Run Run Run
For the first time in about two months, I got up this morning and went for a run in the park. Felt a little icky and somewhat dehydrated. I did have two full drinks last night at Joe's party but found myself sampling drinks at Crave with Ina, Joffer, Richard, Joe and Alex. So a mix of red wine, Fat Tire beer, a sip of rum and Coke (Richard claimed that Joffer put waaaaay to much rum), a sip of a Manhattan (it has some whisky in it), and Joffer's yummy vodka martini just did it for me. Richard wanted me to have another drink but by that time, I would have been acting silly and talking about sex and swearing every 5th word. I do that when I'm even sober but not that often.
Running does bring up some issues and a tad bit of pain. I'm not talking about the physical type of pain but the emotional. Running is my release, my stress reliever. I usually feel better after a run but today after I came back home, I felt a little sad, a bit confussed. I'm not sure what is next in the whole scheme of things in terms of work and relationships and whatnot. I'm finding myself more of the person who wants their independence and doesn't really want to be tied down with family and children. I know that sounds radical in some people's eyes but here where I am in the City, it's perfectly normal. Some of my peers who do spend that time in the City just think it's something to do when they are a kid and grow up when they marry and move to the burbs. I know on occasion, I would rant about being stuck in the burbs akin to being in Siberia or prison. Some people think I haven't found the right person yet but I do love my independence. Maybe because it wasn't something I had in the beginning and not because it's heady and cool. Perhaps this is what it's supposed to be and restricting it would only make it worse.
Running at times does remind me of my ex because he was a runner as well. He wasn't as hard core as I was but he had his share of hard core running in high school. At times, I do miss him but lately I've been questioning why I miss him. Is it because I miss his friendship, having great sex with him and whatnot? Or is it because I feel left out because there are folks pairing off in twos and playing house. I do miss is his friendship and great sex I will admit. And I do feel left out at times by not being paired. But being paired isn't a major priority at this time. I just want to focus on me and be the best person I can. Maybe in time, adding someone else might come in.
Gaps
Each of us have our own set of gaps to maneuver life through- gender, race, age, generation, teeth. I say teeth because I think of that gap between Condelizza Rice's teeth everytime she opens her mouth to wax about foreign policy but I just put that in as a joke.
But seriously, there are times I ponder about gaps. I certainly have my share. Of course there's the generation gap which has grown both ways. Of course I have this generation gap between me and my folks. However, mine is probably shaped a little differently from me and my peers in which that I am a first generation Filipino American. Unlike most immigrants, my family catipulted into the professional white middle class once they stepped foot off the plane. It wasn't like they stayed in some place like Daly City or Cerritos or the Silverlake District or parts of San Diego and clustered with other Filipinos then went off to the burbs. My folks were one of the first, the first ones to take advatange of no immirgration quotas after 1965. The number of Asians that could come into this country was only a trickle until then. My folks and I just wonder and are just puzzled with what goes on with our experiences and what each of us does and how each of us ticks. But instead of fighting it like the last many or so years, we've come to the point where each of us shrugs and just says, "Whatever." not dismissively but just a way to acknowledge that's just the way it is.
The generation gap is growning the other way for me. There is a difference in generations between me and my younger brother, Ed. I'm the tail end of Gen X. He's the head of Gen Y. Then there are my cousins A.J. and Justin who are in whatever generation marketeers and demographers denote these teens these days. A.J. and Justin and even folks Ed's age are so into MySpace to keep up and revolve their lives around. Me, I just know it's another thing to use to get messages out to young folks and teens. My cousin and brother practically grew up knowing about AIDS and taking for granted that you use protection when you have sex. My generation was just getting hold of this info. I used to like hip hop until it got really misgonystic for me where it's usual for a guy to be a playa and have and screw as many gals as he can while his gals are nothing but boobie and bootie ornaments, arm candy. Shit what happened to real issues and what is going on in the streets, the original message and purpose of rap and hip hop. Well, remember, sex and blood sells and brings in the cash, not heart felt messages and stories of bopping at your friend's house and having dinner where the chicken taste like wood.
That is where I feel the frustration. The type where you want to do something but you don't know what and you feel helpless. I felt that as I watched some ABC Primetime special about AIDS in the African American community. We hear about AIDS overseas and the global crisis. But what about here? How do you address those cases where half of the newly infected are brothers and sisters? What can I do to help? What more can I do to help? Why can't I just put my priorities straight.
Ranting about the gender gap is another story. I'm actually tired of ranting and want to get my frustration out so off I go.
Little Things
A cake donut with sweet white frosting
Dusted in colored sprinkles
Yellow, green, orange
A splash of pink
I bite into it
Yum yum
A shiny new quarter
A stop at the corner store
Do we need bread, milk, eggs?
