Saturday, March 29, 2008
Tell Ten!
I can't imagine being a 16-year-old pallbearer at my best friend's funeral. Could you?
Stop the violence!
Increase the peace!
This was the rally chant from a youth-organized, youth-led march commemorating the lives of Brandon Nicholas Johnson, 16, and Donnell Eric Davis, 15, of San Diego.
"The teens were killed in a freeway shooting March 16 in Bonita [near their community].Hundreds of people attended the services at Bayview Baptist Church in the Encanto neighborhood of San Diego. An overflow crowd gathered outside the church.
Gunfire on the roadways is rarely random, authorities said. It usually stems from road rage, and sometimes victims are targeted.
Sheriff's investigators suspect the teens killed in Bonita were fatally shot simply because they were in an area claimed by a gang." (source)
One of my homegirls and I are looking into supporting this community's local high school, Lincoln High School, by possibly working with their 9th grade Social Justice School teachers to do workshops, facilitate discussions, have poetry-writing sessions or just be in the classroom to work with the youth outside of a university setting.
Today, we got the grand tour. Everything from stepping into a classroom that requires their students to memorize and recite The Definite Dozen, a more meaningful and progressive alternative to the mindless delivery of the Pledge of Allegiance by school-age children; to the decision, or calling, to join the aforementioned anti-violence march/rally/protest. The Dozen is not to be misconstrued for the definite dozen that calls for a basic understanding of respect, often used in sports speak to honor the game and make athletes better people. This Dozen calls for students to be revolutionaries and be responsible for themselves, families, communities and the world. Once I find a copy of it, I'll be sure to post it. It's fresh. If you have it, please let me know.
Aside from wanting to instantly know those anxious faces, I was in awe of a high school classroom that had posters of Cesar Chavez, Malcolm X, past community events and theatrical productions, of a teacher who played songs by Dead Prez and Immortal Technique, of another who proudly introduced his students to me as student-activists, and of neighborhood art that complicated common notions of beauty and commemorated Rosa Parks, among others.
The grand tour included a glimpse into the administrative aspect of running a Social Justice school. It seems like a slow-roasting struggle. Imagine infiltrating the education system this way - decolonizing the mind and empowering youth to speak for themselves. How beautiful our world would be! To hell with Diddy and his bitch-ass-ness, miseducation is a serious problem in our communities. Aside from being given a course syllabus (which included a media disclaimer for the parents), and course assignments/activities, I was able to read a 9th grade student's final draft of an essay that supported the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and quoted Article 4 which reads, "No one shall be held in slavery or servitude; slavery and the slave trade shall be prohibited in all their forms." The student referenced modern day slavery as an everyday activity, not antebellum slavery. I was no longer in awe, I was in admiration of words from a young mind that can write life into recognizing injustice.
A view of the campus from the Social Justice school building only confirmed the prison-like structure that schools are modeled after, or vice versa. I have never been to such a gated, guarded public high school. This was quite shocking when my high school back in San Jose was affectionately dubbed "the ghetto" by some. So I guess you can say that this setting has become unfamiliar to me after having been out of a community like the one from which I came for about 3 years now. I was informed that Lincoln High, along with 13 (soon to be 14) other high schools in the district have shooting ranges on their campuses for JROTC and ROTC access. Militarization of high schools gives primarily underprivileged, disenfranchised high school students power via weaponry and arms, and it provides a feeling of power that they can find nowhere else, feeds and recruits them as they comply into joining the front lines of war zones and perpetuates the cycle of injustice and inequality as we all know it. There is a zero-tolerance policy for weapons on public school campuses in California. So why is it okay to allow weapons onto a high school campus when it's for the conditioning of war, for the army, which has historically been an institution of discipline and violence? It's not okay. It's not safe. It's not right.
