isang araw

I am awake before my alarm rings at four:twenty. At five:thirty I walk down Cambie. Sleepy construction workers with cigarettes between their lips sit in their trucks waiting for their shift to begin. At five:fifty my body tenses as I get off the bus on Pender and Hasting. The first crack in the sky is still buried under the horizon. And the dark forces me to carry my keys between my fingers. My strides are quick and long. Twenty steps before….nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fifteen, fourteen…..four, three, two, and safety.

Morning coffee is unnecessary when you go through the oldest neighborhood in Vancouver. Lights flicker from people crouched on the ground as they inhale smoke rising from their hands; cocoons line the side walk, people in different stages of muscular contractions scream inaudible sound. Sadness fills me as my bus passes through the downtown east side. Drug rehabilitation, social issues….we are born with unequal circumstances, how do we level the playing field? These thoughts slip away as I enter the industrial section. My own reality pulls me and traps me between teaching chance and probability, behavioral management, my nephew who has not returned my email, my students that are struggling in life, unpainted bedroom, choosing a country to live, dropping my suits to the cleaner.

Part 1

Escape is on my mind

Every night for the last week, I stretch the night by refusing to sleep. Pulling the blanket over my head, I hold off the new day. I can’t believe that two weeks of my holidays are gone. And all I have left is two more weeks. In March, my exhausted body felt that this break would never come. Now, that it's here, it feels too short. The days are shrinking.

Lately, I find myself in new roles. I had to talk to my female students about positive body image when I over heard a group of girls say, “I feel blotted…You look fat……..We look fat.” I felt that it was my responsibility to interject. I talked to them about being positive, loving their body shape, and that cool girls don’t put each other down. With their eyes, they stamped OLD on my forehead. Old in that sense that I have no clue.

I foresee my nephew attaching this same label on me when I speak to him. Something I’ve been putting off for the last week. My sister asked me to talk to him since I pay for his university tuition. She feels that he would listen to me. Like most teenagers, he slacks off with his household chores. This isn’t a big deal, but to his mother it is huge. Last week, she kept saying that he lives in the Philippines, and there’s no room for error if he wants to survive. I haven’t made the connection between household chores and surviving. But somehow, I’m an adult figure that needs to say, “Smarten up.” A hard role since I’d seen him only twice. Sending cards, letters, and showering him with gifts when I come for a visit is the only relationship we’ve ever had.

This role of being responsible to and for young adults feels foreign. I’ve been responsible and accountable for my own life for as long as I could remember, but being a role figure feels matriarchal. I find my shoulders droop with the weight of responsibilities.

politics in a pitcher

Doolan yells at me each time I ask him to translate a Spanish word.
“You should know that de Leon. It’s a common word, de Leon.”
He likes to repeat my last name. A habit I haven’t figured out. The last time we got drunk he told me that Filipinos are Asian anomaly. And that we are not really Asians. And that we are a strange breed.
“If we are not Asians, what are Filipinos?” I questioned him.
“I don’t know. You should know where you’re people are from. Geez, don’t you know your roots.”
“Well, not really, I thought you could help me.”
“If you don’t know. How am I supposed to know?” He barks at me.
“You say Filipinos are not Asians, is it because my archipelago is run by actors and pop singers?”
“You’re country is run by soap opera stars?”
“Yup, all seven thousand islands. From Luzon to Mindanao: mayors, councilors, senators, governors, and presidente are actors. Wait, except Rocco. He’s the only exception. He’s the minister of education.”
“You mean were actors.”
“Don’t interrupt! For punishment, I will steal your beer. I mean, it will cost you a beer. Stay in the present tense Doolan, they are actors”
“Son-of-a-bitch de Leon. You emptied the pitcher.”
“Well that’ll give you a reason to go up and talk to her again.” Doolan has a crush on the bartender. He refuses to order from the server and gets up to the bar to be close to the curly red hair English major.

