Lesson in Culture

"It's your Uncle's 40th day of passing.  They are having something over at the other masjid, so we are going." "Whaaat? We would already have been at our masjid for Qur'an school", whined my two younger children -- a high schooler and a middle schooler.  Tough age for everyone all around...they, on their end and me, the recipient of all their rationalizations for being anti-social especially when it involves anything other than their peers.

"Yeah, well -- we need to go.  We need to do it for the 'family' and that is that.  You both had your fun day yesterday and this is what we will do today.  Besides they will serve some West African food...(that's it!  If nothing else, appeal to their stomachs).

The practice of commemorating the passing away of a loved one after 40 days is widely observed by many Muslim cultures.  In West Africa, there is the reading of the entire Qur'an by individuals who take one of the 30 sections comprising the whole book, and once all sections have been read, the supplication (du'a) is made by someone in the community or an Imam (religious cleric).

The affair was to have started at 1 pm, my kids and I got there at 3 -- and still there were only a handful of people there reading the Qur'an.  The men were mostly reading, sitting on the floor with their backs pressed against the wall.  The women were seated on foldable chairs, talking quietly among themselves; others, with  prayer beads between forefinger and thumb.  Sigh!... Again, I miscalculated.  This things never really start on time...the schedule governed by either "African time" or "Muslim time"...my kids always respectful and well-mannered, sat down and waited...(Ha, for sure I will hear about it later!  My son had purposely not eaten lunch, and from across the room I saw him give me THAT look!)

Many people came up to me to greet me and show respect.  After asking how everyone in the family was, they commented on how the kids have grown so much from when they remembered...these last two children, forever engraved in memories as a toddler or baby.  Yes, time does goes by fast!  I, in turn, ask about their families...

Finally the rest of the bereaved party arrived and we prayed the sunset prayers.  There was a flurry of activity after that -- mats to be used as table cloths were unfolded, serving utensils,  paper plates, forks, spoons and cold drinks readied in tubs of ice; the aroma of spiced rice mixed with meat filled the room.  Time to eat....

There were typical West African foods served that day, starting with a porridge-like dish which is mildly sweet with yogurt.  What we we ate yesterday had a hint of peanut butter.  Then the huge trays of "chebbi" rice with either chicken, fish or lamb and abundant garnishes  of cabbage,  yams, peppers and other vegetables.  There were roasted chicken and other meat dishes as well.  One dish whose name I couldn't pronounce was bathed in textured, deep-cream colored sauce with greens and a combination of fish and meat.  Fresh fruits and hot and cold drinks are also plentiful.  I had several cups of Cafe' Touba, straight from Senegal -- the rich dark liquid, heavily sweetened with sugar was quite strong...

My son a towering 14 year old sat and ate with the men, mostly from Senegal and Gambia.  My daughter and I, were with the women; she running after her little nephew and I enjoying the visit with some of the "sisters" I haven't seen in a while.  I sat next to the Imam's wife as she insisted I sit next to her; a kindly-looking woman who held and pressed my hand and asked about my husband.  She is Moroccan, her fair skin made her stand out in the crowd of all shades of brown.  It was a welcome break for me to sit amidst this group and be a guest -- for a change.   Times like this, getting together communally around food for whatever commemoration or celebration is what life is all about.

We have yet to take the children to West Africa so they may know that side of the family and culture; occasions like this is as close as we can get to replicating a part of their culture and giving them -- a taste of Africa and what it means to be African.

Token of Time

(I write this as I sit plopped in front of my Dad's grave...the late morning sun bathing me with it's warm embrace and the gentle whisper of the breeze through my ears.  The faint smell of lavender and thyme adding to the sweetness; I love mornings like this!)

  

For the past several weeks when I go to Mom's I would pull out the old family albums and share them with my children.  Since my Dad's passing, my Mom's life has been centered around these memories -- housed in volumes of tattering albums, elicited through fading black and white photos and colored snapshots of years gone by...Mom would leave several of these albums scattered throughout the many rooms of the house, keeping alive distant past and claiming it for the present.  This is the world that she chooses to live in now...

Funny how a bunch of photographs freezes time,  jogging memories of family gatherings...the youthfulness in everyone a stark reminder that the years do take their toll.  Last time we were all together, I looked around the table at my siblings, all of us in varying stages of aging... grey hairs and body parts succumbing to persistent gravitational pulling -- I would compare photos of my parent's in their 50's and look at some taken of me as I am -- now, also in my 50's; my own children in their early teens to mid 20's...