The teacher that my homegirl and I were chillin with, before the anti-violence rally came marching down the street, took us down the neighborhood to look for what we thought was the delayed group. As we stood on the corner of Imperial Ave. and Euclid St. waiting to cross the street, he looked at us and said, "You're standing on the four corners of death." How the hell am I supposed to respond to that? How do I shift fear from freaking out into a collected shell hiding behind sunglasses? What tomorrow's leaders (student-activists) and this teacher told us was that each corner of the intersection was marked off as a different gang territory, beginning at each corner. "Even a famous rapper got shot here," one of the young revolutionaries added. Mind you, I wasn't shocked, just kind of... vulnerable. More on this later. Moreover, this a preface to the gang violence that takes place in this neighborhood. Very real, real enough to hold a rally for two boys who just happened to be victims of what a 16-year-old student-activist/head organizer of the rally called, "a senseless crime." It really could have been anyone.
Whenever I'm marching or participating in a rally, or most importantly, using my voice as a tool/instrument to guide, be heard, tell, educate, teach, preach, be listened to, etc., I get real raw and vulnerable. No joke. Somehow, the significance of voice arises as the main tool for expression and is what grabs the attention of passers-by. Expression -> art -> movement -> protest -> for a cause -> power. Word association explains it all. Art and activism go together. Community activism & community art is necessary.
Lately, I've been thinking about ground work. And really doing it for community. I feel like I have something to give now. So much that it's urgent. This deserves the utmost political expediency. The teachers at the Social Justice school kept talking about practice. There's a lot of theory, but the youth need practice, they say. I saw them practice today. I need practice today. Right now, this is where my heart is. It is possible to work on self-love and give back at the same time. I made a silent promise/signed a pledge sheet to tell ten about this. Please help me and tell ten.
Brandon and Donnell were not gang-affiliated. They were just trying to go to bowling alley to have fun and then come back. It could have been anyone. Let's not awaken only when we have oppression and pain hit us in the face. Like a mother said at the rally, "This is not a black thing. Pain and death know no color lines."
Stop the violence.
Increase the peace.
This community is thirsty for change. - Enrique Ochoa, teacher @ LHS
Friday, March 28, 2008
Therapy
By michelle magalong
May 2003
I write unsent letters
In hopes of peace
Divulging truths
In whispered secrets
Purging emotions
In scattered ramblings
I write love poems
In hopes of happiness
Professing dreams
In flustered proclamations
Capturing heartbeats
In ribbons of imagery
I write journal entries
In hopes of love
Confessing fears
In tear-streaked pages
Releasing silence
In an explosion of words
I write
In hopes of finding
That one poem
Freeing my heart
In verbs and adjectives
Liberating my mind
In one stanza or lyric
I write.
May 2003
I write unsent letters
In hopes of peace
Divulging truths
In whispered secrets
Purging emotions
In scattered ramblings
I write love poems
In hopes of happiness
Professing dreams
In flustered proclamations
Capturing heartbeats
In ribbons of imagery
I write journal entries
In hopes of love
Confessing fears
In tear-streaked pages
Releasing silence
In an explosion of words
I write
In hopes of finding
That one poem
Freeing my heart
In verbs and adjectives
Liberating my mind
In one stanza or lyric
I write.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Who Is Mason Betha?
Guess who?! While matalim was channel surfing, she found Dr. Mason Durrell Betha, Th.D., also known by his stage name, Ma$e. Who would have thought that the rapper who was hardcore reppin Harlem/ATL would go from MTV to MBM (Mason Betha Ministries) time? And from BET late-night to late-night infomercials? 1999 was when I really started getting into R&B, rap, and hip hop as a hobby. This was when I started to venture out of oldies and Bay Area lite rock less talk radio stations. Since this was before I had access to the Internet, television was the only avenue towards the mainstream music scene. A kid's gotta start somewhere, right? Of course, over time, I've learned to learn from other, more reliable, purer sources.
In 1999, my brother had already embarked on his path towards hip hop consciousness and shopping for CDs outside the realm of 90s rock. Ma$e's "Lookin' At Me" was one of the first singles that he ever bought, and I'm pretty sure I snuck in to his CD case to steal a few listens.
In 1999, my brother had already embarked on his path towards hip hop consciousness and shopping for CDs outside the realm of 90s rock. Ma$e's "Lookin' At Me" was one of the first singles that he ever bought, and I'm pretty sure I snuck in to his CD case to steal a few listens.
