GIGI GOES GAGA

GET REAL

I am so outraged at this moment, I can't find the words. All I can say is: you have to be really, really paranoid to see terrorism everywhere you look. You must be really full of hatred to want to stir up more hate. The real terrorism, in my opinion, is the hate and fear that you create and wear as a weapon to further your own interests. It's a fringed, paisley scarf -- that's all it is. But now you use it to malign all Arab men everywhere -- whatever their beliefs may be. That's racism, by the way.

And here is the wicked, dangerous scarf that you believe symbolizes murder and terrorism:


So what, maybe you think happily-newly-wedded Pete Wentz supports terrorism, too?


And I thought we were already done with this idiotic scarf business. Even Laura Bush certainly hoped so.

I hope scarves like this fly off the shelves, sell by the millions, and are worn everywhere you look. Just so you know that your kind of terrorism will not be tolerated by REAL freedom-loving people everywhere.

I'm thinking of getting this one. Cute, don't you think? Gah -- I know I shouldn't let these things get to me, but stupidity usually does. And especially any kind of hate-mongering, which is nothing but downright evil.



*Photo credits: The Huffington Post (Rachael Ray); People (Pete Wentz/Ashlee Simpson).

TWO

Almost a quarter-century ago I came to the United States as a Filipino who hadn't really defined herself in terms of race and country. If you had asked me before I came over here to describe myself, I probably would have talked about the cities I was born and lived in, the school that educated me for practically my entire life, my family and friends, my interests and activities.

But when I came here, none of that meant anything to anybody else. Most people I met had no idea where these places were or who these people happened to be. It was almost like being a blank slate: I was a brown face with a bit of a quirky accent, who obviously came from somewhere else. Thus I was usually asked where I was from -- and 99% of the time "where" meant a foreign country. What I learned pretty quickly was that if I wasn't going to define myself, then someone else was going to do it for me.

I've written about this before so I'll make this post fairly brief. Finding myself was the biggest adventure of all, even more challenging and rewarding then starting over in a strange, new land. More so because there's no end to this road, it just keeps going.

I am proud to be American; despite how (negatively) this country is viewed in most of the rest of the world, I've seen it up close and personal, not just in news bits and opinion pages. I know its sins -- but I also know how much it tries to redeem itself and constantly become better. It is not the sum total of Bush's (disastrous) foreign policy, even if many Americans supported him to begin with -- and still do despite everything. In a sense I fit into the spirit of the country, at least the one that I've felt strongly while living here all these many years: we don't get it right all the time, in fact we get it wrong too many times, but we still keep trying. I could be describing myself this way after all.

I am proud to be Filipino. I don't see any contradiction here; because I live in the United States it doesn't have to be an either/or proposition. My soul is deeply Filipino -- something I discovered only by coming to America. I don't say this defensively, that because as a Filipino-American I'm part of the minority and need to prove my worth. I don't say this either as a reaction to some perceived negative connotation that someone else might have about Filipinos or Asians. What others might think or say about us is nothing I can control.

I don't apologize to anyone for being who I am and happily proud of it. To those who might view my recent oath-taking as some form of betrayal of the Philippines and its people, I say they're small-minded. I say the same of those, too, who think that I shouldn't be proud to be anything else but American. I am both -- as well as I am many different things also. I am not only my race or my country; I'm also made up of my beliefs, principles, likes and dislikes -- as well as all the other things that helped define me before I ever came here, as well as after.

In short, I define myself -- no one else can do that for me. I am proudly Filipino-American -- and I'd better be. Because if I'm not proud of who I am, no one else is certainly going to be of me. The only way that I can hold my place here or anywhere else is by knowing it's mine, that I own it. I am Filipino regardless of where I happen to be in this world -- and I choose to live here. This might be a tough concept to grasp for some, but being one doesn't make me less of the other. I happen to think I have the best of both worlds. I also happen to think -- and please forgive me if I appropriate the lyrics of a 1980's dance tune by Stacy Q -- it's like having two hearts that beat as one.