You lead me over
To my newest challenge
Letting the quarter slip
As I maneuver a yellow sphere
Chomping up dots and avoiding colored ghosts
Through a maze
Like clockwork on Sundays
Sometime in the afternoon
You are in the driveway
Soapy sponge
Caressing the red exterior
You hose down the dirt and the smut
From miles of driving
From one home to the next
Your contribution before I go
To another week of classes
Now I sit across you
Between a tray
Of fries and double burgers
That only I consume
You watch me
Like you did
When I was young
Enjoying that donut
The joy in my face
It is those small bits
That show your love
That I try to recapture
In frozen juice cans from Safeway
In ginger ale and fruit salad
In a mix of slow jams on your computer
In an old beaten sweatshirt
In a gleaming toaster oven
In a book I read over and over again
In a spaghetti dinner at a local bistro
In burritos from the taqueria
In homemade snickerdoodles
In waking up in the wee hours of the morning
To drive me across the bridge to catch my flight
In staying up in the wee hours of the night
To welcome me home from long trips
In phone calls from the middle of nowhere
Where you want comfort and peace in a storm
In our laughter and sharing
Opening up like flowers in the spring
You always say that you love me
Punctuating your sentiments with a nickname from your mother tongue
You always say that you love me
Punctuating your sentiments with your chin on top of my head
Holding me
Saying nothing
In The Wee Small Hours of the Morning
I really haven't been able to sleep in the past month or so. I always find myself sleeping most of the day and spending most of the night watching mindless television. Today I just totally conked out all day and woke up really late.
I would find myself surfing the web or looking at mindless infomercials. What has been keeping me up is just the restlessnss of what to do next, wondering how bills are getting paid and a lot of other angst and stress keeping me up. Since I slept quite a bit yesterday, I decided to just stay up and just go to Mass and then head off to Mark and Marc's pool party later on. I figured that a gaggle of us from MHR will end up going.
I just I could be OK with the way I am and the way things are. But why is there a part of me that still struggles and wishes for me to do so well so that I can get that approval.
Who am I still trying to get that stamp of approval from? Shit I wish I knew.
Here In This House
The title of this post was a title of an old Depeche Mode song that I listened to during adolescence.
I went to bed rather early last night and ended up waking up in the middle of the night. At least it was much better than the last few weeks where I would stay up to the wee hours of the morning at times to watch mindless television.
What woke me up was all of a sudden, I was thinking about the structure of the house I grew up in, the one on Hackney Street in Highland not the one on Osubun Road in San Bernardino, the first house I was born into. I think about how I had to share a room with my adolescent aunt who went to Redlands High School, my alma mater. That arrangement was only for a year or so. Then I remembered my bedroom during my adolescent years. I moved out of my original room when Ma and Pop added an extension to the house. The structure on how I would get out and have to go through their room to the main hallway to get out of the house. Where I had another way out through the sunroom to the outside but the doors were structured where you just couldn't really sneak out. It was odd. My only true independence was sleeping in the sofa bed in the den where the computer was where I spent a good portion of junior and senior year typing papers, studying and playing my clarinet and alto sax.
Because I am the girl, I had to be protected, to be courted. Not to speak out, not to shout. To be quiet and ladylike. To say nothing. Yet, I had to say something. I wanted to say something. I wanted to speak out, to be counted. But no no no, I had to blend in to move up. To give up the thick Filipino accent you came with. To have some American values mixed in with some good old Filipino traditions. Yet, language was the first to go. I do not remember being spoken to or even speaking Ilocano or Tagalog. You told me that I had to learn English the day I stepped into elementary school because teachers said I was falling behind. I don't remember those things, my language, myself before age 5. The memories of Osbun Road are not even there. I do remember Mary and Kit Lawrence next door. I remember the beige Toyota coopster we would zip around with. I remembered Masses at St. Anne's close by. I remembered the fabric store Bits and Pieces where I would play with spools and fabric scraps. I remembred the laundry mat where we would go on rainy days to dry clothes because you liked the old school clothesline to hang out the laundry to dry. I remembred Hillside nursery school where I attended with Stone and Warm Springs preschool where I was with Stone as well. Stone and I were the same age. I was exactly one year older. Our fathers fished together and our mothers were friends. Why can't I remember the dialogue or what was said. Why is it all a blur like my first visit to the Motherland?
Now why is the house with its five cars and many bedrooms, where the kitchen wall is now gone, where the interiors are stark white and where the three of you go to your separate rooms in the house, turn on the television full blast and draw the blinds where no one could see....why is it the empty shell? Why isn't it home for me now?