Ma$e's laid-back-ness (not to be confused with P. Diddy's bitch-ass-ness), was seemingly antithetical to what I thought a rapper was. Ma$e was always straight chillin, always smiling, and rapped at a pace slower than I was used to - compared to my brother's early collection of Naughty by Nature, Kris Kross, Montell Jordan, and Tupac. Maybe the game needs more men of the word. Maybe folks more devoted to making music, and not just hits.
The first CD I ever bought for my brother was Ma$e's Double Up album in 1999. Which was also released around same time that Ma$e announced his retirement as a rapper to become a man of faith. As long as this man is still hustling somehow, I'll be down for his words. No shame in what the game is because he's shown that change doesn't have to come in the form of a permanent absence.
Ma$e's singles were hella dope, but he set it off for me when he was featured on Brandy's "Top of the World" off the Never Say Never album. That is one of my favorite songs off of one of my favorite albums ever of Life. That's when I knew I could get down.
We've come a long way!:
Preach on!
x_magsalita.
Monday, March 24, 2008
got the eye? eye don't.
I've never really been good at this camera thing. You know, taking pictures to salvage memories or getting my digi cam working just right to get the right angle on something I only have 5 seconds to stare at. I'm better at taking pictures of scenes on the fly from my car or from the passenger's side of someone else's ride.
As of late, I've been extremely irked at faux photography and wannabes with expensive cameras. Not hating, just wanting people to remember that there are those who dedicate their life into the rare times that they can spare to take great shots. Also, what may be someone's hobby is someone's else craft and passion. Don't get it twisted and don't front like you're pro. And don't be silly. Tread softly.
To spoof, here are samples of my great photography (and bad alignment, to boot):
RIGHT: Taking pictures of already picturesque sights is sometimes unoriginal. 
LEFT: For the incriminating photos that are on your camera. Like those times when you want someone to see another picture that's on the same roll. And then said person thinks that it's okay to continue clicking through your collection, when really, it's not.
LEFT: I tried to take a good picture of Kiwi performing. Instead I documented an out-of-body experience.
LEFT: For the incriminating photos that are on your camera. Like those times when you want someone to see another picture that's on the same roll. And then said person thinks that it's okay to continue clicking through your collection, when really, it's not.
RIGHT: When you forget that the flash is on. This was supposed to be a picture on the Las Vegas Strip.
LEFT (top): What was supposed to be a group of friends in Downtown San Jose. Maybe I didn't have 'night feature' notch on, I don't know. Or maybe strangers (or poets) walking down the street aren't equipped with enough street know-how and shouldn't be allowed to lay a finger in my camera anymore.
RIGHT (top): For those times that you are too damn slow.
LEFT (mid): Sorry, Denizen Kane. My bad. I can't take performance shots, either.
RIGHT (mid): I couldn't capture an accurate shot of Christmas in the Park. Maybe I can't hold still
LEFT (bottom): A street scene super distorted.
RIGHT (bottom): A really, really bad picture.
LEFT: People think they're so funny. And you're the one left with the burn. And what's worse, the person you're tryna take a picture with isn't even looking.
RIGHT: When you think you got the right angle, even on the fly, but the result proves you wrong.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
the real Jabberwocky
How interesting it is to find out that the Jabberwocky is a nonsensical poem written by Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland. No wonder my homegirl (who had never seen America's Next Top Best Dance Crew Project Chef Idol until I busted out with some YouChoob videos earlier this evening/morning) kept on calling them the JabberWockeeZ. We traded tidbits of trivial knowledge and she told me about the poem.
WTF is a JABBERWOCKY?
I'd post the poem, amongst the many poems that are posted here, but it's way too effing long. And crazy. Love the name, though, it all makes sense now. Or... not really since the writer made up hella words. Nonetheless, smooooth move!
x_magsalita.
Labels: poetry
Friday, March 14, 2008
America's Next Best Top Dance Crew Idol Model
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
the neverending blog // an unfinished story
I cannot listen to this song. Maybe you can.
