Just Passing By

I spent a great Sunday afternoon with Joey, my super duper BFF, who’s visiting from the Philippines. So what’s great about that Sunday with her? It was the simplest things really.

The train ride

House of Nanking lives up to its name.

My family and I picked her up from her in-laws where she and her hubby were staying. The moment we pulled in front of the house, she yanked me out of the car and pulled me to meet her mother-in-law. When we got out of the house, we just faced each other, shrieked and hugged each other tight, happy to see each other and excited to have been given a whole day to hang out. We took the train to bring us to San Francisco and basically spent all day alternating between talking,giggling, taking pictures and riding the tram up and down the San Francisco streets. When we were in Union Square and passed by Victoria’s Secret, we debated whether we’d go in and have our bra size measured. Shy that she was, we decided to walk on by.

It was the non-stop talking and laughing that I missed most about her. Sure we talk to each other almost every month by phone and we email two or three times a week, but it’s different when you actually spend time with someone face to face. The internet is a wonderful thing in keeping in touch with the people you love. But nothing beats the chance to spend the day and explore the world hand in hand.

PS. Shoutout to my other BFF, Lana, I miss you! Looking forward to visiting you or you coming over for some serious bonding time.

My drives to and from work were usually spent in deep thought and contemplation. Well, maybe that’s fluffing the truth a little. I don’t always have profound thoughts during these half-hour trips. If you’re following this blog, you’ve read quite a few entries where the people and events that made it to my posts came from me being a full-fledged “usisera.”

I’m still as nosy as your next door neighbor but I’ve been preoccupied lately. As soon as I hop on my car, I’d turn on the CD player and “read” whatever book that’s in there. This week, I join Wan Lung and O-Lan’s tumultuous journey. I found myself heartbroken when they and their children starved during the famine. My heart warmed when Wan Lung carried all three children and his ancient father over the great wall that separated their small Chinese village from the town, even when he himself was weak from not having eaten in weeks since the winter started. I cheered for him when, despite his poverty, he chose to pull a rickshaw and earn a pittance instead of beg in the streets, like most of the able-bodied refugees in the city that embraced them during the drought.

I admire this man, Wan Lung, for his integrity and hard work. I am inspired by the hope he held within his heart that got him through the roughest, most difficult time in his life. I am in awe of his wife O-Lan who as a little girl, was sold as a slave. She toiled the land alongside her husband even when her babies were due. She gave birth to all her children alone, and hours later, would cook for the whole family, like the slave she was brought up to be. She was the quiet but steady force in the Wan Lung household.

I’ve never been so poor as to live in similar circumstances as this family. But there is one thing that reminds me about what makes a man or woman. Poverty alone does not ruin a man’s character nor do his riches make him great.

I have a few more chapters (5 CDs) to go before I finish this book. And for the first time since opening “The Good Earth,” I can say I don’t mind this Friday afternoon’s commute at all.

I see him almost everyday for the last two or so years.

Like clockwork, I would see him waiting by the bus stop each morning, and in the early evenings when I go home, I see him cautiously cross the busy intersection. I know that his house is just a block away. I’ve seen him more than once as he enters the house as Bamboo and I pass by.

He always carried a back pack. He also likes wearing khaki pants and dark shades.

He doesn’t know me. We have not talked before, not even to say hi. Yet, he fascinates and inspires me.

You see, he’s blind.

A couple of months ago, while I stopped at a red light, waiting to turn left,  he crossed in front of me. Using his cane, he felt his way across the street. But for some reason, he veered a little to the right and couldn’t find the crosswalk button. He spun twice, extending his cane as far out as possible, trying to find the crosswalk post. I could tell he was getting frustrated. As he became disoriented, he ended up in the middle of the road. By this time, I was in front of his path again. I was terrified for his safety so I stopped my car, hoping the other drivers will see my car first and slow down. I wanted to get out and lead him safely to the side of the road, maybe even walk him to his house. But something kept me in my seat. Would he be offended if I, a total stranger, offered my help? Should I just get out there and risk getting him upset? If he shoos me away, I’ll leave him alone.

