Wringing the towel

God Bless: Much love from the Big Guy to you, Elaine, for feeding the hungry. You Mother Teresa, you.
Feeling: running on low

Shameless Plug:

THEATRE RICE!

all-you-can-eat comedy/improv/drama

*we are not serving food*

April 28-30, 7 pm in 155 Dwinelle

$2-5 pay what you can (proceeds go to charity)

http://www.theatrerice.com

Alright. So i might not have much to write about, but there's no way i'm throwing in the towel until i'm done wringing it.

Let's see. Whew! What a weekend. PCN went down on Saturday, dedicated to the rising (up, if you will...see what i did there? PCN went down and then i said rising u...nevermind) of the I-Hotel. Can i share a secret? i was holding up the set-piece for the I-Hotel in the last skit, and let me tell ya, i was a little afraid the I-Hotel would fall down again :-/ i'm a wimp.

Anyways, i didn't realize until last year that PCN's occurred at college campuses across the country. ("Where there are Filipinos, there you will find PCN"). i was a little critical of the PCN we had at Berkeley this year because the content was a esoteric and lacked cohesion. If you weren't Filipino, there was a good chance you wouldn't have understood the show. Exhibit A: After-show testimonials from my non-pinoy buds:

"So, why was (insert name of skit) funny?"

"Um, the dances were cool. What's muta?"

and, my favorite

"Huh?"

And that's wrong. What i like about culture nights is that they provide an opportunity for an ethnic community to extend to the greater public an invitation to celebrate their culture and struggles and achievements and existence. If people walked out scratching their heads, then i don't think we accomplished anything. Don't get me wrong, i'm sure our parents loved it. But PCN ain't no talent show for Mommy and Daddy. It was supposed to be a chance to show the greater community what we're about. Shrug.

Janet Stickmon:

i was standing sideways holding my copy of Crushing Soft Rubies upside-down during a PCN rehearsal, and one of the guys told me that the picture on the cover looked like me. HA. So apparently, from the side i look like an upside-down, hapa, African-American, Filipino....woman.

Right.

Regardless, i was just a little star-struck when Ms. Stickmon came to visit our class. Gosh, when author's come in and read their work it's like concerts and compact discs (because i don't download music, ha, of COURSE i don't download)--music is always better live. Not that my opinion matters--in general and as a rule of thumb--but i was impressed by how nonchalant, or i mean to say how casually she can speak about her life. i was impressed by how willing she was to share her story, especially because my parents taught me to swallow my troubles.

Obviously, there's nothing that can or should be said about Soft Rubies in terms of literary analysis, but i suppose if there's anything to be said of Ms. Stickmon's autobiography it is that it is an exercise in humanity. And that's fine by me--i've been needing to stretch out my sympathy.

ummmmm how to fill in space how to fill in space

i'm excited about watching The Debut in class.

Alright, i'm spent.

It's Like Popping Bubble Wrap...

*note: link to pictures from field trip are in the post below

God Bless: Congratulations, Liz Jacobs, Jesus loves you!
Feeling: equal parts impending doom (upcoming midterm blows) and celebration (previous midterms over)

NERD ALERT

Sorry guys, you're all going to be very, very, and (all hyperbole aside) very disappointed with kenneth. i didn't do it on purpose, but i read a little more ahead in Crushing Soft Rubies than expected. And by "expected," i mean "assigned." Sorry to let you down, team. Her autobiography went down easily--no spoon of sugar required (for the medicine...sorry, bad Mary Poppins reference).

In any case, Crushing Soft Rubies should be retitled Popping Bubble Wrap, because that's how engrossed i was with the narrative. Considering almost every piece of literature we've read this semester, i have to confess i feel like i'm invading the authors' privacies. i think i said before that i feel like i'm violating the sanctity of someone's diary. well...yeah.