what does it mean? pls recommend

Yesterday, I was shopping at a trendy clothing store on Main Street when a sales clerk with Buddy Holly’s glasses used the word humid. The word humid registered in my head and I paused. My impulse was to correct him. I felt like telling him that he misused the word. It wasn’t humid. It was chilly. The wind was fat and cold. It can’t be windy, chilly, and humid at the same time. Or can’t it? Humid implies heat, doesn’t it? I didn’t say a word. I smiled and continued sifting through the sale rack. But, the whole time I was at the store, my mind was on the word humid. For me, it is connected to summer’s heat and the taste of the rain in the air. Yet, Vancouverites with their northern relationship to the ocean gave it a different meaning. They use the word to describe the relatively high level of water vapor in the air. The logical side of me agreed that air saturation varied on temperature. However, the Prairie Brown Equator in me refused to change my word association. Humid will come after the adjective hot. Hot, and humid. Yes, that’s the order it shall remain. It can’t be cold and humid. Hot and humid, in that exact order, anything else is absurd.

Speaking of absurd, I’m reading Catch 22 by Joseph Heller. This is one my favorite parts:
Major Major had been born too late and too mediocre. Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. With Major Major it had been all three. Even among men lacking all distinction than all the rest, and people who met him were always impressed by how unimpressive he was.

Now, that I have a break before summer session, I want to read books that are hilariously absurd, magical, surreal, and carnivalesque. The more twisted things are the more I find them close to the truth. I want a different reality, so tell me what you’re reading. And, tell me why I should read it.

paolo's visit

unusual westcoast winter

no more drama

It’s eight:thirty and I’m fighting to keep my eyelids open. I spent last night in a cabin in the woods with 32 students and 3 faculty associates. Great food, great story tellers, an afternoon hike, and an evening huddled around the fire making music made sleeping on cement floors bearable.

It was snowing again when I woke up. During breakfast, few people were worried how they were going to drive up the hill. Hoping they wouldn’t get stuck. This seems to be a recurring theme in Van City lately. Last week, Production Way (the road that goes up the hill to Simon Fraser University) was closed. All busses were rerouted, adding an extra half an hour to my 60 minutes morning commute. Also, the back and front fence of my house had been down since December, the roof of BC place is still deflated, Stanley Park looks like it has alopecia from all the fallen trees, the black-outs, and of course, the two weeks we had to boil our water.

I have to admit, I sort of enjoyed the silt in our water event. It gave a little drama to this lovely city, but driving across Stanley Park today was depressing. From the Lions Bridge you could see bald spots and washed out roads. I hope no more drama is in store and I’m counting down the days cherry blossoms make their appearance

I haven’t written on this in awhile. There are tons of things to write, but I haven’t had time to sit down and tap away at the keys. There is also the question of why I blog? Its self involved. It adds to the “me” culture which I’ve justified by thinking that writing is a selfish act. I still think this way, but recent interactions with unintended audiences made me re-evaluate how I want to control who has access to my writings . In two weeks my practicum begins. The last thing I want is to have faculty, colleagues, and students read something I’ve written and think that it is an accurate representation of me. At best my writing captures a fragment of truth which represents me at that moment.

I started this blog two years ago to keep in contact with friends. I haven’t been doing a good job with that so here’s an overview and self reminder of the last 6 months:

1. School started this week. One week down. 46 left to go.
2. Jen got married to Mark. Seeing them over Christmas made me believe in love again.
3. Ian is almost as tall as I am. And a trip home is not complete without eating tons of cookies at Anne's home.
4. Bowling with Geret and Robb in Winnipeg is priceless.
5. Time is the best gift you could give. A lesson my Mom Marg thought me over the holidays.
6. That you are never prepared to lose a love one, regardless of how long you’ve been separated.