I listen quietly to my older kids, the one that is now working for a living, the other recently graduated from college or another who has just begun it -- so full of life's promise and excitement, ready to conquer the world, travel to distant lands.and leave their mark. I would be reminded of how I was thirty years back with the same bravado and confidence...then I smile secretly to myself.  I look at my Mom and see her fragility as she nears her 80th year -- everyone says I look like her.  So then, I always think to myself, yes -- in a few more years, I would be her...

"If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do

Is to save every day 'til eternity passes away..."

(Jim Croce)



English Class

Never say "Never!"  --  I have always been short of patience and swore that I would NEVER be a teacher to anyone or anything.  This, I use to say out loud to my younger siblings as I helped them with their homework when they were in elementary school.  Because I grew up in a school system where neatness, legibility of writing and exact, complete work is an ABSOLUTE must...it took me awhile to understand abbreviated answers, dangling sentences and homework papers riddled with erasure marks.

"Why," I would say to my siblings then, and now to my children as well --"our teachers would whack our hands with a ruler" were we to do the above...much less, forget to do an assignment -- that was totally unheard of!!! So what happened to me?

I have been an educator for almost two decades...poetic justice in action, perhaps.  Despite my degree in English, among other things -- I remembered that my goal was to be a nomadic traveler, roaming the world in search of people and stories.  Romantic idealism of what a writer should be doing ... it seemed like a doable plan except for one thing...I started a family and then began working as a community organizer, so that was that!

Building a community is not an over night thing -- neither is it something that one can readily walk away from. So here I am, having played many roles and continuing to wear many hats...

I teach an English class for non-English speakers in our community.  As design would have it, my class is ALL women, ranging from 16 to 60 something.  As diverse in age, my students are just as diverse in culture: from the Middle East, Indo-Pakistan to the continent of  Africa, I have come to appreciate what my students have to teach me -- while I , in turn teach them to read, write and speak in a language that is so foreign to their ears, lips and hands.  Some of our lessons verge on absolute comedy -- laughter being the medium of connection that binds all of us as comrades and family.

  Theories are one thing, practice is another.  I can honestly appreciate the tools I learned from the TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certification program I took; implementation is, however another can of worms...I love the freedom to be creative and playful with the exercises I use to have my students "practice speaking English."

I am amazed at the level of commitment, hard-work and determination that ALL the women have in learning a new language.  A couple of the older students were illiterate -- not having gone to school in their countries of origin; speaking their language but not being able to read and write...so here they are: Beginning Beginning English class.  Learning the alphabet and learning the English words for say: hat, chicken, sundry body parts, days of the week, months and counting to 100.  They are learning how to form letters and hold a pencil. Our second year finds us spelling letter by letter learned vocabulary words.

Those that are at a higher functioning level are becoming experts at conjugating irregular verbs and writing descriptively up to a paragraph...engaging each other in animated conversation complete  with hand gestures and facial expressions on subjects such as:  describe how you make "chapati" or what is your recipe for "chicken biryani"?

Then there are those special moments when we actually get to demonstrate and act out vocabulary words -- say for example, the verb "sing" -- I had each student choose any song from their country.  With each one's turn,  faces glowed with  remembrance  -- each song reflecting memories of their homes or their childhood.  For a brief moment, we are carried along the landscapes of Syria, the mountains of Afghanistan and Yemen, the fertile forests of Bissau and even the flowing rivers of Bangladesh...

I marvel at the richness of each person's stories and unique personalities.  For two hours -- twice a week, we become immersed in a discovery of newly found words -- exciting, tedious and frustrating at times, but just as beautiful in creating and building bridges to understanding -- no matter where we are from.

Disaster Preparedness

In light of the recent destruction to many communities in the East Coast, many conversations have been tossed around as to how prepared we ALL are in terms of natural calamities, and perhaps the not-so-natural calamities, that could potentially befall ANY of us at any given time.  Imagine 7 days of no electricity, wet everywhere and falling temperatures, with a looming threat of yet another storm on the horizon...long waiting lines for food and gasoline.  Many describing their homes as ravaged as in a war torn country, access to necessities as almost non-existent, save for neighbors and locals getting together to help one another.

