I had head lice once, in grade school. You know, when people normally get it like how kids normally get chicken pox. I remember we went through a whole school inspection, with those special fine combs, and it was official. I had lice. When you’re a kid, it’s not quite so bad because you have an excuse. You’re a kid, and you have no care in the world. Lice may be gross, but so are boogers, and you eat them. Mom did all the things you’re supposed to do. Wash all my sheets and bedding. Pillowcases. Clothing. Being a kid didn’t make me immune to the embarrassment and shame, but it wasn’t so bad.
Twenty some years later I am back in the Philippines. It was my first or second week here when I was hanging out with my cousin, aged 8, and suckered into staying the night with her to sleep in their room instead of the guest room that was set up for me in the other house next door. It’s not so bad. They have air conditioner, and the guest room does not. Just a small fan that does nothing because every morning I still wake up covered in sweat. It is so hot here, and I am not used to this heat…
My cousin, and her mom all sleep in the same bed. It was big enough for one more person, but suffice it to say, it was a bit of a snug sleeping experience with my 8 year old cousin in the middle.
You can see where this story is going. I didn’t know it then until a week later. But both my cousins have lice, and so do practically all my kid cousins. Yeah. There’s a bit of a lice problem in the Philippines. They joked that I am a real Pinay (Filipina) now that I have lice. Apparently, lots of the females get it. Look who’s proud to be Pinay now? I mean. It’s embarrassing. I’m not too happy that I have a lice problem. My aunt sat combing through my hair and dozens of these tiny bugs came crawling onto the white shirt she had laid over her lap. The big mother lice were black, and fat with my blood. The babies are still white or beige in color and not so big. It’s strange to think a whole city of parasites live on my head. I mean, no wonder I’ve been so itchy. But I’ve been in denial.
I finally broke that denial the other night when I was itching playing with my hair and found a beige colored bug on my finger. Horrified, I Google image searched “lice” to confirm that was the bug I was staring at right in front of me. The next morning, in quiet, dejected shame, I told them.
Ng kikitan ko sa koto ang akong buhok. I probably butchered that, and I had to ask them what past tense of “to find” was. But basically “I found lice in my hair.” Lice. Koto. What. The. Hell?
I wondered if lice could survive in things like beards and pubic hair. I wondered if, after scratching my head, and masturbating, I might have acquired lice down there. Then I tried to remember if it felt itchy down there and I haven’t noticed it. Disgusting. Denial. Good thing I shave, right?
Living amongst the people in different cultures has its ups and downs. For me, living in a third world country meant catching lice for a second time. Hey, it’s all part of the travel charm. You gotta roll with the punches. And sometimes that means getting infectious diseases, or getting deported, or having to renew your passport because you know you want to stay longer than a year (and by you, I mean me), or who knows what.
This is how I roll.
I am leaving in less than six days for the Zen monastery. While the experience is not monastic training, and shaving our heads is not required, I had asked if I could choose to do it anyway. I’ve been wanting to shave my head since I was 19 and all punk rock anti-establishment. I was too chicken then. And my head shape is flat. So much for rejecting status-quo, in my green colored pixie short hair and spikes that made me look kind of like a dyke. But I mean, I’m bisexual so I guess that means I’m half-dyke. I don’t care.
I can’t think of a better time to shave my head than when I have a lice problemand I am going to live monastically for four months of total seclusion at a monastery where monks really do shave their head and I won’t be around the public. That’s perfect, right? They told me it’s inappropriate for girls to shave their head but I saw a girl monk with her head shaved so I call bull shit. In any event, I’m going to try to convince them to shave my head because of my lice problem, OR I’m going to have my aunt who owns a hair salon do it the day before I leave for the monastery. Once I make up my mind on something, I don’t let go.
That’s why I’m here now, in the Philippines, and that’s why I’m finally going to shave my head.