Not that I despise it, I just can't listen light-heartedly. I don't think I've ever listened to this song with dry eyes, if you know what I mean. When I was younger, I could never understand how I could learn to love a man I didn't know.
I get so angry... even still. I swear, I can't get past the second verse without turning tension into a fist that clamors against a 14-year absence. I can't sit still while welling up with memories of constructing Father's Day cards for no one but the sake of completing a second-grade assignment. Everyone else had a recipient.
I can't cry for the Pinays that Danced With Their Fathers on their eighteenth birthday celebrations. I wouldn't dare give them my tears. This song is for those who don't have their fathers with them. I have carried resentment for watching them mock my sorrow. I don't hate you for having a father, I hate that you misconstrued the meaning.
I remember all of it. The EMTs, ambulance that carried you away, the kids in the apartment complex gathering around and gazing at the spectacle of firetruck. I remember their marvels at men in uniforms and the shame I felt. I can easily recall my stoic self. How heroic it must have felt to be so numb. I wish I could be that strong now. I never got to say goodbye. I'm sorry.
A heart attack does not stop love.
x_magsalita.
Labels: pinay, storytime, vignettes
It's a Small World
I was never into doing Show and Tell back in grade school. Probably because I was hella shy and afraid of the kids snickering at me. And maybe, to some degree, I still am. So I guess I'm making up for the major lack of Show and Tell now... with this blog.
I took Asian American History I and II back in 2004. But not once was the case of Filipina Narciso and Leonora Perez mentioned while we were studying the various waves of Filipino immigration.
Then last month, as Beats Rhymes and Rice at UC Irvine was fast approaching, Magsalita schooled me a little bit on the infamous court case.
Once I heard that it took place in Ann Arbor, MI in the '70s, I realized there was the strong possibility that my mom, at the very least, could tell me something. When my mom first immigrated to the US, she lived in Westland, MI, just outside of Detroit, for about 5 years. She and her 2 sisters worked as registered nurses in the area.
Also a few months ago, my mom was going through some old papers in her bedroom. I happened to be at home at the time. She showed me an old newspaper of her and my auntie protesting about something. I just wasn't sure what they were protesting for. I only so much as glanced as the newspaper. Didn't think much about it at the time.
Little did I know when I moved into this house with 4 other girls, it would be like 6 Degrees of Separation.
One of the girls... her boyfriend's mother happens to be one of the defendants in that infamous case. And how does my mom fit into the picture? She and my auntie protested in Ann Arbor after the verdict was announced.
The newspaper that my mom saved for over 30 years.
See the 2 women in all white standing next to each other? My mom's on the left, my auntie's on the right.
Shit matters as much now as it did back then.
I love my mom. She's awesome to the power of 10 and more.
And it really is a small world after all.
I took Asian American History I and II back in 2004. But not once was the case of Filipina Narciso and Leonora Perez mentioned while we were studying the various waves of Filipino immigration.
Then last month, as Beats Rhymes and Rice at UC Irvine was fast approaching, Magsalita schooled me a little bit on the infamous court case.
Once I heard that it took place in Ann Arbor, MI in the '70s, I realized there was the strong possibility that my mom, at the very least, could tell me something. When my mom first immigrated to the US, she lived in Westland, MI, just outside of Detroit, for about 5 years. She and her 2 sisters worked as registered nurses in the area.
Also a few months ago, my mom was going through some old papers in her bedroom. I happened to be at home at the time. She showed me an old newspaper of her and my auntie protesting about something. I just wasn't sure what they were protesting for. I only so much as glanced as the newspaper. Didn't think much about it at the time.
Little did I know when I moved into this house with 4 other girls, it would be like 6 Degrees of Separation.
One of the girls... her boyfriend's mother happens to be one of the defendants in that infamous case. And how does my mom fit into the picture? She and my auntie protested in Ann Arbor after the verdict was announced.
The newspaper that my mom saved for over 30 years.
See the 2 women in all white standing next to each other? My mom's on the left, my auntie's on the right.