So what about us?  Are we ready?  In this city, we are fortunate to have community volunteers being trained by the Fire Department under the CERT (Community Emergency Response Teams) Program.  I am a certified CERT volunteer and am encouraging others to sign up.

Google:  CERT: Community Emergency Response Teams (www.citizencorps.gov/cert/) or
                CERT - The City of Alameda (www.cityof alamedaca.gov/City-Hall/CERT)

Despite having gone through CERT training and several Red Cross workshops on "Disaster Preparedness", I would be the first to admit that I am far from being prepared.  Short of telling my family that we are to meet at a designated spot in case of a disaster and giving each of them a relative's out-of-state phone number, I guess I can honestly say, I have a jug of water, random flashlights around the house with batteries stored in tin cans (which haven't been tested for several years), and last I looked -- maybe two cans of food...pitiful, hey?

I grew up in the Philippines were typhoons and flooding were almost a part of life -- not to mention earthquakes.  So in every sense of the word, I am a veteran -- but does one really get used to any kind of devastation?

Here in California, I have experienced the Loma Prieta earthquake, I believe in 1989. I was living and working as a nurse in Santa Cruz -- the epicenter of the quake. I remember that afternoon as clearly as if it was yesterday.  Working on the second floor of a pediatric clinic, I was getting ready to put a patient in a room to be seen by the doctor when all of a sudden, I heard the rumbling noise BEFORE I felt the shaking.  It was as if the floor had tilted and I was standing lopsided.  My oldest was about two years old and my thoughts were only of him and whether or not he was in a safe place. Although the earthquake only lasted a fraction of a moment -- it felt like time stretched in slow motion, until it became quiet again -- both the noise and the shaking.  In it's wake, was a roomful of files and stuff on the floor and a great number of people groaning in shock.  I quickly grabbed my purse and hurriedly told the doctor I was working with that I had to go home.  Didn't even asked if that was fine with him -- I didn't care!

I headed home to find dishes, stereo, books all in piles on the floor.  My toilet was sitting askew and my stove moved about half a foot away from the wall.  My son was with his father and they were fine.  Didn't really know what to do at that point, but to clear the mess and see what was what.  No electricity, no running water, no food in the house, no flashlight -- I remember having matches -- that's it!!!  My terrified two year old and I went to the only store that was opened and stood in line for three hours to get basic necessity of water, candles, batteries, flashlight and canned food.  We slept in the car that night, anticipating the aftershock that could be much stronger than the quake; I hugged my son against me -- did not really sleep much.

The next day, we went downtown Santa Cruz and saw many of the retail businesses owned by locals, some of whom were our friends, just completely demolished...as if a huge demolition ball went through each of the buildings and leveled them down to the ground.  So this is how a place would look like if it was bombed, I remembered thinking...Wow!!! Disbelief and definitely a humbling experience.  That was over twenty years ago...and now I am in the Bay Area.  The same thing can happen again.  Time to wake up!!!

A Day in a Life -- October 31, 2012

Amazing how one day just rolls into another -- lately, it feels that days whiz by so quickly I have a hard time distinguishing one from the other.  Each day, my mantra is to remind myself to slow down and relish the moment...each day I find myself catching myself -- almost hyperventilating, trying to quiet my rapidly pulsating heartbeat -- trying to accomplish my list of things to do.  Things to do that do not seem to diminish...each "X" for errand done, action item completed, meeting attended getting replaced by more of the same...

So I ask myself:  Do I need to crawl into a cave, get dropped off at some remote island or desert to get away from everything to have some peace and quiet?  Perhaps...but what is the next best thing?

Today I decided to just lay low.  Work at home, write some, read a chapter or two from the three different paperbacks laying neglected on the coffee table and watch the San Francisco Giant's Parade on TV.  Not understanding the finer points of baseball, neither having sit through any of this year's game, I can't say I am an expert or fan.  I can appreciate that the Giants are from the Bay Area and that whatever will contribute to the feeling of community and pride is a good thing.  I almost contemplated taking BART and being in the midst of the ticker tape parade -- just to say "I've been".  So much energy from the crowd, the newscasters and the returning ball players.

On the other side of the continent -- in New York and other East Coast states residents are far from celebratory.  Whereas thousands of San Franciscans enjoys the wet-free weather and the return of their heroes, New Yorkers are dealing with the reality of flooded subways, no electricity or heat, weather-battered homes -- some beyond repair and cold weather.  Today's news coverage spoke of the resiliency of the locals, how some despite ruined homes refusing to leave because they have nowhere else to go.  Many interviews with scholars and experts on global warming and its deleterious effects on natural calamities such as storms, hurricanes, earthquakes  -- and so on.  The familiar battle cry: our responsibility towards the planet and what are we going to do about it?