“Good morning, baby,” Raj would say bringing a tray with masala chai tea to my bed. He had this way of talking like we were all brothers and sisters and his terms of endearment extended to us like family. “Time to wake up.” In a groggy mess, I’d accept the tea and place it on the headboard of the bed while I allowed myself a few more minutes to fully wake up. Shannon, another volunteer that shared the bed with me did the same–neither one of us “morning people”–while the two male volunteers sipped their teas in the other room.
This was our morning ritual.
The house would wake up. Our host family would prepare our breakfast. An egg omelet sandwich or chapati bread with potatoes. A second helping of masala tea. Benji, their six year-old son, would prepare for school. Subha, the mother, would bring him to school while Raj, the three other volunteers and I would walk the ten minutes to the local slums.
It’s so hard to formulate thoughts into sentences sometimes. Especially with something as complex and chaotic as India. You can’t escape the dirt there. Travel guide books show colorful pictures of pristine streets and happy people. Don’t believe it. India is dirty. Garbage littered everywhere. Dirt and dust from undeveloped sidewalks. Wearing flip-flops, as I did, you’re bound to get your feet covered in dirt and your toenails lined with black grit. Yet for all of the mixed feelings; as varied as the mixed smells, I do love it. There’s something quite magical and intangible about India that pulls me back. That remains a part of me. That lets me know India has my heart.
Embracing our dirtyness.
As we approach the dirt mounds that line the entrance of the slums, kids play cricket and bathe outside. Poverty greets me left and right as most of the kids staring back at us do not have shoes. Tiny huts made of dirt or mud or brick come at me left and right, as I walk one foot after the other on the dirt path. Of course, they don’t really come at me but that is how it feels like when you’re just concentrating on looking straight ahead, trying to block your mind from thoughts going overdrive to an environment Western eyes do not usually see. Trying not to become emotional. Putting your game face on and your mind on automatic. Step left, step right…
When we reach the slum school the kids are already seated and cheerfully greet us with smiles.
“Good morning, mam! Good morning, sir!”
It is like there is an invisible wall where the school is. Conducted entirely outside, some village bystanders watch “outside” of the school parameters. Donated desks–most falling apart–are what the children use as some cram two to three to a seat. The class is divided into two groups. Small kids, ranging from aged 5 to 7 and big kids, from 8 to 10. I handle the little kids and teach them English one desk at a time. They all cram towards me holding their notebooks out to show me their homework. With no teaching experience, babysitting experience, or much kid experience at all, it is exhausting to have them flock towards me.
Kids are kids no matter what part of the world you’re in. There are always going to be your typical troublemakers at the back of the class or the teacher’s pet working diligently on her studies. Despite the poverty, and their constantly runny noses visibly dripping snot, they seemed genuinely happy, especially when involved in playtime. With the simplicities of life in the slums, kids still find a way to shine through their resilient spirits.
The art of travel is veering from your plans, or having no plans at all.
There is recent talk around the travel blogosphere about this travel tip that I hold dear to the life journey, in general. Really, it’s a wonder that I even got here to this place. Asia, India, my homeland. I am a horrible planner that breaks up in sweats at the thought of itinerary and planning. It’s not that I don’t have a lack of ideas, or know how to use a good travel guide every once in awhile. It’s the execution of plans that I fret and stress about. It’s the logistics of the matter.
Wherever the Wind Blows Me
It is no secret that going from point A to point B has never been my forte. In college, I chalked this up to being guided by my “inner compass” rather than making plans up front. In this way, I have adopted my travel style the same way I’ve adopted my lifestyle. “Wherever the wind blows me.” If the art of travel is veering from plans, then I am a natural artist. I simply make it up as I go along. This allows me to set my own pace and be open to opportunities that have life changing potential. It allows me the chance to adopt to new cultures in an Anthropological way that helps bridge gaps of communication. For this method of travel, and life philosophy to work, there’s still a few guidelines that have helped me out.