But back to Ms. Stickmon! (Or it might be Mrs. by now, i'm not sure). i like her matter-of-fact approach to her writing. Hers is a story that could have easily been General Hospitalized. Instead, she cuts the fat, states the facts, resists flowery tendencies, and has my sympathy (not pity, but sympathy) in the palm of her hand. When i hear stories about children taking up adult responsibilties, being forced to grow up at such a young age...well, that gets to me. But, hey, i'm pretty emo.

...

Dangit, J.Lo just came up on my media player and with her telling me to "Get Right" i lost my train of thought. Where was i?

Oh, right.

i'm glad that this memoir was included in our reading list. i've always been curious about the mestizas and the hapas in my family and the way they see the world--how they resolve their ethnic identities. i'm glad to see that in Ms. Stickmon's autobiography, she celebrates both cultures--Filipino and African American. Her blood test comes back adobo, but she still rocks out to En Vogue. Speaking of which, Free your mind / and the rest will follow.

i'm weary of analyzing autobiographies/memoirs/biographies/xangas/blogs/tsimis/what-have-you from a literary perspective. Come on, is there foreshadowing in anyone's life? Is the Captain Crunch you had this morning a metaphor for something? It just feels a little too forced, and i don't think life is that convenient, even though God has a sense of humor ("Clap on, clap off, the Clapper"...i rest my case). And, oh yeah, if i said something like "there's not enough build up before the resolution in Crushing Soft Rubies...more tension! The protagonist needs more character devlopment! More growth!"--see, that's just not right.

Thus, i think i'll just say that i appreciate Ms. Stickmon's will and character and bravery to share her story.

i think that just about sums it up.

English R1B In The City

English R1B In The City

English R1B In The City

English R1B In The City

English R1B In The City

English R1B In The City

Alright all you haters, doubters, and naysayers (and Lara Estrada)...you might not have thought i'd pull through, but here it is--a link to the pictures i shot when we invaded good ol' San Francisco!

Knock yourself out:

http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/kenneth99/my_photos

Hope your weekend is morphenomenal!

(Yeah, that was a Power Rangers reference, whatcha gonna do about it?)

College Is For Experimenting

God Bless: It's up for grabs this week. Fight amongst yourselves
Feeling: Bah!

Alright, i just got back from a long day and my brain is running on a fuel source i like to call "no food." There really couldn't be a better time to attempt a prose poem. Really, in terms of optimal times to write poetry, this is a close second to being drunk. i don't really know what i'm doing. But oh well. College is for experimenting. And we're off:

"She"
I ran into her today. Or maybe she ran into me. It doesn't matter. I am running after her.

I wish only to excavate the architecture of her smile. I wish only to photograph the sunshine in her laugh. I wish only to measure the innocence in her veins, to grace the fragile palace of her heart, to surrender to her eyes.I ran into her today. And the sun came out.

"Footsteps"
There is time for the search. There is always time to look back over a shoulder, to turn around mid-step and to gaze at a trail of footsteps that begin so far away, that meander capriciously on and off the road, that run in circles, at times. Some are deep, some have faded. They are footprints that climbed high mountains, danced in low valleys, and end beneath the feet of one who has become the journey.

"Barbie is Pinay"
i am sad for my sister. she cannot find her way:asian barbie, manufactured in the philippines, assembled in canada, shipped to the u.s.a. skin is sun-kissed. hair is ink spilling and cascading and rolling down her back to meet ankles meant to hula. dreams are 90% of the net weight. denied her corvette--had to settle for her mama's volvo. "ken" is her brother not her boyfriend. dad is her hurdle not her runway. lola is the fire in her chest not the wind beneath her wings. she is filipino and chinese but Mattel describes her spanish and portuguese, modest and intelligent but fronts bravado and a bubbly smile exposing straight white teeth four out of five dentists approve. she is hope incarnate. i love my sister. will you find your way?

"Parents"
So i called the Mom today. it's been a while since i've heard her voice. it's the same voice that welcomed me into existence. it's the same voice that beckoned me out from clothing racks where i hid. it's the same voice that tells me, "i'm doing okay. i can afford your schooling." it's the same voice. it's just older. when she speaks, the timbre of her voice is cracked and brittle and wise, like sentimental memories scrawled on parchment. She said, "I love you, anak." She walks to Albertson's in a bamboo hat, the rolling cadence of the wind across her Nikes. She's as blind as i am ugly. i forgot how old she was.