Leading to the election coverage.  Much ado about predicting who might be ahead -- Romney, Obama -- based on this or that survey or poll.  It seems like a half-hearted attempt to keep the public interested despite being upstaged by the Giant's victory parade on one side and the devastating catastrophe in the Eastern front.  Election for the presidency a few days away.  Oh, yes...for those that partake in the celebration, it is Halloween.

The TV droning along in the background, the back door wide opened allowing a glimpse of my garden and to top it all of off -- a steaming hot cup of Chai Tea, warm sweater and socks...What else can one ask for?  Now, I'm really feeling it!!!

Pictorial vignettes of Hajj

Every year about two to three million Muslims leave their homes and families to travel across the globe and spend several intense days of pilgrimage.  For each individual who partake in this ritual, the experience is personal and for most part, a once in a lifetime thing.  I was fortunate to be able to go twice.  The difference between the first and second time is amazingly stark.  Modernity and the catering to the more affluent pilgrims a seeming priority to the keepers of the Kaaba.

Today marks the end of yet another Hajj season.  For the past several days, I had pulled out the photo album, mulling over memories, laughing out loud at some of the funnier memories, giving lightness to the sanctity of ritual.  Many have written about Hajj...I chose ONLY certain impressions which I highlight here. 

Typical garb for the male pilgrim, two pieces of white cloth draped across their bodies and open-toed sandals.

Looming skyscrapers dominate the sacred sites...a sharp contrast between the modern and the ancient.

Catering and welcoming to Western travelers, many amenities surround and tantalize travelers, from shopping malls to fast foods -- even something for the die-hard Starbucks coffee drinkers.  Scoped out a more private, intimate location, a hotel with its own Starbucks, full length window offering a view from above -- the Prophet's Mosque in Medinah...a perfect spot to people watch.

Muslims only chance to eat halal fast food...loaded up with burgers and fried chicken...reward for the physically demanding and strenuous schedule of the pilgrimage.  Yummy!!!

Folding gigantic umbrellas lining the expanse of the mosque, affording shade to those who choose to be outside during prayers in the heat of the day, conjuring up images of robotic aliens invading...Once opened, they look like graceful mushrooms exploding upwards.

Ahh, the power of the English language...I had several instances of "losted" pilgrims...mostly elderly folks who somehow strayed away from their group and would patiently sit outside a storefront, not understanding a word of Arabic or wandering around aimlessly...

 Not everyone can afford the comfort of an air-conditioned tent with 6-inch foams for beds...how far removed from pilgrimages of olden days.

 

The tent city of Mina, rows upon rows of white topped canvas stretching miles; one can easily lose one's way and literally be wandering around for hours.

Escalators everywhere.  Some pilgrims have never even such monstrosity...scenes of elderly paralyzed by fear, unable to step on to the moving staircase.

 A few days in Jeddah.  A glimpse of what the rhythm of life usually is like away from the frenzied intensity of millions of pilgrims convened in one spot.

 View of Medinah from the hotel room window.

 The local boys in Mina who made sure the hajjis (pilgrims) had continuous supply of black tea, milk and sugar.

 A trail of debris and trash...recycling and liter containment should be a future goal for the Saudi Arabia's Hajj committee.

Cellphones...I noticed almost everyone had them.  Big business at Hajj time it seems...capitalizing on travelers that need to get in touch with their loved ones back home...I was completely aghast that people were even preoccupied with sending text messages, conversing mindlessly while going around the Kaaba, the black enshrouded structure that is the holiest of Islamic sites... the invasion of technology.

Cause to reflect and take in the sights...no better camera than the mind's eye.

STAYCATION

It is a Sunday morning, the hum of the clothes dryer serving as background music to my otherwise peaceful morning.  The window wide opened, so I can smell and hear the outside; overcast, drizzly weather heralding the coming of Fall. The kids and I had planned a weekend trip to see their older brother at college but he was not going to be available so we had to adjust our itinerary.  Outrageously high gas prices, the distance, hotel expenses etc...all coming in to factor...but get away for the weekend we must.  For the sake of my sanity, walking away from the demands of work is a step towards taking care of myself.  The answer: STAYCATION!