NEW BOXES

The day after I got married I didn't feel any different from the day before, or the day before that. I began noticing differences a bit afterwards, most dramatically in how I was now perceived by everyone else. I used to have a lot of guy friends, for instance, but now they had stopped calling to tell me about their dates, relationships, or even just to say hello. And forget the post-midnight runs for coffee and conversation -- in fact, forget about going out alone with them at all. It just wasn't happening, not because I said so, but because they didn't think my new-husband would appreciate it the slightest.

The other differences were much more subtle, but not less life-altering. It had to do with how I filled out forms (for instance, which boxes I now checked) and how being married affected, say, my taxes. A few years later I realized my priorities had changed as well. None of this happened overnight; I suppose the changes came on so gradually that I still felt like the same person I was when I was single -- even when I was no longer really the same person at all.

Changing my citizenship, I suspect, might almost be the same thing. I've been living in the US for about two decades now, so it's not like I'm expecting dramatic differences in my daily life or in my routines. I still feel like I'm the same person I was before the other day, when I swore allegiance to the American flag. I'm still Filipino -- not merely because I speak the language or love the food or read news about the Philippines daily -- but because it's simply who I am.

But there are differences, and as subtle as they feel they are quite powerful. For one thing, I can vote now (which I can't wait to do). I can sit in a jury and decide someone's fate. I can be called on to fight for this country (let's hope not, simply because I'm a pacifist). I can apply for jobs that I couldn't get when I was only a permanent resident. I can move around and not have to worry about having my green card with me.

I woke up today remembering the days when I was still frightened, wondering how I was going to survive here when I wasn't supposed to be here, wondering if I was going to wait to get deported or just leave on my own and hope that my papers didn't take much longer to be processed. I haven't had those fears in a while, but now all my fears in that regard are completely gone. I can cross the Mexican or Canadian borders, for instance, and know I don't have to worry about being let back in.

I relish knowing that I can fly back to the Philippines and instantly feel welcome and at home -- and then fly back here and feel the same. But as far as my day-to-day existence is concerned, I'm the same person I was before Wednesday, when the Immigration folks took my green card from me because I no longer needed it. And even with these changes, both subtle and dramatic, I think I'll always feel like I'm still me, until perhaps the day comes when I'm really not.

I'll also be checking new boxes in forms now. Maybe because just like the day I got married, there was a bit of shuffling, but the truth was I was instantly sorted into another box altogether.

CITIZEN GIGI

At the risk of sounding really cheesy right now, nothing was going to keep me away from the LA Convention Center today. May 22nd was my oath-taking as a brand-new US Citizen and nothing -- not rain, traffic, or 6,000 other (impatient) new Americans -- was going to get in my way.

I decided that if I was going to do this, then I was going to do this all the way. I wore an indigo blue jacket, red tee, and a white skirt embroidered all over in a cheery red, white, blue, and gold floral pattern. (I thought everyone else would wear the colors of the American flag, too, but I was wrong -- there were lots of somber black outfits instead.) I chose to wear my mom's watch to remind me that the only reason this day was here was because of her. And we left for LA early, not only because of the long distance, but because it had started to rain pretty heavily and I didn't want to be late.

I almost didn't make it in time anyway. We were stuck on the 110 Freeway headed towards downtown -- and it seemed like the entire Los Angeles was parked right there with us. So at 15 minutes to my appointment, I looked at my husband who was driving, said goodbye, and started running along the side of the freeway, all the way up and down to the exit and then to the Convention Center. I ran with about five other women; none of us seemed to care if we were going to be stopped and cited by a cop for posing a traffic hazard.

And so I made it. Somehow my older sister -- who fought through the same gnarly traffic of cars and people --  managed to find me in this sea of humanity and made sure I didn't walk inside alone. And despite all the queueing and waiting I did for the rest of the entire afternoon, I don't know if I'd change a thing. After all, it took much more time and effort for me to get here today, and the truth is it was all worth it.

VENTING AGAIN...

I received a phone call today from a mother who wanted to tell me what a perfect fit her (adult) son is for an open job position at my company. It's a good thing I'm not the hiring manager -- though I was dying to give her a bit of advice, which I'll post here instead.

Attention All Parents: Do NOT -- despite your good intentions -- call a prospective employer to vouch for your child's qualifications, attitude, and/or work ethic. We already know you think the world of him or her. We'd prefer, however, to hear about this from the candidate's former employer (and definitely not from someone whose egg or sperm had something to do with this child being born).