Thought Bubbles Ideas need time to bubble. What people normally refer to as making goals, I like to refer to as “thought bubbles”. Essentially a brainstorming process, thought bubbles let you realize dreams, hopes, wishes, and goals you’d like to accomplish. Listing them out, as in a bucket list is one technique, but vision maps are also appropriate in this category.
Before I left for my trip, I wrote a bucket list that I promptly forgot about in my day-to-day mental space. Little did I know that I would now be accomplishing #5, “joining a Zen/Buddhist monastery – practicing meditation” in less than 6 months before writing the list. Thought bubbles work, even if you forget about them and let them sizzle at the back of your head. Especially if you let them sizzle! The ability to “let go” of a thought bubble, rather than holding on to it as if you own the thing, allows you the flexibility to take whatever life has in store. The ability to “lose” a goal is in fact, the best way to help discover it.
No Expectations
For the Art of Travel to work, you also have to have no expectations. Expectations hold you back, and cause mental strife when things don’t go the way you expect them to (read: plan them to). Expectations set you up for mental blocks, as you realize the reality of a situation is far different than what you had imagined. It is better to come to a new place, a new culture, a new chapter in life with no expectations. Be like a sponge and observe and learn all you can while staying humble to the experience and never taking things for granted. Be open-minded and allow situations, experiences, and opportunities to become tools for personal growth.
With all that being said, it is important to note that having “no plans” isn’t an excuse for laziness and not experiencing and living life. Using the thought bubbles, you can base your day-to-day actions accordingly to the goals you’d like to accomplish, while at the same time not being attached to those goals. The moment your mind fixates on a goal or outcome, thereby focusing on a futuristic event, the moment you become unhappy and unbalanced. Enjoy the process, enjoy each moment–rather than the goal or outcome–and life will be immeasurably easier.
It was your average cold, windy winter’s day in Central Oregon. Temperatures being in their 40s, I donned on my zip-up hoodie, jeans, t-shirt and flip-flops across the street to the local health foods market. Living in the heart of downtown, a block radius away from a sushi restaurant, Greek restaurant, local coffee shop, health foods store, consignment shops, and a swanky billiards bar is just one of many reasons I miss this place.
While browsing the aisles, one woman glanced and smiled at me, motioning my bundled up attire with flip-flops fashion. Probably not the smartest thing to wear in winter. The thing is, I’m Asian, and I wear flip-flops. This is probably more evidence that I should move to California (which is my goal, eventually, actually), but right now, I’m in this magical land of unicorns and trumpet songs. OK, that’s a lie. But I’m in this magical land of the Philippines, where everyone is considerably happy. And they do everything in flip-flops.
There’s something freeing about wearing flip-flops or open toed sandals (they’re called slippers here). Much like my state-of-mind, my feet are happy to roam near naked in a free-spirited manner. In flip-flops, my feet can breathe. In flip-flops, my feet are happy.
I’m not making the case that flip-flops = happiness (or maybe I am?), but all I’m saying is this is everyday footwear and people do everything from jogging, and playing tennis in them. “Rubber” shoes (aka, tennis shoes) are worn during sport activity but a considerable amount of people still wear flip-flops when they ride bicycles, play tennis (actually, the real fad is badminton), dance or go running. Or, maybe it’s just me.
My workout “routine” consists of jogging around the family compound (we have a fairly big yard), doing sprints, plyometrics and circuit exercises. All while wearing flip-flops. One particular sunny day (oh wait, it’s always sunny), I even “rock climbed” with my flip-flops on. That was the day they got stuck in the crevice of the rock and I broke my flip-flop trying to get it out. I have memories of running in my flip-flops as hard as I can, breaking the thong and running bear foot without losing my momentum. What can I say, I’m rough and tumble.
Recently, I realized that I’m essentially going on a Pilgrimage of sorts this year.
At least, that’s where life seems to be taking me.
Pilgrimage: In religion and spirituality, a pilgrimage is a long journey or search of great moral significance.
What started out as a year of personal freedom, growth and opportunity has lead me to thinking about things bigger than myself.