I guess I noodled on this dilemma a second too long because he finally found his way back. Just for good measure, I inched my car slowly and turned his corner instead of going straight. I wanted to make sure he made it home safely.

I thought about that incident all evening, marveled at how self-sufficient he is, commuting everyday, probably to go to work. I imagine that he works at some non-profit organization to help others like him. I am awed by the fact that he carries on with his life, without the gift of sight that most of us take for granted. There have been countless times when I thought about writing him a note and leaving it in his mailbox to tell him how much he inspires me. That of course is silly, right? What if he lives by himself and he doesn’t have anyone to read my note to him? Should I try to learn Braille so I can write him in a way he can read?  What if he’d take offense to that gesture?

Here I go again with my what ifs! If I paid a dollar every time I wondered what if, I would be penniless and homeless by now. Maybe someday, I’ll let him know how his life touched mine.

For now, I content myself with the sight of him, every morning and every night, with his shiny cane to help him find his way. Knowing that he’s kept our little routine comforts me. My secret friend is well and he’s getting on just fine.

It’s been ages since my last post. Honestly, I just fell into this deep abyss of indifference. Actually it’s more like switching off… I’ve lived the last few months in auto-pilot mode. I don’t know why, really. It was never a conscious decision. I think it was more of a primal instinct. Don’t think so you don’t worry. Don’t care so you don’t get hurt. That kind.

But I’ve received so many wonderful emails from friends I have not seen in almost 20 years. They reached out to me because my posts touched their hearts. They understand because they go through similar things too. Who knew my ramblings actually make sense to someone else? Most of them also reminded me about the Kaye they know from more than two decades ago. (okay, I feel very dated now by saying that). And that brought me back from whatever dark place I’ve retreated into.

Let me explain.

I realized that I got so busy trying to grow up. When I left college, I was extremely frightened. Will I ever make it? Has my education prepared me for life? The people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had over the years have shaped me to who and what I am today. But in that same process we call living; I forgot who I was when life was still uncomplicated.

And then my past comes back to me.

My friends, my buddies who made my childhood and teenage life so full, tell me how they remember me and I am touched. They know me through the core. The layers of masks I’ve put on over the years mean nothing to them. To them, I am this and that. Mostly good things. They describe someone I only vaguely remember. But their memories encourage me. If that were my eulogy, I would be beaming wide from wherever I am (maybe even give them “soulful” hugs). I thank you all, you know who you are. This post is a toast to you!

Okay life, give me what you got!

There is something to be said about reading and editing for a living. You get into the habit of reading not for pleasure but to look for errors, for flow, for tone, for guarding the company brand. In short, it takes away the fun of reading for reading’s sake. Now, when I read, I can easily spot misplaced punctuations, awkward sentences, poor word choice. Besides, my eyes will be too tired after a long day at work that I just want to give them a rest and stare into space.

I’ve started reading seriously when I was in 3rd grade. I was introduced to Nancy Drew and then moved to cheesy teenage pocketbooks like Sweet Valley High. Then it was off to Barbara Cartland and the Mills&Boons and Danielle Steele. There were times when I’d rather curl up on the couch at home than go out with friends. The magic of being whisked in places faraway through the pages of a book appealed to me more than the idea of biking around the neighborhood chasing boys.

Such is my love affair with books. So to take that pleasure away is so very sad, tragic even.

That led me to re-discover the joys of reading, not with my eyes but with my ears. I brought the kids to the library two days ago and saw this huge sign against one wall: AUDIO BOOKS. Like a magnet, I was pulled to it and marveled at the wide selection. There were 3 books from Maya Angelou that I’ve been wanting to read by they were only in cassette. I don’t remember when the last time I had a cassette player was. Too bad.

So I ended up borrowing two other books in CD. On my drive to work the next morning, I popped a CD in my car. The experience was mind blowing! It felt like I had my own personal assistant who was reading to me. It’s not anything like the “dula sa radyo” of the olden days that our labanderas used to listen to from their little transistors. (Remember Simatar and Gabi ng Lagim?) The audio book was simply a book that’s being read to you aloud by someone else.