I was amused and bemused to see that this word actually made it to the dictionary.  Definition:  STAYCATION (noun):  "a vacation spent in one's home country than abroad, or one spent at home and involving day trips to local attractions".  Thus, armed with 3/4 of a tank of gas, we piled into the car and headed south, making a stop at my kid's favorite halal Chinese restaurant.  I figured we'd start from there, warming up our bellies with good eats, a soft sell for the day's success and everyone's good mood.  It worked!  The kids ordered the food that their Baba normally would, a testament of their sadness that he is absent.  Stories and recollections of past trips, looking around neighboring tables at exotic dishes we'd never seen or ordered before.  "That looks good. We REALLY should try that next time."

Then another hour's drive to walk around a celebrated premium outlet store -- just so we could say "we've been there, done that!" -- boasting of over 200 stores, we just went to the ones we were interested in...Coach, Banana Republic, Adidas...after awhile, I was felt like a zombie with feet dragging and a thirst to sit down.  Thank God for Starbucks, my last ditch for coffee. Nomadic in nature, I chose a different route to come back to the Bay Area, opting to go over a sinewy one lane highway across wooded areas, smelling of Eucalyptus trees and fresh, wholesome air.  25 or 30 minutes of this, we finally made it to the other side, happy to see familiar buildings, grocery stores and wall to wall homes...civilization.  My kids content with whatever or wherever I decided to do. They were having fun.

The beach...it was nearing 5 pm and we managed to find parking.  It was perfect beach weather and there were tons of people, either strolling along the quaint storefronts, ice cream cones or coffee cups in hand.  We found black clad surfers atop their boards, paddling listlessly on the calm waters -- looking out expectantly for that "giant" wave to ride....sorry! I enviously watched several people on beach chairs or sprawled across their blanket, lost in the world of book reading -- oblivious.  Sigh! That used to be me, I thought to myself.  We beach watched for a while..."Let's go for some ice cream".  Home made ice cream cookie sandwiches for the kids, a bottle of water for myself.  We sat at a bus stop to watch other people watching us.

"I am stuffed!" my daughter rubs her belly as if she was expecting a child.  "Are you guys hungry for dinner?" No, they decided not -- but we can't leave until we go downtown, where I knew there was Peet's Coffee for the road.  More walking, more store looking and people watching.  Peet's closed for remodeling, I opted to get a cup of soy chai from the local roasting coffee place -- across from Starbucks.  Ha, ha...I reminisced about the past, when I used to live in this area...strolled the same streets, pushing my oldest in a stroller.  It is now transformed into something remotely recognizable.  Twenty years is a LONG time...ago...

The drive home was uneventful.  Quicker, as I am used to the windy roads of that highway.  The kids and I were glad get home -- but we were even gladder that once again, we have added yet another treasured jewel to our collection of family memories.

Guest Blog: Loyalties and friendship by Mimi

NOT THIS AGAIN, I think as I sit in the cafeteria feeling dejected. All of my friends left me-- well rather ditched me. The day had started out just fine I was happily joking around with my two best friends  who we will call B and J!  "I have to go to my locker" I said and I left them talking about something I had no clue about.   I don't have many classes with them so at mid morning when we have PE they sort of just snuff me over. "Hi guys" I say. No response. "Ehem-- are you guys okay?"... Nothing. My palms start to sweat so I just leave them alone thinking they need some space. After my PE teacher explains what we will be doing that day, we start during the running session my two friends come up to me and say "Hi ,did you notice blah,blah,blah,blah!" I don't respond if they were ignoring me why should I respond now? "Why don't you talk?" one of them says after twenty minutes of awkward silence "Takes up too much energy" I say, knowing full well it doesn't.

I run ahead leaving them at the fifth lap me on my seventh.  After we finish the run, we have to pair partners and I had forgotten I was mad at them so when I go up to them, they say "Oh, she's talking again...we've TOTALLY forgotten about you." B says. "Why don't you pair up with her?" she adds pointing to an empty space in the field. "Okay fine, let's just make a group of three" says J.  I spend  the rest of the period trying NOT to be decapitated by the frisbee. By the end of the hour, I'm infuriated by the fact that every time I'd get hit by the frisbee, my friends would giggle. I'm SO glad that for the next two periods both of  "my friends" are not in my class .