It Started in India
In January, I worked at a “slum school” teaching kids English. The funding was so poor for the school that they did not even have walls. This makeshift school was conducted completely outside, within the cooler morning air, and the elements. Half of the kids didn’t even have shoes to wear, or lunch to eat. A typical house looked like it was made of mud and dirt, with tattered tarp roofs made of plastic and rubber tires. Despite the poor conditions, I was told this was the “nicer” slums. Families had TVs, or a communal TV that villagers would share.
I wish I could say this was some sort of transformative experience that gave my life new meaning. But it wasn’t. It was just four hours a day of teaching kids their ABCs, assigning them letters to write in repetition, pointing out random letters to see if they knew what they were, going through the alphabet together. It was just four hours of putting my work in and then exploring the Indian streets every night to ride rickshaws, look at the street shops, and refrain from buying anything because I didn’t want to haggle and I didn’t want to get scammed.
Sometimes, transformation happens slowly. In gradual steps, rather than a rush or sudden epiphany. I’ve got this idea in my head that I’m supposed to help young girls inspire and empower them to do great things, despite being dealt bad cards. I don’t know where this idea came from and I’m not even sure how to do it, or how to start something so huge. I’m not even sure I’m the one to do it. I mean, who IS this humanitarian chick anyway!? Where did she come from? Is that even…me?
(Oh, and she hates to admit it but she’s getting a little God-y too.)
Ideas need time to bubble. Maybe this is a calling, because the idea won’t shut up. It’s simmering, for now, just waiting until the day when it’s ready to come out. Not all ideas make it that far, of course. Most don’t see the light of day, but I’ve got a feeling about this idea, and it’s worth holding on to. I’m not sure how it will turn out, or if it’ll see the light of day, but I have to try. I have to let it sizzle.
I don’t know where this year will take me, or what I’ll learn at the monastery, but I’m betting this is part of the process. Am I crazy or delusional? I mean, really? I don’t know know what the heck is going ON with me lately.
Suddenly, I’m thinking of my life like the book Eat, Pray, Love. One divorced woman’s journey to find herself, and achieve balance through prayer (spiritual), love (sexual) and good food while traversing the world. So I don’t have a Brazilian lover, like she did, but I don’t want to be fucking Mother Theresa really either (um, I didn’t mean that literally). As much as I hate having a plan, I’d like to think I could envision myself with someone in five years. And still with [whomever that] someone [is] in ten. I don’t want to be Mother Theresa. I know right now I can’t dedicate my whole life to a cause. I want balance. I want to be able to fuck when I want to. But I also want to be part of something bigger than myself, whether that means starting a family, or starting a revolution. I want to [help] change the world.
This year, I am on a Pilgrimage. Wondering where my transformation will take me, and what lays around the bend.
The interview was just a formality. I knew I had been accepted to the Zen retreat before I came. Evidenced by the fact that the guy I talked to on the phone said there have been about 7 applicants so far… and 15 positions. It went like this:
Facebook stalking a fellow traveler friend, seeing his status update linked to a Lonely Planet thread regarding a Zen Buddhist retreat in Bacolod and Manila, Philippines to learn Mandarin language, meditation and a Buddhist way of life.
Realizing I’m in the Philippines and I could DO this thing. Realizing the deadline for applying is March 15th and holyshit It’s March 12th. Should I DO it? Oh my god, I’m really going to apply to live like a… monk? What the hell have I been smoking? Why does this sound completely bad ass?? What If I don’t get in? What if I DO?? SCARY! I mean, in a good way. In that “this-is-Floreta-watch-her-grow” sort of way. Or possibly the “I-am-Floreta-hear-me-roar” sort of way. I can’t believe I’m filling out the application. ACK ACK ACK!!! My mind exploding with excitement. My stomach churning with anxiousness.
