On the Economy Through Third World Eyes

While it is supposedly no longer politically correct to use the terms First World or Third World as these are now known as Developed and Developing respectively, I figured Third World sounds better as a blog title. I write it with pride, having lived in such a country for twenty seven years.

Over lunch at work recently, a colleague and I glanced at the cafeteria TV tuned into CNN when news of an economic bail out plan was announced. I couldn't help but comment that until one has experienced living without anything, can one find the right perspective through all of this.

"I come from a country where people live at dumpsites and make a living sifting through trash. This is nothing."

He looked at me in as much agreement he could muster.

"I guess it's all a matter of perspective," I continued.

He smiled. "I guess you're right."

I wonder what will happen in the next six months. If anything, K and I have lived through a season of homelessness and noodles and hotdogs before. I guess if we have to go through this again, we can always say we've had practice.

The Joy of Working at a Hotel

Dessert today at the employee cafeteria. For real.

A light and fluffy white chocolate pyramid.

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Heads or Tails

Killing time at the library where the air conditioning is cold and the Wifi is free. I'm listening to Broken Social Scene's Shoreline. I do this weird thing wherein I can listen to a song on repeat for hours (My last.fm spins will prove it.) and just get lost writing.

I don't know why I do this. For some reason, a song, or songs, put me in the zone to blog. And judging by how sporadically I've been posting, I haven't had much time to listen to my iTunes!

One of the reasons I wanted to move back to the US is to go back to school. Not just the many libraries with free Wifi and fifty item checkout limit. Nor the amazing convenience of debit cards and online shopping... It was the possibility of going back to school. One of my unfinished and much lamented unchecked goals in life. I've been out of the classroom since getting pregnant at eighteen. Marriage and morning sickness made me leave university a year shy of a degree in Literature.

The past twenty years have given me an education in the School of Hard Knocks where I earned a Master's Degree. But I want the real thing now. I think in my late thirties, it's safe to say I'm done with angst and finally ready to be a grown-up.

So here are my choices:

A) Finish my degree in Literature or;
B) Get a degree in Public Relations.

The former was born out of my love for books; the latter, from eighteen years of working in communications, i.e. broadcasting, call center communications training, web content maintenance.

The US has not been kind in my job search for something similar to my experience so I figure I'll just start from scratch. In the meantime, I shall keep slugging away at the hotel. And since I just got promoted to supervisor, I have no complaints.

Let's see where this goes.

Friday Night Lights the Twitter Way

As I stand here at Hard Rock watching local rock bands, I must admit I miss my sometime rock and roll lifestyle of yore minus the bad stuff. 10:07 PM September 12, 2008 TwitterBerry

The bassist on stage reminds me of my Philippine famous ex-husband with the long hair and the headbanging. 10:37 PM September 12, 2008 from TwitterBerry

Trudged home half deaf before turning into a pumpkin, resolving we shall start hitting the clubs to catch more bands. We smile at tonight. 11:41 PM September 12, 2008 from TwitterBerry

My Kids

I realize I need to streamline and further niche this blog to reflect only my observations and reflections on returning to a country I used to call home after twenty-seven years.

That though is debatable. After almost a year since coming back, I pine for the Philippines and often find myself thinking of it as home.

I still feel dislocated and untethered at times. For now, home is where my family is, and that would be our apartment in Orlando.

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Lingua Diaspora

My Haitian friends and colleagues at the hotel I work all fluently speak Creole. Of course, you're probably saying to yourself, what else would they be speaking? People who migrate, carry with them their language and culture, right? I thought so myself. One day at the lounge, I asked my fellow concierge what life is like in Haiti. His reply? "I've never been there!" This elicited a "Really?!" from my lips. "But you speak Creole so well. Is this what you speak at home?"

"Yeah. Our parents use it at home on us. Why?" He found my question amusing.

"Wow," I defended myself. "Filipinos born and raised here hardly ever learn how to speak Pilipino…"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Most of them can understand bits and pieces of it but for the most part they can't speak it to save their lives; they just understand it a little bit. In all honesty, I have yet to meet a Filipino who was born and raised here in the US who knows how to speak Pilipino fluently. Could be I just haven't met any yet, too. But the ones I have, don't."