The two periods seem to drag on for hours. By the time the lunch bell rings I'm already at the door. I am abruptly put on hold when my friend D asks me for my History notes. "I'm so hungry I think I have to go" I tell her after ten minutes. Then I stand in line for another ten minutes to get my lunch that consists of bread,  mustard and ice. I look for my friends in the cafeteria. "Hey guys," I say "Yeah... " says J.  I sit down "Did you guys look for me?"  "No" they both respond at the same exact time. That offends me ... do true friends do this kind of thing?  I wonder... then they just walk off not saying anything.  I follow them feeling a bit unwanted. When they go into the bathroom I did the same even though I don't really need to . Oh well. Suddenly I hear the bathroom door to the outside close...They left me. That is the last straw!!!

When History class rolls around I'm so dazed in own my misery that I don't notice that my teacher has called on me. She walks up to my paper and asks me why I'm writing so small . Easy, I want to tell her because I feel small. I don't know if that make sense but ... I shrug it off, and she walks away looking at other students papers. I shrink back in my seat.

The next day at school I feel smaller than ever when B comes up and says" I know you're mad you're not like this STOP!" She tells me. I say "I don't want to talk" I try to walk away but she blocks me from doing so. By lunch time I feel so light headed and drowsy I want to cry. "Hey, sit over here" says E., my BFF last year whom I don't talk to much because we don't have many classes together. She makes room for me on her table and gives me some of her crackers "Is everything alright?" she asks. "No, my friends ditched me." "Oh forget them you have me!" she gives me a hug.  Sierra and Sophia my other friends from last year make me feel welcome as well, they give me a cupcake just because... My new OLD friends are very loyal and I love them!

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My comments:  I think it 's hard enough to sort out and navigate the challenging and confusing ways of the world, as a "tween" or "teenager" -- raging hormones, defining identity, weaning their way out of the nest's fold but not really wanting that -- save for the collective drive of their peers. It is good to check in on our kids -- NO MATTER WHAT AGE!  I heard a very respectable high school teacher once said, that despite their towering heights and seeming need for space and independence, what our youth needs among other things, is for someone to tell them, they are loved...and that they are doing an AWESOME job!  Include a hug and a kiss while you're at it...Here's to all the "tweens" and"teenagers"!!!

On Parenting

I have always been a quiet, obedient child -- at least, I thought I was.  Except on one or two occasion when I put Mom over the edge and she would prophetically say: "You are doing this to me now...wait 'til you have your own children.  You will see..." and then her voice would ominously trail off into the distance.

Well, my Mom is approaching her late 70's and she must be secretly having a blast at my expense.  Sigh...raising children is NO joke! Whew!  It's akin to getting on the "Stair Master" at the gym and putting the machine on interval training -- the 30 minutes of excruciating ups and downs, easy and hard steps replicated into a lifetime experience of just that -- times the number of kids you bore into this world.

I often sit and wonder how my Mom did it with seven -- yes, count it SEVEN kids -- plus juggle a full time job and husband.  Of late, I find myself sighing a lot or when I really can't take anymore, I find myself engaged in planning the perfect get away vacation:  Hawaii, Istanbul, Dubai, Australia....anywhere but here.  Mostly, I hide in the bathroom or my walk-in closet; shutting the door and sitting on the floor and relishing the dark and quiet.

Sometimes, I would tell my children that I no longer answer to the name of "Mom" and that I had changed my name and persona to something else...you know, like those people that assume a new identity under a police agency protective program.

But my kids are pretty adept at finding me out.  I am the forever lost and found and can-you-fix this or that department of our household...even if the thing searched for is right under their very noses..."Ah but Mom, you know where everything is..."

I also happen to be the broken record that amplifies the same request, command, demand and finally ULTIMATUM for things conveniently not done -- like the monstrous collection of smelly clothes in my son's bedroom, or my daughter's trail of discarded garments, as if she was a snake who constantly shedded old skin. " Whaaat are THESE THINGS?"

I would flail my arms around like a crazed person, wondering why on earth I was the only one NOT BOTHERED by MESS.  How did my Mom train her seven children to pick up after themselves?  I remember our home being immaculately clean, with not a piece of furniture or item out of place...otherwise, the venom of my Mom would unleash -- like a dragon spitting fire.  Her words, her looks were so deadly -- to this day I remember and stand in attention.