Turning my 500 word or less essay to “give us a background of yourself” into a blog post because I like to kill two birds with one stone. Thinking, damn my application is looking pretty strong because my resume kind of kicks ass. Because I am awesome. Sending out my application through e-mail in the wee hours.
Getting a call the next morning to ask if I could join an interview session at the Cebu temple that afternoon. Doing cartwheels in my head and amazed by how fast everything seems to be moving. Agreeing to meet at 12:30PM which later turns into meeting at 1:00PM. Which later turns into asking my family if I can go to this interview which later turns into my cousin volunteering to come which later turns into her eight year old daughter and boyfriend coming.
Getting lectured about how things are scams in the Philippines. How people are bad and just want your money. How this temple is in the swindler area. How this is a huge scam. How I shouldn’t go. Smiling and nodding and thinking bitch, don’t TELL me about scams when I’ve been to the land of them: India. How it’s my decision, but really it’s not because they’re pressuring me not to go. Oh the pressure! Why does everything have to be so complicated here? Why haven’t we left yet when it’s 1PM? Amazed by how slow everything seems to be moving. How I shouldn’t worry because this is Filipino time. It’s OK to be late. I guess since they’re local they know best and I have no power to make my own decision. Being asked “What’s my decision?” a million times when my DECISION is to go to this interview to make an informed decision before putting it off as a scam. Going to my room to cry, calm myself with my prayer beads, accepting that it looks like I’m not going and that I’m a prisoner here.
Finally going. Finally arriving… at the wrong place. My cousin’s boyfriend looking mad. Being asked “what’s my decision?” for the millionth time. Nope, still hasn’t changed. My cousin’s daughter saying never mind going because it’s bad. Frustration. Realizing Filipino time means I am under other people’s time frames whether I like it or not, and maybe I won’t make it, again. Finally arriving in Filipino time fashion; two 1/2 hours late. I ask them questions. I throw in my Buddhist key words to let them know I’m not a complete novice. Words like Impermanence! Mindfulness! Mala prayer beads! Right intention! Zazen (breathe meditation)! Knowing I have impressed them and that I am going to be a good student.
THIS is how crazy it is.
My Buddhist singing bowl and mala prayer beads
The retreat starts March 30th and ends July 31st. I still need to give them my official “yes” but at this point, there’s no doubt in my mind that this is my next journey, and adventure. During this time, I will have limited internet access of one hour a week which means limited, or no blogging.
While shaving your head is not required, I think I will anyway because I’ve always wanted to do it at least once (it’s on my bucket list) but have always been too chicken. The last time I thought of doing this I was aged 20 and into punk rock and death metal. Funny how “non-conformity” can come in all shapes and sizes, but end up with the same principals within the same person. I can’t think of a better time and place to shave my head than in a four month temple stay of seclusion and limited stimuli to the outside world (I am told that people visit the temple on occasion as it is open to the public). I have always been fascinated with androgyny and feel I can pull off the “androgynous” look well. I wonder if I can pull off a shaved head; proving you can be bald AND beautiful as a woman. I will take pictures because if I don’t, then it didn’t happen! What an appropriate time to shave my head and practice depravity in the form of non-attachment to physical beauty and, hair. If not a celebration of bald beauty, then it is a celebration of the non-attachment towards beauty. And a great way to solve my non-confirmed lice problem. There, I said it. I MAY have lice! My head itches all day and I slept in the same bed as my two cousins the first week I was here… Back before I knew they both had lice!
During this time, I will practice depravity in many other ways including the personal decision not to masturbate for the duration of the stay (four months of no p0rn, WHAT!?!). However, I see nothing wrong with writing erotica in my journal – despite Zen concepts being the absence of (desire, emotions, detachement, etc.) – and hope that the depravity of masturbation will help satiate my imagination. Because there is nothing wrong with mind sexcapades, even if that happens to be in a temple! Because I hold sexuality in a high regard of spirituality, and because they are both connected.