Shit matters as much now as it did back then.
I love my mom. She's awesome to the power of 10 and more.
And it really is a small world after all.
Labels: pinay, resistance, storytime
Monday, March 10, 2008
Remember "The Look"... ???
Remember the song "The Look" by Ryan Tedder? It was "released" circa 2000. So if my math's correct, I was a freshman/sophomore in high school. That song was all over many high school kids' Xangas at the time.
Sorry if I'm late to the party but I just found out the very same guy is lead vocals and plays guitar & piano for OneRepublic. Oh y'know, "I said it's too late to apologize."
He has also...
• wrote and produced Jennifer Lopez's "Do It Well"
• co-produced and wrote Natasha Bedingfield's current hit single "Love Like This" (with The Runaways)
• co-wrote with Jonathan "JR" Rotem & Evan "Kidd" Bogart on Ashley Tisdale's current hit single He Said She Said
• Leona Lewis's first international single "Bleeding Love" (which is the fastest selling single of 2007 in the UK as well as the biggest UK radio debut, reaching #1 in October 2007)
Crazy.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Past, Present, Future
Long gone are the days of being carefree
All I have left are the memories and nostaglic t-shirts
This used to be my playground
No more cooties or capture the flag
All I have left are the memories and nostalgic t-shirts
To think I wanted to grow up so fast
No more cooties or capture the flag
What am I gonna do with my life?
To think I wanted to grow up so fast
Life's coming at me fast
What am I gonna do with my life?
Never enough time and energy in a 24-hour day
Life's coming at me fast
Time to take our kids out for an afternoon at the park
Never enough time and energy in a 24-hour day
It's 8PM, gotta check their homework and make sure they brush their teeth
Time to take our kids for an afternoon at the park
This used to be my playground
It's 8PM, gotta check their homework and make sure they brush their teeth
Long gone are the days of being carefree
All I have left are the memories and nostaglic t-shirts
This used to be my playground
No more cooties or capture the flag
All I have left are the memories and nostalgic t-shirts
To think I wanted to grow up so fast
No more cooties or capture the flag
What am I gonna do with my life?
To think I wanted to grow up so fast
Life's coming at me fast
What am I gonna do with my life?
Never enough time and energy in a 24-hour day
Life's coming at me fast
Time to take our kids out for an afternoon at the park
Never enough time and energy in a 24-hour day
It's 8PM, gotta check their homework and make sure they brush their teeth
Time to take our kids for an afternoon at the park
This used to be my playground
It's 8PM, gotta check their homework and make sure they brush their teeth
Long gone are the days of being carefree
long distance
Being far away from home hurts like unsaid words
So I wear clothes the way you taught me, two hands up to reach for the sky
I don’t cook but I’m better at pretending that my meals are as good as home cooked love
I miss your voice; your accent is the only language I have ever acquired from our conversations
So I wear clothes the way you taught me, two hands up to reach for the sky
I keep it together like lips pasted, pressed onto each other
I miss your voice; your accent is the only language I have ever acquired from our conversations
My eyes will always tell your stories
I keep it together like lips pasted, permanently pressed onto each other
Mama, teach me again how to be strong
My eyes will always tell your stories
Scold me for going far away
Mama, teach me again how to be strong
Send extended arms to cure and hug homesickness
Scold me for going far away
I travel because you did
Send extended arms to cure and hug homesickness
I don’t cook but I’m better at pretending that my meals are as good as home cooked love
I travel because you did
Being far away from home hurts like unsaid words
So I wear clothes the way you taught me, two hands up to reach for the sky
I don’t cook but I’m better at pretending that my meals are as good as home cooked love
I miss your voice; your accent is the only language I have ever acquired from our conversations
So I wear clothes the way you taught me, two hands up to reach for the sky
I keep it together like lips pasted, pressed onto each other
I miss your voice; your accent is the only language I have ever acquired from our conversations
My eyes will always tell your stories
I keep it together like lips pasted, permanently pressed onto each other
Mama, teach me again how to be strong
My eyes will always tell your stories
Scold me for going far away
Mama, teach me again how to be strong
Send extended arms to cure and hug homesickness
Scold me for going far away
I travel because you did
Send extended arms to cure and hug homesickness
I don’t cook but I’m better at pretending that my meals are as good as home cooked love
I travel because you did
Being far away from home hurts like unsaid words
Monday, March 03, 2008
MS Excel/Word + Hip Hop (Part Dalawa)
"Missing You" Like Brandy, Tamia, Gladys Knight and Chaka Khan
I miss R&B music
I lived for late night slow jams on the radio
I'm craving getting lost in between aisles and piles of melodic peace
Flipping through what was the impetus for middle school dances
I lived for late night slow jams on the radio
And moments that called for increasing volume control
Flipping through what was the impetus for middle school dances
What happened to REAL rhythm & blues?