She trained us well...I must say; which brings the conversation back to me.  "Am I doing something wrong?" I would lament to my husband -- who was quick to point out that we have good kids, GREAT kid as a matter of fact...he would tap me on the shoulder and move on to his next scheduled appointment or meeting....sigh!  This would go on until as if woken from a catatonic sleep, my husband would one day realize and notice the same disorder, the same smells and THE SAME MESS!  He would bellow like Hurricane Katrina and then...

Like an aftermath, the kids would get down, scoop up their clothes, fold them, vacuum, sweep and wash dishes – down to the pots, even. No kidding, right?  Like trained military personnel on basic training they accomplish their chores – just like that! Hmmmm..."Perhaps, I should go to your appointments and meetings and you stay home..." I offered to the father of my children.

People Watching

Nothing to do but look around.  Sure, I loaded my bag with two paperbacks, a journal and I-pad; not to mention my prayer beads and cellphone.  I was in it for the long haul  -- two hours minimum, I figured.  A roomful of people at the dental clinic...a perfect place to people watch.

There was the Hispanic mom with three kids, the boy about four years of age trying to put the blue disposable mask over his eyes instead of his mouth, walking up and down to pass the time.  No elevator music here...just the sound of an officious voice over the intercom, faceless, making announcements for this or that.  Dentists clad in blue smocks, scanning the roomful of seated patients -- bright smiles and warm handshakes once the proper person identified.  Nearby, two men engaged in an animated conversation with their hands -- signing.

My daughter, son and I stared hypnotized by the silent interchange in front of us, bursting with energy, from the rapid, graceful dance of the hands and fingers to the voiceless mouthing of words. "I really want to learn that!" -- uttered my 12 year old.  (She had been studying sign language on line, inspired by the show "Switched at Birth").   Many other voices in the background, a symphonic play of languages amidst movement of bodies, up and down --

Just as the waiting area was almost bursting to explosion with people of all sizes,ages and color -- after about 10 minutes or so it was as if an invisible vacuum cleaner had cleared  the room and left only a handful of people; serenely toying with their cellphones, reading books or just staring off into space lost in thought...

Other places to people watch?  Airports, cafes, parks...restaurants, lines at the post office, bank, check out counter...waiting, waiting, watching, watching...imagining.  Where else?

A Special Guest Blog: "CANCER" by Ibrahim

My family and I would usually visit my Lola and Lolo's house every other Saturday.  We would all hop in the car for an hour long drive until we hit the exit and see a statue of a Native American with a sign reading "Welcome to Cotati".  My grandparents don't live in Cotati but they live in Rohnert Park.  We would arrive in my grandparent's driveway, knock on the door and wait for them to open the garage door.  My Lola or Grandma always preferred us to enter through the garage.  I always wondered why but never bothered to ask.  As we entered the house, I see my Lola scanning all of us, trying to catch something wrong or out of place so that she could point it out and crack a little joke; she loves to tease us.  I also saw my Lolo or Grandpa smiling, he was always jubilant when he has company around.  He teased me by calling me "Abraham" in his strong Filipino accent.  Then he's turn to my little sister and ask her if she still knew how to dance, he would then say, "Dance Sanapoknay"...no one ever knew what it meant but whenever he said it to her she automatically was puzzled and he would always start to laugh so hard.  We would then go into the living room and watch television; my grandma would always get confused with the different TV shows.  After a few hours, we would leave.  Before we left, my Lolo would tell me to take care of my family and gave me a five dollar bill.  Abraham Lincoln was the president on the five dollar bill.  As we would drive out of the driveway, my grandparents would stand outside waving goodbye.  We would wave back at them from the car until we could no longer see them.  I didn't know my Lolo was going to have surgery a week later.

A week later my mom got a phone call from my Uncle Luis saying that my Lolo's surgery was unsuccessful and that he would have to get another surgery in order to stay healthy or live.  So once again we drove up to my grandparent's house; this time, we spent the night because my grandma was staying by herself.  Once we got to the house instead of entering the house to see a happy old couple, we see my grandma crying at the kitchen table.  She was already dressed and ready to go because my mom promised her that we would take her to the hospital.  The hospital was in Santa Rosa which was about 15 minutes away.  When we got to the hospital the butterflies were nagging my stomach; I wasn't sure about what condition my Grandpa would be in.  We got to the room and he was asleep.  Lolo had tubes running all over his body as if he was wrapped in a spider web.  He didn't look happy but he didn't look sad either.  An hour passed by while we all stood over my Lolo talking about life, always including him in the conversation without him even talking.  We prayed, said goodbye and then we left the hospital.  The car ride home was mostly silent except my sister promising my Lola that she would one day become a lawyer.