So remember when I said I “wasn’t Buddhist enough”? Through a delightfully random and last minute turn of events, I have the opportunity to join a four month retreat to study Zen, practice meditation, learn Mandarin Chinese, garden, cook and eat all vegetarian, and generally live a minimalistic, simple way of life. This will be four months of seclusion at a Buddhist temple, all expenses paid for during the program, monthly allowance money given to up to 15 applicants, and an amazing chance of a lifetime for personal growth! The only expense would be my transportation to and from the retreat.
It’s funny how the universe provides when I have a “problem”.
Problem #1: “I’m not Buddhist enough!”
In high school, I began to think about philosophies which aligned to Buddhist thought prior to having read anything about Buddhism. One of my friends even remarked, upon a discussion we had, that I was talking about concepts she was reading about in a book by the Dalai Lama. That was one high compliment, and then, another friend I met likened me to a Bodhisattva (Enlightened being that chooses to reincarnate to help others through their journey to Nirvana. Basically, a teacher, helper and giver.). While I’m far from being Enlightened, or even a sage, both compliments have really stood out to me throughout the years. Although my philosophies naturally align with Buddhism, I choose not to label myself as Buddhist because I simply don’t feel “Buddhist enough”. I’d much prefer taking concepts of Buddhism and Christianity and what have you and apply them to my life in constructive ways. The focus is in living a good life, rather than a good Buddhist life. Despite all this, I could certainly learn more about Buddhism because my grasp of the philosophy is basic, at best. When I say I’m not “Buddhist enough”, days later, the Universe (or you know, the internet) provides me a solution.
Problem #2: My family
As a Westerner, and as an American, it has been a complete culture shock and frustrating to realize that I can not do anything or go anywhere by myself. Every decision isn’t my own decision, but a family made one. If at age 26, my family disapproves of an activity, I am not allowed to do it…
I’m the solitary panda. I’m used to hopping on a bus, or the subway by myself. Walking down the streets of Portland in Old Town, Burnside, Skidmore… the “Bad” side of town without worry. Always keeping on my toes, and my wits about me (a lesson learned through martial arts training), but still not worried nonetheless. I came here to learn about “community” and “family values”. I know that. But the stimuli has been overwhelming at best. For someone solitary, not “getting” family values in my normal life, an only child, and (as much as I hate to say) a somewhat spoiled American, this is unreasonably ridiculous and bizarre. I feel like I’m 16 again, and a rebellious 16 year old at that! If my family doesn’t “approve” of this retreat because it’s different than Catholicism, they can NOT stop me. I’m the outsider looking in and a traveler. I love my family but I have been looking for a way “out” to experience more of the Philippines islands, to travel. It’s funny that my solution for “getting out” is by signing in to a monastery where I will have four months seclusion at two Buddhist temples and no allowance for “going out” and roaming outside the quarters. Despite the intensity, and strict code to simplicity and routine, I think it will be an amazing experience!
It is good to point out that none of these problems are really problematic. With a little perspective shift, they become different things entirely, and always an opportunity for learning and growth.
My first dose of zen came about in book form. The same friend who had likened me to a Bodhisattva recommended me what is now one of my favorite books: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values. If the title in itself is a handful, wait until you read the book! I first picked it up my freshman year of college. It was by happenstance that my friend and I decided to randomly wander into an old local bookstore. The kind of old bookstore with a cat, and woman with the “librarian” look. Sure, maybe Zen and the Art of.. is relatively popular and no one wanted this tattered used thing, but there it was when I wasn’t even searching! Immediately, I bought it and read 300+ pages of thick philosophy in under a week; loving every page! This book floored me, changed me, and made me feel alive.
Never, in a million years, would I think that I would ever get a chance to join a monastery, or even feel interested in such a thing. In just about two weeks, I will have a little more Zen in my life. I can’t think of a better way to feel so Alive. I look forward to every (present) moment.