And moments that called for increasing volume control
I miss TLC, Brandy, Aaliyah, SWV, Lauryn and 90s Mariah & Janet
What happened to REAL rhythm & blues?
Where are womyn who represented on stage and on airwaves?
I miss TLC, Brandy, Aaliyah, SWV, Lauryn and 90s Mariah & Janet
They have been replaced with calls and responses of popularized booty poppin
Where are womyn who represented on stage and on airwaves?
I miss CD shopping before it became digital and all too accessible
They have been replaced with calls and responses of popularized booty poppin
I'm craving getting lost in between aisles and piles of melodic peace
I miss CD shopping before it became digital and all too accessible
I miss R&B music
Where Is The Love?
Unfinished and broken, still making progress
What happens when "friends" just don't fucking get it?
Justifying words of regression - racism and homophobia
What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?
What happens when "friends" just don't fucking get it?
I'm a female so I'm expected to simply let shit go
What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?
Suddenly, two stubborn souls are at war with one another
I'm a female so I'm expected to simply let shit go
I don't know where to go from here
Suddenly, two stubborn souls are at war with one another
Wounded and weary, the guns need to be dropped
I don't know where to go from here
We've wasted too much time, too much energy
Wounded and weary, the guns need to be dropped
There is comfort in friendship, and peace in understanding
We've wasted too much time, too much energy
Justifying words of regression - racism and homophobia
There is comfort in friendship, and peace in understanding
Unfinished and broken, still making progress
What happens when "friends" just don't fucking get it?
Justifying words of regression - racism and homophobia
What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?
What happens when "friends" just don't fucking get it?
I'm a female so I'm expected to simply let shit go
What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to do?
Suddenly, two stubborn souls are at war with one another
I'm a female so I'm expected to simply let shit go
I don't know where to go from here
Suddenly, two stubborn souls are at war with one another
Wounded and weary, the guns need to be dropped
I don't know where to go from here
We've wasted too much time, too much energy
Wounded and weary, the guns need to be dropped
There is comfort in friendship, and peace in understanding
We've wasted too much time, too much energy
Justifying words of regression - racism and homophobia
There is comfort in friendship, and peace in understanding
Unfinished and broken, still making progress
Saturday, March 01, 2008
2/6/08 Throwback: 40 Days and 40 Nights
So it's Lent. I say, "So what? BFD (Big Fucking Deal)."
What's Lent?
Growing up, I was proud to be Catholic. I guess you could say it felt like this special club, going to a Catholic school and all. You want to feel like you belong when you're growing up, right? When junior high rolled around, I started to feel increasingly detached from the religion. I'm not sure why. Adolescence? Menstruation and PMS? Boys as a new religion? Discovering the mall as an escape [Oh, Pinayism.]?
When I was a child, I assumed that everyone in my extended family was Catholic. But I later found out that wasn't the case. Some of my cousins didn't even get married in the Catholic Church. Another cousin and her family converted to nondenominational Christianity. Two of my cousins who are around my age haven't gotten confirmed either. That, and my "father" (I use that term very loosely) didn't fast during Lent. He ate meat on Fridays, too. Maybe it was a matter of consistency, or lack of it.