From day to day we would go back and forth from home to Rohnert Park to Santa Rosa.  We constantly did this until my grandpa's surgery was over which was about 3 weeks.  Those were the fastest three weeks of my life.  During those three weeks, I would mostly stay with my cousins, Khai and L'jin.  Khai was the same age as I and L'jin was a year younger than my sister.  We would have so much fun with our cousins playing video games, board games, swimming and anything to get our minds off our grandpa and his surgery.  L'jin was always the kind of smart ass, always trying to be a little rebel and Khai was the responsible one, she never wanted to get in trouble.  Throughout those three weeks I got to see a lot of different family members.  My oldest brother flew in from Oregon.

My grandpa was in ICU.  His body was slowly giving up on him.  They gave him extra oxygen and put him on a respirator.  His kidneys were starting to fail.  I think it was because the cancer must have spread to where his kidneys were.  At this point, my Lola had called all her children to come to town.  We gave my Lolo two days to recover.  My mom slept at the hospital both nights.  She called us and told us whenever my Lolo would show any good signs.  My Lola on the other hand was speechless for those two days.  All of her kids were staying at her house so we all squished in there except for my Mom and Uncle Luis who were at the hospital. On the last day we all made a special prayer.  At this point, the respirator and the other machines were the only things keeping my grandpa alive.  The next day everyone was to be at the hospital by 4 o'clock.  I went early with my Uncle Jonathan.  We waited outside for everyone to come and he showed me his iPhone.  I got to play a couple of games.  My Uncle Jonathan would always have the newest technology that came out.

At about 3:30 p.m., everyone was at the hospital a little early.  Everyone was crowded in the small little room -- my uncles, aunties and cousins taking their last glances at my Grandfather who was looking extremely pale.  Everyone was to say their last words.  Once the first person spoke who I think was my Uncle Jose who is the oldest in the family, everyone started crying.  We all went around saying our last words to my Lolo...My Lola was the last one to talk before they pulled the plug, "I love you, and I'll be with you soon, Sweetheart!"  That was the one thing I remembered her saying.

My Lolo was on his own now fighting for his life, you could see his skin slowly turning blue.  He was pronounced dead at around 4 o'clock August 4th 2010.  I remember afterwards that I went downstairs to the cafeteria and bought my favorite snack -- Baked Hot Cheetos from the vending machine.  After that I don't remember anything...I don't remember leaving the hospital or anything.

It's been 2 years since my Lolo died.  Now every time I go to my grandparent's house, we take Lola to see my Lolo to the cemetery.  My grandma hasn't been the same since.  Sure she still cracks a joke here and there, but she's just sad.  I used to think my Grandpa would live forever but now I know that it's impossible...it's impossible for anyone else to live forever. That is why now I try to cherish every single moment I have with my family because you'll never know if you're ever going to see each other again.  So make the times you have with your love ones count; each second a precious moment.

What I'm Thankful For

I don't know about you but every time I drive by and see a line of men standing along the side of the road waiting to be picked up for day labor -- I have to stop for a minute and offer a silent prayer for them.  I also go through a list of blessings I have in my life and am quickly humbled.  I have no cause to complain...

Whether I drive by Berkeley or Oakland, there they are -- a row of men, sometimes standing solitary, sometimes huddled in twos or threes -- all having the same expectant look.  I think about how they felt at the end of the day when they don't get picked for a job, having to go return home with nothing to show...empty pockets, empty stomachs.

 
I wonder even if they have a home...or family?  When my own family and I vacationed in Mexico visiting the Yucatan and Quintana Roo regions -- my husband and I were struck by the fact that the people we met there seemed fairly content and well cared for... But that, as I said, was our perception.  We wondered about the many hundreds of people crossing the border "to get a better life" here in the North.  Is life here really any better?

As I was taking photographs, one man approached me and asked if I worked for the paper.  I explained that I was writing a blog.  He revealed that life was tough -- that there were no jobs to be had...I could only agree with him sympathetically … I wish I could tell him differently; that I had the answer on how to create jobs and end poverty.

 

  Teach the people how to fish – instead of giving them the fish…