So the Dad text messaged me. He uses email, texts the aunties and uncles, has the dvd player on lockdown--declares himself tech savvy. He wrote: "U got a parcel n da mail. miss u son. come home. peace." He stands sideways and holds his belly and jokes that he's pregnant. i forgot how old he was.

i take pictures of the Mom and Dad on my camera. digital. the one they got me for Jesus' Birthday. Snap. They look at the pictures.
The Dad: "Ay nako! That's not my good side. How do i delete?"
The Mom chortles and jabs the Dad in the shoulder. She has to push her glasses up and wipe her eyes--she still cries when she laughs.

i forgot that they were young once.

homesick.

Addendum:
Whew! The things you remember at 2 AM. So. about how i felt writing these:
Ummmm. i guess i was just thinking about people that i cared about. i don't think i really achieved an 'eileen tabios' style of writing, but i gave it my best, coach!

Eileen Tabios & English R1B Hitchhikes Across America

God Bless: Anyone who drove today to San Francisco. I’m pretty sure the Big Guy likes it when we carpool.
Feeling: Oy vey.

Holy mother of Moses! …I’m not sure exactly who that woman is, but times are getting heavy, and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking the same thing! I wish I just had more time to work, ya know? Oh well, life ain’t no Burger King—you can’t always have things your way.

I wanted to write a little addendum for last week’s post. :-X I didn’t exactly review American Son in the way I think everyone else did, so I’m just going to give that gem of a novel one thumbs up. It woulda’ been two, but Tomas shot the other one off for my milk money. :-(

Alright, let’s tackle some Eileen Tabios. I’d read her submissions to {m}aganda before…oh snap! Speaking of which:

{m}aganda magazine reception!
Come celebrate the publication of our next issue
choice.change.power
Saturday, May 7, 2005
4-8 pm Heller Lounge/Multicultural Center (in MLK)
Art.Live Performance.Food.Origami.YOU!

Woa okay where was I? This is what happens when you have a.d.d.
Alright, I was first introduced to Ms. Tabios’ work through her submissions to the magazine. I admit, I had no idea what was going on—what she was trying to explain, of if she was trying to say anything at all. But reading Leny Strobel’s essay made things slightly easier. Leny Strobel might as well write Eileen Tabios For Dummies. I thought Ms. Tabios had gone the way of Wacko Jacko and Anna Nicole Smith when she started to bring Greek sculpture into the picture, but upon reading her poems a second time I think I found more to appreciate. From Strobel’s essay I took the advice that Tabios’ prose poetry cannot be pinned down and analyzed. It is not meant to be solved. It is meant to be conversed with. I pour my own meanings into her poems and that is all that I can ask for. I see so much of the personal incorporated into her writing. When I read her poems I feel like I am reading protected postings on someone’s Xanga—like I’m violating the sanctity of someone’s diary, or that I’m barging in on a personal conversation. I don’t know what the significance is of using Greek art as a launching ground for her writing. I don’t know enough about decolonization, or colonization for that matter, to attempt voicing an opinion in that arena. I don’t know. I guess Tabios is just an acquired taste—something you’ll have to keep shoving down my throat until I start to like it.

I’ll post the pictures from today’s field trip on my Yahoo and get the link up for you guys asap. During the trip I didn’t really understand exactly how what we were seeing correlated with what we were learning in class. But now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I think I should just appreciate the fact that I was in the city Bulosan spent so much time in. Also, the people we met and the organizations we visited are working for the benefit of the people that we read about. The site of the I-Hotel is a graveyard for the footsteps where manongs gallivanted when they were young, and shuffled when they were old. In general, hearing about issues in the community, about things outside the Berkeley bubble, is always inspiring. High five for a good learning experience.