7. Montreal has the best poutine.
8. Sharad is a pretty cool Indian
9. Hanging out in the farm with Aleks and her parents rocks.
10. A wedding along St. Lawrence is beautiful.
11. Tea with Vancouverite friends is not often enough.
(Pics soon to follow)

beautiful day, even brown water don't bother me

Its been hard to find inspiration with working two jobs and not much time for anything else. Days blended together. Honestly couldn’t recall when summer turned to fall. Five months had been lost in the routine of working ten hour day, seven days a week. I’ve needed space to fall apart but I was too tired even for that. The only thing that kept me from unraveling was the thought of starting my final year this January. Even when I had doubts that I was going to get accepted, I pushed that aside and reassured myself that being on the waiting list meant I would get in. Today, I got my acceptance from Simon Fraser's PDP Program.

This is the first day in long time that I feel like myself.

people watching in front of mcgill

I've become fascinated with faces and I wish I have a better camera.

ghosts

I love how strangers share the most intimate things. The seventy year old man I met in the Cameroon Highlands three years ago told me that his only love died of tuberculosis while they were attending university in England after the Second World War, and recently, the race car driver I sat beside in the plane told me about his Ana.

“This is Ana,” his eyes pointed at his computer screen. “We drove from Montreal to Vancouver.”
There was so much sadness mixed with happiness and longing in his voice that I had to ask where she was. When he replied with, “In Vancouver, but we don’t talk anymore,” my heart sunk for him. Looking over his shoulder, I saw files of his ghost.

As I cycle home after my night shifts, their narratives often play in my head, “She was my only….this is Ana….we met during the war….I was 17….she was 16….she designed this building.” Their stories blend. And I begin to ask what if there is no happy ending. Or more exact, what if there is no happy ending for me? Perhaps, my problem is that I read too many romance novels as a teenager. What if D is right, and that, love is not sprinkled with rose petals? What if love is being in love with memories? Or, being in love with what you had? Mostly, it is men that I know that have the hardest time letting go. They dance with ghosts for years. Even D admits that before he goes to bed, he imagines his ex lying beside him. This is nine years after they broke up.

If this is the case for many men, then many women are faced with dating men with ghosts. As much as the romantic in me love the stories of the old man and the race car driver, I find it pointless to long for someone because that person captured your youth, or a part of a dream, a lifestyle that you once lived. But then a part of me wishes that I am someone's ghost.

a wedding along the st. lawrence river

Here the present took place in the past. And the past is in every blade of grass, in branches that tickle the sky, in the silver dressed current that twirls for the sun. In the land of the Iroquois, time rocks back and forward, and stands just long enough for you to kiss.

A race car driver I sat beside in the plane had never heard of this place 150 km from his coppered roof city. He said it three times. Each time the word peeled off his tongue slower. Iro –kwoi. ir-rro-kwaaa. eee-rrro-kwwaaaa.

day of the living dead

I saw her. The woman whose lover I kissed. She was one of the seductress zombies behind the art gallery with a bloody hand print on her face. She didn’t notice me. I was a fish, swimming in the sea of tourists’ lights.

I haven’t had much time to read these days, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised by Vanity Fair and by a Tasmanian author. Richard Flanagan’s Gould’s book of Fish made me float three inches off ground. At the same time, Henry Porter’s Blair’s Big Brother Legacy instills hope that not everyone in the media has sold their souls to conservative Satans.

robots and beautiful people

Sharad and I are in the West Coast Life section of the Vancouver Sun newspaper today. After having martinis and bland chewy calamari at the top of Vancouver Revolving Restaurant, we went to a more boisterous Japanese izakaya in Gastown where the floor manager is rude and need to learn customer service in English. With that aside, all the male servers and bartenders and not to mention Sharad’s lone female server named Jina are all eye candies. It made us feel beautiful being in the company of good looking people. Well, this is until we saw our picture today. Man, how can a photographer take so many pictures and still make us look bad. Vancouver Sun approached us to have our pictures taken while we were drinking at the bar. We agreed, because we got free food, and heck, it was something to do. But, he gave us ridiculous instructions on how to pose that Sharad and I laughed our heads off between takes, and I guess during the shots. Well, our two seconds in fame captured us with double chin, bad hair and drunk with sake (for future reference to restaurant critic Mia Stainsby, it is spelled SAKE, not saki).