A Brief History Lesson
The Philippines was colonized by Spain in the 16th century. In 1565, the first Spanish settlement to the Philippines began with Miguel López de Legazpi’s expedition, establishing the first permanent San Miguel settlement in the island of Cebu (perhaps why modern day Philippines produces San Miguel beer, and the San Miguel company currently produces Philippines’ most popular beer of choice, Red Horse). One of Spain’s main goals was to spread Christianity to the islands and thus why Catholicism is the predominant religion of the Philippines, and the third largest Catholic nation in the world, preceding Brazil and Mexico.
* * *
We ascend the steps towards the majestic Catholic church and I past the angel statues. I wonder about things like angels and if they even exist. And then I realize that they do exist; in our minds. Candles are lit everywhere in remembrance of loved ones who have passed. The ritual, as I stare at the flickering flames, is something foreign to me. As my family hands me a candle, I try not to look completely clueless. When in Rome…
I find an empty candle spot and light it using another candle’s flame nearby. I say a silent prayer for my lola (grandma) who died of ovarian cancer after I visited the summer of my freshman year of high school. You don’t just forget things like that. How happy she looked when she greeted me, everyday. As if she hadn’t just seen me the day before. The way she would always wake me up and say “good morning my pretty little rose bud”. The way her smile lit up the room with her young-at-heart youthfulness. She never let on that she was hurting, when the cancer spread. She always looked so happy to see me…
I made the sign of the cross like a good little Catholic girl. But I haven’t been Catholic since I was 10 and stopped going to church. Like my lost language, my lost religion, now since foreign to me, is something I sometimes wish I were a part of. Guilty that I’m not. Sometimes, I feel like I’m dishonoring my heritage by not being Catholic, but then I remember that Catholicism is borrowed from Spain’s culture, and then I don’t feel so bad. I’m only as pinoy (Filipino) as the blood rushing through my veins. But I know I am an outsider here, in my own homeland, and I don’t want to make it even more obvious by telling my family I’m not Catholic. (When in Rome…)
These days, I align much more closely with Buddhism. But even I feel disassociated from the label because I don’t feel I’m a very good Buddhist. I hardly meditate. I eat meat. I kill bugs. I don’t live in the present moment most the time. Which brings me back to Catholicism. I can’t escape that good old Catholic Guilt. Guilty that I am not Catholic, like every other Filipino, it seems. I’m not “Buddhist enough”, and I’m not “Catholic enough”, so I can’t be bound in boxes.
There are remnants in me. This Catholic birth. Even though the religion seems so strange, and Lent hasn’t carried over to my yearly life rituals, I can’t escape the guilt.
I am a free-spirit and a freethinker. I am independent. All my life, I have been a rebel, a heretic, in more ways than one. I have called God (Personified) a fairy as fake as Santa Claus and then believed in a higher force that I eventually felt comfortable enough calling “God”. It’s a struggle to be different, and non-traditional. To dare to explore the world when everyone is telling me I should be settling down, have a boyfriend. I did that for five years and it didn’t work for me; even had my own house and dog. Sans the wedding ring (thank God), I was as “settled” as they get. I knew I was too free-spirited to be bound in boxes.
It’s like taking the red pill or blue pill. All my life, I’ve felt guilty for not believing in God, and then guilty for not having a religion. Guilty for not fitting the American Dream. Despite the challenges, I wouldn’t have it any other way, even if I could banish this guilt away by being more conventional. Challenge is what keeps the process (life) interesting. And when I think of that–that I am living life exactly the way I’m meant to, and trusting my heart and intuition–the guilt goes away.
I write a lot of how to articles as a freelance writer. Stuff like how to finger your girlfriend, how to run a 5k race, and how to french kiss. Oh what? Yeah, I write for a men’s website. So when the topic of fluency at Sunday Scribblings came about, I automatically started writing a how to…
It’s no surprise that learning a language in your adulthood is a lot tougher on your memory and brain than learning a language in your childhood. It takes extra work and determination but it can be done. The best thing is to acclimate yourself in the culture. It’s not enough to be in the country, because talking in English and hanging out with ex-pats isn’t going to do the trick. Acclimation means conversing with the locals, and trying out conversational language so you can learn words and sentence structures.
