of girls at St. Paul. As it turned out, we talked
till evening, replenished our plates between stories as lunch stretched into
dinner (nobody was watching her waistline), and even had an impromptu makeup
session. Our dear husbands and kids busied themselves watching TV, playing, and
talking, allowing us women to rediscover one another.
Perhaps one of my great discoveries that day is realizing that we
have all survived our adolescent fears, insecurities, loneliness, heartbreaks,
or just the general angst that every teenager occasionally encounters. Yes,
high school was tough because of all the physical and emotional changes we all
were going through as teenagers. But adulthood, with its attendant
responsibilities and accountability, is tougher. That also makes it more
rewarding.
Our little group of six here in California is planning to meet
again this summer. Perhaps we can locate a few more Paulinians who would like
to join us. I am excited about the next opportunity to reconnect and learn more
about the varied, interesting, and challenging lives we have led. Maybe I'll
tell you all about this reunion someday.
(The above article was reprinted in full with permission from
www.inq7.net in the inaugural (Aug 2002) issue of the Paulinian Alumnae Association of Manila's
"Paulinian Alumnae Newsletter" with the following sidebar.)
Paulinians go online
The Internet has served to link the Paulinian community worldwide,
helping us to re-kindle old friendships and make new ones. From just one SPCM
HS website on 14 Feb 1999 --- Eileen Niguidula's SPCM HS'76 "Valentine's
Day" e-group, there are now 19 known active e-groups and websites
belonging to 12 batches:
HS '65
/ College '69 website: http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs65; e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SPCM-HS65COL69/
HS'71 egroup: spcmbatch71@coollist.com
HS '73 e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spcmhs73/
HS '75 website: http://www.paulinians.com ( http://www.spcmhs1975.homestead.com ); e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spcm_hs75/
HS '76 website: http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs_1976; e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spcm-hs-1976/
HS '77 website: http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs77; e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spcmhs77/
HS '78 website: http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs78; e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spcm_hs78/
HS '79 website: http://www.geocities.com/spcm_hs79; e-group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/spcm_hs79/
HS '80 website: http://www.chonad.com
HS '81 website: http://ca.geocities.com/spcmhs81; e-group: http://ca.groups.yahoo.com/group/spcm_hs81/
HS '82
website: http://www.spcm82.artshost.com
HS '84
e-group: http://www.groups.yahoo.com/group/SPCM1984
Writing about people in a high-tech setting
By Romina Saha
(FIRST ISSUE! From www.inq7.net: posted 5:04
AM Manila Time | Jul. 17, 2002-- http://www.inq7.net/opi/2002/jul/17/opi_rsaha-1.htm)
WHAT does the word "connection" mean to you? In Silicon
Valley, where I have lived for the last 12 years, it can mean many things.
A connection can be electrical. Connections of metal lines are
arranged in very logical and specified ways on a bed of silicon. This metal
maze creates electrical impulses that enable it to perform a specific function.
That's what a computer chip is. That is what Silicon Valley -- a term coined in
1971 by a journalist -- is named for.
For those who have kept abreast of developments in the high-tech
world, you may know that Silicon Valley is not a geographical name. You will
not find it in traditional maps. Northern California's Santa Clara County,
which includes 15 cities, has laid claim to the name "Silicon
Valley."
Silicon Valley is where hundreds of businesses geared toward the
creation of technology that is better, bigger, smaller, faster, simpler, more
complicated, cheaper, costlier -- at least one of these -- are headquartered.
The name "Silicon Valley" pays homage to the stuff of which computer
chips are made -- silicon. Why not? Every high-tech product you can think of --
computers, video games, kitchen appliances, laboratory equipment, weapons,
medical equipment, and even the machines that make computer chips -- has a
computer chip in it. The computer chip changed our lives and the course of
human history. It certainly deserves its birthplace to be named after it.
When you think of computers, you also think of the Internet. The
World Wide Web, so named for its ability to make almost unlimited virtual
connections from a single starting point, is also a staple in Silicon Valley
life.
But "connections" don't just refer to electrical or
electronic links. What about the connection of events that led to the founding
of most of the successful high-tech corporations in the first place? You have
heard the names -- Hewlett Packard, Intel, Apple, Sun Microsystems, to name a
few of the semiconductor industry giants found in Silicon Valley.
And what about connections in the context of networking, a term
that applies to computers as well as to the business practice of contact
building? You must have heard about the pink slip parties in recent months
after the Sept. 11-induced US economic downturn. These are parties attended by
people who have lost their jobs. They hope to find comfort in these gatherings
from other people similarly displaced but more than that, they hope to find at
least a lead to a new job. Pink slip parties are gatherings of people who have
been handed their termination notices and who in turn are handing out their
business cards to other people who are also handing out their business cards.
It is in this setting -- Silicon Valley, the place built on
connections of all kinds -- where I will be writing this column, simply called
"Connections." But contrary to what you might expect from what I have
written above, I will be writing about connections of a different sort, on a
different level. I will write about connections to people and between people,
connections to their emotions, ambitions, and aspirations, connections to
ethnic cultures, traditions, and values, connections to history and geography,
connections to the past, the present, and the future.
I will not write about computers or technology alone. I will write
about the people who create technology, the people who use it, and the people
affected by it. I will not write about matters connected only to technology.
True, even preschoolers these days know how to use a mouse and navigate a
simple children's website. But there are still many people for whom a mouse is
just a rodent. I would like to write about them, too. Silicon Valley is just a
backdrop for stories about human lives.
California is rich with people from all over the world who have
brought with them not only their languages, traditions, and tastes, but also
their family histories, their struggles and their tragedies, their losses and
their victories, their dreams and their hopes. I wish to write not only about
Filipino-Americans like me but also about people of other ethnicity who somehow
have affected me. Like everyone else who has come to the United States and embraced
life here, I have brought with me my own history. I have my own connections.
Visit www.geocities.com/spcm_hs77. Back to www.PAULINIANS.com.
Latest page update: 11.22.2004
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