With our heads cloudy from martinis and sake, we went to Vancouver’s first sky train party. It was fun running from cart to cart holding hands with robots of all make. The sky train police were baffled and tried to restrain us. We performed Mr. Roboto to appease them. Sadly, they had no sense of humour and called the real big boys. By the time we got to New West stop, cops were waiting for us. The beauty about the sky train party was that it was legal, we weren’t breaking any laws. Unlike, the sky train cops, the Vancouver cops were chilled and just reminded us that body surfing was not such a good idea in a train full of robots. We smiled. Blew them robot kisses. And off we went.

North Van

The rain killed my plan to go to Bowen Island. Instead, I hopped on the sea bus and sat in a café in Lonsdale Quaye reading a book. North Van is a wonderful place ten minutes from downtown Vancouver. I like the empty streets and the small cluster of restaurants close to the harbour. I like the way the streets are not lined with panhandlers. I understand the sociological reasons behind people living on the street. Just sometimes, I wish I can wait for the bus on Broadway and Commercial and not be asked if I have change. I foresee some of the emails I will receive tomorrow regarding my lack of compassion. But sometimes, I need to escape from reality and pretend that the sidewalks are filled with petunias and dahlias.

I walked around the old pier, watched the sunset and was reminded of my childhood fascination with rust. One day I’ll tell you about my third once removed cousin and his near death experience with tetanus.

Last Thursday was my only day off for the next 21 days. It also marked my one month of being single. So, I put on my rain coat, inhaled the ocean breeze and embraced the old familiar feeling of oneness.

The sun comes up and I start again

A month of heat and sun makes me welcome the rain. I’ve forgotten why I have a blog. Tonight, I remember—to improve my writing and to keep in contact with friends. Lately, there’s been less writing, less reading, and more starring at spaces. Spaces of what could have been, would have been, things that should have been said. I’m not a frequent visitor of loss spaces, of wanting to return to the past and correct my words, but there are times when the present could only make sense by unraveling the past.

This last week have been full of activities: lunches with Geret, breakfast with Hitomi, dinner with Ariel, a night with Anya and the “Japan Gang,” feeling light as smoke and touching the ground again by filling my belly with insanely delicious poutine at Fritz at four in the morning, a night of talking about strippers with the boys, and not being able to get in to their local stripper bar on Granville. I find I’m no longer shock that Canadian men frequent such establishments, that I’d be curious enough to even check it out and find out what they’re about. Dinner again with Berlene, her husband, and her friends. All these plus a six day work week.

This Thursday, I’m jumping on the ferry to Bowen Island with Sharad. His time in Vancouver is coming to an end, and soon, I’ll be without a roommate to explore Vancouver. Another great roommate with a departure date.

It’s almost four. I’m waiting for the sun to come up. Other than drunken nights in Tokyo, waiting for the train to start running again, it had been years since I stayed up for the sunrise. I miss Kildonan Park, my roller blades, the pink and tangerine colored horizon over the Red.

Friday night raucous

the power of words

Last night, I served three elderly Egyptian men. They were discussing Lebanon. Their disgust for the US government continued support on Israel weren't surprising. In our kitchen, between lunch and dinner rush, one of the owners who is also our chef, watches the continued coverage on the Middle East. At night, after our last guest leaves, the owners and their friends gather in the patio to unwind, bounce ideas from each other, and lately, talk about the region close to their home country.

Three years ago, I went on holidays with a woman I barely knew to the islands of Cebu and Bohol. During this trip, my ignorance on the Middle East issues became apparent. She tried to convince me that Israel's actions are just form of retaliations against "terrorists." Even with my ignorance, I couldn't accept what she was saying, because she lacked analytical perspective. Since then, I've tried to inform myself regarding issues outside my little bubble. I came across this documentary awhile back. It helped me understand why the Palestinians need the world to know the circumstances they live in.