You know when you can’t put a good book down, saying to yourself, just one more chapter, just one more page and then realize that it’s already past midnight and you have an early start the next day? I didn’t want my drive to end. Even when I already parked in front of the building, I lingered a little, wishing I wasn’t here yet. The characters just had their first conflict.

I told my kids how much I was enjoying my audio books and Goji casually asked: So Mommy, is this a sign that you’re old?” Shit, maybe I am.

I sit in front of my computer at work, marveling at how quiet it is. The nearest soul is two cubicles up. And all I can hear is the tapping of the keyboard. It is Friday, and it’s been two weeks since the lay off.

I was angry when my co-workers were let go. I was scared when I wondered when my turn will be. I stressed, worried and lost sleep when I had to take on more responsibilities; to take on jobs that I don’t have the skill for. I was lonely for the friends I can no longer hang out with in the office kitchen. I was uplifted when I talked to my family, especially my Dad, who thinks the world of me, like I can never make any mistake.

I’ve been through a roller coaster ride. My heart is tired.

But I can’t complain. Whenever I think of the millions of people who’ve become victims of this recession, the people who now rely for food stamps, those who’ve lost their homes, those who took their own lives from despair, I know I am immensely blessed.

This coming Tuesday marks our 4th anniversary here in the US. And the journey has been amazing as it is humbling. Now I can say for sure that there is no menial job that I won’t take on. No homesickness that a fone card or email can’t cure. Most of all, I have earned the right not to take crap from anyone. My brown skin works for me both ways. I am still tan in the winter when everyone is paper white which makes me an envy of the whole white race. But it also makes me stand out from the crowd, which isn’t a good thing. Like all immigrants, I had my share of discrimination.

I may be an immigrant, but I never, ever for once, asked the government for any dole outs. I came here with the right papers.  I’ve worked as soon as I got my driver’s license. I paid my taxes dutifully. I abide by all the rules. Heck, I don’t even have a speeding ticket.  I donate to local charities even though I wish I could just ship those to my people in the Philippines. I have as much right to be here as every outstanding citizen.

I claim my place in the sun.

I’m not a dog person… until we adopted Bamboo.

Formerly named Clark, this Scottie was turned in with his brother Lewis by their previous owner who didn’t want them anymore. The two pups were 9 months old when they arrived at the shelter. A young couple took Lewis a few minutes before my kids and I fell in love with Clark.  The pups were still able to sniff their goodbyes at the reception as we finished with the paperwork.

More than a year later, Clark has taken to his new, funkier name. Every night, Bamboo will follow Goji and I to Goji’s bedroom and wait patiently as I tuck my son in. Then he’ll follow me out knowing that it’s his time to be tucked in. He’ll only go to bed when I say “Bed!” and reward him with a dental chew. Then I’ll put a blanket over him and he’ll sleep through the night with it.

In the morning, he’ll bring his blanket and form it into a nest in the middle of the living room. My fluffy slippers make for comfy pillows. I guess Bamboo finds the feet smell aromatherapeutic too.

On weekend mornings when I wake up early, we go out for walks in the neighborhood. The kids take him in the afternoons, which are the highlights of his dog days. His shaggy hair just makes people want to pet him and cars stop to ask what kind of dog he is.  Too bad he’s not very friendly. He will growl at anyone and everyone who is within a few feet away from us. I couldn’t tell though if he’s being protective or just unbelievably annoyed that someone would have the gall to interrupt his sniffing.

He’s almost 2 now. Given his breed’s life expectancy, he probably has 10 more years with us. So when the kids have gone off to college or spreading their wings to start their own careers, I’d only have Bamboo to tuck in at night. Now that’s a comforting thought, better than tucking my own grandkids in 10 years. So not ready for that!

For lunch today, I went out to nourish my spirit.

It had been raining the last couple of days, a rare treat in Reno. The sky was still overcast but it stopped raining so I decided to go out for a walk. I found a path around a creek and decided to follow it. The earth was wet and the air was fresh and crisp. Even in the dead of winter, there were ducks swimming happily in the frigid creek water. I could hear birds chirping somewhere but I couldn’t see them. There was not another soul in sight. I was alone but not lonely. God was walking with me.