My cynicism grew when, for one, the Church's scandals started surfacing. If priests and other religious authorities can't resist temptation, then we're screwed! Two, an isolated incident during my senior year of high school. A friend called me out, asking if I was still a "V." I didn't respond back. This was after we had a guest speaker talk to the student body about abstinence and waiting until marriage to have sex. I had already lost my virginity the previous year. Naturally, I felt out of place. A black sheep. I thought Christianity, much less Catholicism, was about being compassionate, forgiving, loving your neighbor as yourself, not judging others, etc. That day, all of that went out the window.
I haven't gone to church every weekend since junior high.
I haven't given up anything for Lent since grade school.
After high school, I stopped fasting and not eating meat on Fridays during Lent.
I haven't been confirmed.
I haven't gone to confession since high school.
When I have children, I would want to let them make their own choices in regards to religion, among other things. To each, their own.
Pray for that.
What's Lent?
"Lent, in most Christian denominations, is the 40-day liturgical season of fasting and prayer before Easter. The 40 days represent the time Jesus spent in the desert, where, according to the Bible, he endured temptation by Satan. Different churches will calculate the 40 days differently.I guess I got sick and tired of Catholicism, much to the dismay of my mother. What a quarter's tuition is at the university I'm attending is equivalent to what she paid each year for the first 8 years of my 12-year private Catholic education. When I got to high school that tuition doubled to about $5000-6000/year. When Catholicism is part of your everyday academia for 12 years, it makes you not want to be Catholic. Or maybe that's just me.
The purpose of Lent is the preparation of the believer - through prayer, penitence, almsgiving, and self-denial - for the annual commemoration of the Death and Resurrection of Jesus, as celebrated during Holy Week, which recalls the events linked to the Passion of Christ and culminates in Easter, the celebration of the Resurrection of Jesus Christ.
There are traditionally forty days in Lent which are marked by fasting, both from foods and festivities, and by other acts of penance. The three traditional practices to be taken up with renewed vigor during Lent are prayer (justice towards God), fasting (justice towards self), and almsgiving (justice towards neighbor). Today, some people give up a vice of theirs, add something that will bring them closer to God, and often give the time or money spent doing that to charitable purposes or organizations."
- Lent - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Growing up, I was proud to be Catholic. I guess you could say it felt like this special club, going to a Catholic school and all. You want to feel like you belong when you're growing up, right? When junior high rolled around, I started to feel increasingly detached from the religion. I'm not sure why. Adolescence? Menstruation and PMS? Boys as a new religion? Discovering the mall as an escape [Oh, Pinayism.]?
When I was a child, I assumed that everyone in my extended family was Catholic. But I later found out that wasn't the case. Some of my cousins didn't even get married in the Catholic Church. Another cousin and her family converted to nondenominational Christianity. Two of my cousins who are around my age haven't gotten confirmed either. That, and my "father" (I use that term very loosely) didn't fast during Lent. He ate meat on Fridays, too. Maybe it was a matter of consistency, or lack of it.
My cynicism grew when, for one, the Church's scandals started surfacing. If priests and other religious authorities can't resist temptation, then we're screwed! Two, an isolated incident during my senior year of high school. A friend called me out, asking if I was still a "V." I didn't respond back. This was after we had a guest speaker talk to the student body about abstinence and waiting until marriage to have sex. I had already lost my virginity the previous year. Naturally, I felt out of place. A black sheep. I thought Christianity, much less Catholicism, was about being compassionate, forgiving, loving your neighbor as yourself, not judging others, etc. That day, all of that went out the window.
I haven't gone to church every weekend since junior high.
I haven't given up anything for Lent since grade school.
After high school, I stopped fasting and not eating meat on Fridays during Lent.
I haven't been confirmed.
I haven't gone to confession since high school.
When I have children, I would want to let them make their own choices in regards to religion, among other things. To each, their own.
Pray for that.
Labels: religion, storytime, words
MS Excel + Hip Hop
Inspired by a post from Hanalei Ramos's entry of MS Excel charts based on hip-hop and R&B lyrics, which were originally done by flickr's freedomallah. A friend and I decided to make some of our own a month ago but never got a chance to finish the project. While I was watching the Super Bowl, I made it a point to finish what I started.