And -- please --  do not call employers directly to find out if they are hiring because your child is interested in applying. I used to get these calls often when I was still a retail manager. Let me tell you, this only serves as a giant red flag -- not only because it shows that you're more desperate about your son or daughter being unemployed, but more importantly that your child is not yet ready to be a professional, to take initiative, and make decisions. I used to say: if we hire someone whose parent got involved in the beginning, we will be dealing with the same parent through the end. Employers are not babysitters who pay to take care of your child, after all.

(And, yes, I will admit that I'd engage the meddling parent in casual, friendly conversation to get the name of the prospective applicant -- parents love to talk about their children, even to the latter's detriment unfortunately. You can bet that name was never on my payroll afterwards.)

So now that school's out and your children are looking for jobs -- either for the summer or post-graduation -- encourage them, share your job hunting strategies and techniques, review their resumes, drive them to their interview if you must, but do NOT get more deeply involved than that. You will not be doing them any favors, trust me on this. No one wants to deal with a stage parent after all. And more importantly, if you want your children to be responsible and independent, then you have to trust that you raised them to be so -- and then let them go. You'd probably feel more proud of them when they bring home their first paycheck, and rightly so.

KEEPING INSPIRED

Sometimes I think it's easier to feel inspired during a tough period or even a crisis then it is when everything's normal. For instance, during the four months that I was trying to get back on my feet, it was like I was in intense training daily. I'd wake up thinking: today is another step towards victory. And I'd go to sleep reminding myself that anything was possible if I only keep the faith. When I found myself doing something I didn't want to, I'd reassure myself it was only temporary and that I'd learn from the experience.

These days are mostly about routine now, although I'm certainly not complaining. I go to work and get paid for it. I like my workplace and the people I work with. I don't feel stressed out these days, although I can't say I'm bored either. And yet I have to remind myself to stay positive and not simply take my days for granted. I suppose no one can possibly feel stimulated every single day, although sometimes I suspect very successful people do.

So now it's up to me to find some inspiration in the routine and mundane, and then discover something I can be passionate about. I do have my share of real problems, things I need to deal with, and I try to keep them in check. So the one thing I'd like to focus on -- through all the good days, bad days, and even ho-hum days -- is the attitude of being grateful for what I do have.

At times I ask myself: is this all there is? Shouldn't I strive to do more, have more? I start worrying about whether or not I've fulfilled expectations -- my own and those of others. Then I look around and discover that life is only going to be as good as I choose to think it is. I've decided not to compare mine to others who have it better or worse; it's all (my) perception anyway and not necessarily reality.

There are more things I want to accomplish -- perhaps it goes hand in hand with wanting to be a better person. But tomorrow I'm going to get up and look forward to a normal, regular kind of day. After all, an exceptional life, a life well lived, is made up of those kinds of days, too. I've got to remember that extraordinary can often mean finding the extra in the ordinary.

NURSING THE KITTY

My cat, Boo, had kidney surgery this past Wednesday. About a month ago, we came home to find her frighteningly lethargic, with no energy to eat or drink. She also had bloody diarrhea, and was so miserable she didn't want to be touched. When I kept fussing over her out of worry, she got upset and promptly peed on the bed. We rushed her to the hospital; she was confined immediately to make sure she didn't get any worse. They did all kinds of tests, gave her meds, and a few days after we brought her home to heal, we had to take her back because we were clearly losing her.

Without getting into painfully long details, we were told she needed surgery. We scheduled it immediately -- and then had to cancel because she'd caught an upper respiratory infection. More tests, more meds, and more healing time than usual. Then the surgery this week... but now she's finally home.

Three thousand dollars later, my baby's now doing fine (although she resents having to wear this soft cone around her head, which keeps her from getting at her stitches). My husband and I -- well, we're eating in more and spending less. I'd planned to meet up with my friends up in San Francisco this weekend but decided I couldn't afford it, even if I'd found cheap airfare.