The past month have been spent in a frenzied pace and my heart was beset with worries. The recession has thrown me into a paralyzing fear for what could become.

What could become of us if we lost our jobs?
Will we still be able to pay our bills?
How can I find a job when millions have lost theirs before me?
What would become of us if we lose our house?

This fear was aggravated with nagging feelings of inadequacy at my job.

What if people decide I’m not good enough?
What if I show up for work one day and my boss tells me it’s my last?

As I followed the path, I remembered a line that my sister posted on our Yahoo groups. Do not fret. God is in charge. That’s when I realized I’ve been busy thinking that I needed to do something, anything, to secure tomorrow. But tomorrow is not in my hands. The recession and the threat of harder days ahead are real. But these are bigger than I am. There are things I cannot control. Worrying will not help me.

I returned to work that afternoon with a lighter heart. I’m glad I went to that lunch date with God.

Goji and I sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office for almost an hour before the doctor was finally able to see us. This was highly unusual because we had an appointment and the secretary was generally good about spacing patients apart. The doctor apologized profusely and thanked us for waiting patiently. When I inquired if there were more sick people who showed up that day, she confided that more people tend to get depressed this time of year. They went to see her for physiological pains but poured their hearts as the consultation progressed.

This is a sad time for a lot of people. It is for me too. Even my brothers, who are usually reserved, expressed how they miss the giddy feeling we all shared growing up. Santa was very much a part of our childhood and Christmas eve was always about raiding our Dad’s drawers for his socks so we can hang them by our beds. We made sure we had notes in the socks so Santa won’t confuse which sock was for whom. Daddy would always tell us about Santa and how he can’t be seen at all because each child who sees him adds a year to his life. Heaven forbid that he should grow too old to be flying around. And so when we hear a noise on the roof, we would all scram to our beds and close our eyes so we don’t accidentally make him years older.

Even when we didn’t have much growing up, and the Noche Buena spread was simple, my parents made sure we felt like millionaires. There was so much love to go around. When all but one moved out and we had our own families, we still converged to that house in Mayflower Street to get a refill, no, make that an overdose, of love. Even cousins, friends and neighbors drop by and stay awhile to chat because they always felt welcomed.

That is all so far away and such a long time ago. Santa stopped coming when we were older but he came back to my own house when I had my own kids. I no longer feel the same intense excitement I had as a child when December rolled around. Having spent four Christmases (counting this one which is two days away from now) away from home don’t help either.

As I write this, my thoughts lead me back to those poor souls who don’t have anyone but the family doctor to share their pains. I’m so much luckier. I have my hubby and two kids with me, my family back home who think about me, and most of all, I have those wonderful Christmas memories to get me through another Christmas away from home.

My God just saved me from a definite tragic accident.

Two nights ago as I drove myself home, my brakes failed and I skidded on the icy road and ended right smack in the middle of a busy intersection. It was a surreal moment. I braked and instead of stopping, my car proceeded to move forward. All I could do was look to my left and raised my hand, willing the driver to stop, begging him not to hit me. I was sure I was going to die and my first thought was, please dear Lord, not before Christmas. I would hate for my family to mourn me on a joyous holiday season.

It was a miracle that everyone left that scene unscathed. As I replayed that horrifying few minutes over and over, I was more convinced that God’s hand slowed down the oncoming cars from both directions so I can safely pass.

I am thankful that I escaped that accident but it also got me to thinking. What if that was my time? And of course, being the Crazy Kaye that I am, my thoughts turned to these:

1. I hate driving in the snow. We should move to Seattle tomorrow. Yeah, lets!
2. Maybe I should indulge myself more in little luxuries. Eat more chocolate, use the nice teacup set I’m saving for special occasions, sing louder, shop harder.
3. Oh no, I haven’t even greeted my friends and family Merry Christmas yet. Maybe I’ll visit them when I’m already a ghost.
4. Oh shit, what undies was I wearing? Will I die with my ugly panties on?

Near accidents can get your brain in overdrive.