Our conversation got me thinking about the veracity of my hypothesis. And made me wish I had paid attention many years ago as a freshman at De La Salle University in my LANGSOC class.

I learned Pilipino only when my mother moved us back to the Philippines when I was twelve. My childhood was conducted entirely in English simply because my American father didn't want me learning any other language. He thought it would confuse me. Or give me a Filipino accent. Eventually, I did learn, I never got confused, and I speak English like I'm from the Midwest, devoid of regionalism. (Fairly recent studies though suggest that the Midwest accent may not be neutral, but I digress…)

My Pilipino though is another story. As a VO in Manila, Tagalog ads were always a challenge. "It's too twangy." A producer would say to me from the other side of the sound booth. So I would do several more takes before walking out of the studio with a sore tongue and mouth from exerting different muscles (It's a linguistic fact).

Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I would always feel embarrassed when my mom would accidentally let out a Tagalog curse word or yell out a part of the female body as an exclamation from either A) a surprise, B) pain, or C) anger. It made me feel that my skin was as brown as hers and that no matter how white I sounded, my complexion would always make people think I "talked funny" like my mom.

For the most part, my childhood was colorblind. Sure, kids thought I was Chinese because I looked "oriental" but I was always accepted as just a regular American kid who happened to have a nice permanent tan. Only once, was my "difference" ever put on display.

It was the fourth grade and a new kid had just enrolled at Peninsula Elementary. He was a boy from Cebu named Arthur who had just migrated to Portland, OR. Unlike me who spent my whole life – up until that time – in the US, Arthur had an accent. Kids wondered out loud, "Why does he have an accent and you don't?" Neither of us understood why but there was an attempt to have us two Filipino kids "communicate in our native language".

"Come on, you guys! Say something to each other in your language!"

"Um, my language is English. What am I supposed to say, 'hello'?" I was irked.

"I'm from a different place in the Philippines. I'm from Cebu. She doesn't speak my language. It's different." Arthur explained.

"Just say anything! Like 'hi' or you know, whatever you use to greet each other in your language!"

Our teacher joined the class in prodding us. "Do you have a basic phrase at least to share so everyone can hear?"

I was uncomfortable but turned to Arthur questioningly. He asked me if I knew how to say 'how are you'.

"'Koo-moo-stah' is all I know," I said.

"She really doesn't know how to speak," Arthur concluded. "All she knows is 'how are you'."

"I told you guys!" I exclaimed.

I tried hard to avoid Arthur because I didn't want to be labeled like him, "different", "speaks with an accent", or "funny looking". My seven year-old mind cruelly didn't want to be friends with the one person whose complexion I shared in a sea of white and black. Here and now though, thirty years later, I am constantly looking for a Filipino face in the crowd. Whenever I do, more than just 'kumusta' comes from my mouth. And if for some reason, God decides to give me a husband and more kids, I'll make sure they grow up speaking both their parents' tongues.

written at the park while waiting for kyera's class to end

Fay's Gray, Diva Gloves and Banana Bombs

We were rained on and blown on by Fay last week, making us feel like we were home in our beloved Manila at the height of a typhoon, sans the flooded streets, long lines for buses, jeepneys, and tricycles, and butt-numbing traffic.


My life these days seems to be about cleaning both at work and at home. It's been my biggest adjustment - life without my maid - but I seem to be getting good at it. All I need is a pretty pair of dishwashing gloves.


An ice cream truck drives around our apartment complex in the afternoon while playing really loud, ice cream truck music. Kind of like the Pied Piper I guess. Kids are supposed to come running out of their homes as music and truck roll by. It reminds me of an ice cream truck from a year in my childhood when we lived in Vancouver, WA. Our house was at the end of a long cul-de-sac but my sharp six year-old ears could hear the truck a block away. Ever since moving in, I have been wanting to complete the memory by stopping the truck and buying myself a cold treat. I finally did. It tasted just like the banana-chocolate ice cream from my youth.


posted while watching anthony bourdain's no reservations in egypt

She Bought Us Lunch

The tables have turned. I'm enjoying this while I can.

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