So I was talking to my husband about how I planned to add more money into the household kitty. I'm going to sell more of my stuff on eBay, maybe even on Craig's List. No facials or massages this month, and manicures only every other week (and maybe even fewer than that). I'm buying my skincare at the drugstore, and I'll have to forget about shopping all the summer sales (sob!). And as I calculated the savings in my head, I realized all my efforts still might not be enough.

I turned to my husband, sadly. "I think I'm going to have to sell my body. What do you think?"

He looked at me in protest, obviously he didn't think it was a good idea. "Honey," he began, "But we really have a LOT of bills..."

Bastard. There's another word for kitty that he's not getting anytime soon.

REAL BEAUTY

The last few couple of days I've been thinking about authenticity. Am I being true to myself, honest with myself? Because unless I can answer in the affirmative, then I'm not being real with anyone else either. My friend W and I were just discussing this last night: it's simply too easy to rationalize what we want, especially when what we want isn't in line with what we say we want. This is how we find ourselves doing things we're ashamed of: we deny to ourselves that we're capable of the unthinkable.

Trying to live an authentic life is just too difficult these days. We can create idealized personas online, not to mention completely false identities. Instead of trying to deal with the world we live in, we can invent our own. And even if we choose to live in real life, we can fake almost anything; we can erase the facial lines we've earned, shave off a bit of the nose, swell our lips, raise our eyebrows. We can create sculpted abs, leaner thighs, inflated boobs, and fuller butts. I mean, think about it: we all live in an age when "reality shows" aren't real at all and when the line between scripted and unscripted gets hazier by the day.

Today I saw a photograph of a 98-year-old woman who passed away on Monday. Before I read the accompanying text, I was already struck by her amazing face. I had no idea who she was but she looked so kind, yet so brave, and so profoundly wise. And as I stared into her eyes I thought: I want that face. I want to EARN that face. Then I discovered who she was -- and exactly how kind and brave and wise she was, and why her face revealed all of that.

This woman, Irena Sendler, saved 2,500 children from the Nazi Holocaust, smuggling them out of the Warsaw Ghetto. She was caught and tortured repeatedly yet refused to give up, and she never stopped her life's work. And despite all that she'd accomplished, she didn't like being called a hero because she always felt she'd not done enough.

I'll never measure up to the woman she was; that much about myself I already know. But tonight I sit here and think that while it's not wrong to desire to be a better, or at least different, version of myself, I need to be cautious, to be mindful about always wanting the change instantly. In real life, it takes time to develop, to grow, to become better, perhaps even to become our true self.

What I've learned through all this time, through all these many years, is that everything that's real takes time and effort. What's real can be painful, embarrassing, humiliating, and ugly. But there's also deeper beauty in the real. I want that real kind of beauty.

But I also know that deep inside lies that part of me who wants it now.

KEEPING IT REAL

Just recently a very good friend told me he's gay and that he's "finally come out of the closet." I suppose I'd been expecting the news for years even if I'd never given it any conscious thought. "C'mon I bet you've known all along," he said. And he was right -- I think I knew it the day I met him. I never knew for sure because he never talked about being attracted to anyone, male or female, and he might have even mentioned an ex-girlfriend.

See, the way I saw it, whether he was straight or gay didn't matter to our friendship. And even after knowing for certain, I still feel the same way; his news has not redefined our relationship. To me nothing much has changed; he's still my friend, not my new gay friend. I'm not expecting him now to suddenly drag me off to a Bette Midler concert and then force me to sing show tunes with him while we're driving over there, you know? And if we're planning a trip to the Barney's Warehouse Sale it's because we discuss this every year without fail. If anything is different I would wish that he feels freer, that he can breathe easier knowing now that he's well on his way to living authentically. That he's now keeping it real.

But what I wish for much more is that my friend didn't have to come out of the closet at all -- I wish there had been no reason for him to have ever hidden in the first place. I've just never understood the hate and intolerance that forces good people to curl up inside themselves for protection; no justification I've heard or read has ever made sense to me. None. Ever. And I can't empathize with those who keep coming up with these reasons -- excuses -- to marginalize, ostracize, and dehumanize other people.

I don't feel and think like this because I have a friend who happens to be gay. What I've always known is that when we allow society -- individuals and institutions -- to decide who is worth more or less, we run the risk of one day being devalued as well, for simply being born who we are.