Growing up in the USA as the only Asian kid, it was easy to learn English as my second language. Unfortunately, that meant forgetting my Filipino dialect, Cebuano. My mom spoke English in the house and I quickly had no use for my native language. All that I learned in the first four years of my life was gone.
Visiting the Philippines has helped some. In the six times that I have come to visit, for five to eight weeks at a time starting at the age of eight, I have picked up vocabulary. I’ve always been too shy to make a fool of myself by trying to actually speak the language so the words that I picked up never went very far. Each time I visited, I’d learn new words and seem to remember the ones I already knew.
It is exactly one month that I’ve been in the Philippines, and I am staying here for at least a year. Already, I am conversing in full sentences and understanding more than not. My sentences are getting easier but I am not fluent. I still have to think more than I would speaking English, but I am trying to speak as much Cebuano as I possibly can. Similarly, my family talks to me mostly in the dialect.
Best of all, it no longer seems like I’m making a fool of myself when trying to speak in Cebuano. Slowly, but surely, I’m getting it. And when I come back to the states, I’m making my mom talk to me in Cebuano.
Learning a language in adulthood takes practice, repetition and dedication. Being able to converse every day will help your language comprehension improve greatly. With tenacity and a willingness to learn, you can pick up a language and become fluent in a couple years.
This post is part of Lilu’s awesomely bad TMI Thursdays. Click her link for more good stories.
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So in the Philippines, there is a delicacy called balut that is a fertilized duck egg with embryo. That is to say: baby duck fetus. Say it with me one more time, boys and girls!
BABY DUCK FETUS!
Like, zOMG!!!1
How the heck do you EAT that thing!? I show you how in three easy steps! Look below for answers! Keep in mind that everyone was watching me as I made this video (and by everyone I mean my tito, tita (uncle, aunt) neighbor boy, cousins and a girl that works with my family), and it was a little embarrassing but what can I say, I have no shame! And I’m a good sport. Now, who wants to hire me for the Amazing Race? Which may or may not have anything to do with this video, because I’m unfamiliar with the format of the show (I don’t watch much TV, ok? Even in America.) and have no idea if they eat gross things as part of their challenges but I know it has to do with foreign cultures, and that’s kind of cool, and terrifying.
Third time’s the charm, right!? *bats eyelashes*
Or, I’m just charming?
So, what was my secret in swallowing this thing? Most people would probably try to think of their favorite food and how yummy it is to get past the mental block. Nope. Not me. I think of the grossest thing possible. Something I enjoy swallowing that I have on rare occasion (balut IS a delicacy after all!). I think of swallowing cum. Male semen. Cum in my mouth. Swallow!
Lets look at the similarities shall we?
Both are excellent sources of protein. Who needs a protein shake when you have _________? [Fill in the blank with BALUT or CUM]
Both have interesting textures. Just get OVER it!
Both are swallowed, and not chewed. Technically, you can chew balut, but I swallow!
The appreciation for both cum and balut is very subjective. Both are an acquired taste!
There’s a whole technique for eating it. I’ve likely made up my own technique but… That’s what she said!
Both are gross, but satisfying! Seriously. I love me some cum in my mouth. Oops, did I type that out loud? At least I know I’m not a lesbian. I love cock too much.
For the record, my family does not eat balut. So the fact that I did, and on more than one occasion, really tickled them! All the weird faces I was making as I stared into the poor bird’s face and made gross faces at the clearly distinct skeletal vertebrae… lets just say they were laughing in front of my face and NOT behind my back!
In all seriousness, I DID think of cum to get past the mental road block. I think it’s the only way I could have swallowed that shit. It’s the grossest thing I could think of; but I LOVE it!
I wonder what boys would think if I chased their stuff with Coke? That’s what I want to know!