I'm sure I got more where these came from.
I'm sure I got more where these came from.
why the sampaguita style
I was sixteen when I discovered that I just happened to wear a flower everyday. It still holds true.
My favorite dress, when I was six years old, looked a little something like the picture to the left. I always felt pretty in it.
Upon my Confirmation at age thirteen, I chose my saint name to be St. Theresa de Lisieux, also known as "The Little Flower."
My mom grows a million orchids in our backyard back home in San Jose.
Hearts, rainbows, angels, butterflies, ribbons and other gendered symbols were never really my style.
I gave flowers away to a man before I ever received them from one. I was six. And I didn't know I was saying goodbye.
The first flowers I received, in a romantic sort of way, were in the form of candy roses wrapped in red cellophane high school fundraiser-status.
When I was in a halau (hula school), I wasn't allowed to dance in a performance because I didn't have the right flower on. Nor did I fucking know what the damn difference was between flowers. Hah, embarassing.
I first saw beautiful, dried flowers at my best friend's place when I was thirteen.
Like other folks, I received and gave away hella flowers on birthdays, graduations and other celebrations.
I am more attuned to choosing flowers to draw, wear in pattern or use for decoration.
Warning: These fun facts may or may not have anything to do with the following blog.
Discovering the sampaguita is more about self-discovery. Lilo and Stitch and the glam of hula, oddly enough, popularized and shaped my imagination to declare the Hibiscus as my favorite flower. I've recently re-read M. Evelina Galang's Deflowering the Sampaguita along with other short stories that have made me think more about how I really didn't understand shit like the Babysitter's Club, why I couldn't cry in public, why we never had any money, why I still can't tell my mom about how hard school is, why I still can't get down with the Vagina Monologues, why I couldn't date someone who wasn't Filipino, why I shouldn't have been with a Filipino dude that my mom didn't know first, why it was important to dress up to family parties, why my friends tripped out when I told them I knew how to eat with my hands, and whatever cultural practice or Fil Am struggle you can name. Either way, or whatever the situation was, it just always felt like some kind of rejection from someone. The worst was and still is trying to figure where it all comes from.
It's not like I haven't tried. That's what this blog, my studies, my politics, my writings, my organizing, my work and my conversations have been for. It's been such a labor of love to keep everything in. And it's another to accept or resist how these struggles have been named for me.
The sampaguita was declared the Philippines' national flower on February 1st, 1934 by United States Governor-General Frank Murphy. A significant time in Asian Am/Fil Am [his]tory, don't you think? A significant time in which the United States was determining the status of the Philippines and Filipinos, furthering colonization and blurring the intersections of immigration and citizenship, as demonstrated with the Tydings-McDuffie Act changing the status of Filipinos from "nationals" to "aliens," or some other sources have cited "wards"... but either way is really fucked up. Source.
Having struggles named or unnamed for me has become a way of life, but not in a guiding way. If you've ever wondered about how legislation affects the everyday then I guess this is it. I've always been irked at people who "don't like politics" or worry about the "intellectualization" of feelings and experiences. Well, fuck, I don't like that shit either. But being political is different. And being anti-intellectual is invalidating. Being able to trace lineages of family oral stories and understanding the origins of my pain is important and is no doubt fully laced with some kind of politic and power.
Sampaguitas are hella small - as big as fingernails, I've read. I vaguely remembering holding them in the jeepney on the way to my lolo's funeral in the Philippines when I was six. I remember not always knowing what was going on. I don't think I've held them since then.
The sampaguita deflowers.
This blog is always under construction. This writer is has always been under construction like AOL days before modern-day MySpace when I couldn't figure what the fuck out I wanted to say. It was just time for a reflection, re-evaluation and some friggen color. This blog has turned into one of poetry, spoken word, my commentary on Life events and event postings. It will only continue to blossom. I apologize for entries that are so few and far in-between, but I've always been in that kind of hyphenation. I just need time.
Along with a new look comes a new writer. =)
x_magsalita.
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