All about my mother. Who is Dead now so She can’t kill me for this.
It is a bitch. To be female
in a World of Men.
A cunt to be fucked
and nothing more.
A hand to tie
another’s shoelaces.
Your body, your legs
the conveyance
that carry them.
To where They Want to Go.
(The Grand Scheme of Things
certainly does not include
where you want to go.)
It is about simpering and flattering
And smiling even while
Choking on a man’s cock.
You pretend happiness
to buy Their love.
You pretend contentment
while dreaming of passion
watered-down devotion
gets you through the day
toasty crumbs your main meal.
You never learn! Because you are a woman.
You go home and start the whole shit all over again.
Image from – http://bloggers.com/post/confessions-of-an-ex-strongblackwoman-5728356
What is my country?
What is my country?
Is it these clumps of soil strewn together
On the Pacific ocean? Mounds of volcanic ash
Rocks with no meaning.
Countries are in the hearts
Of men (or women, for that matter);
Not in lines drawn on maps
By powerful men (said Michael O).
And this is what I believe:
My country is in my heart,
All the imperfect parts of it -
The slavery of the past
And present
And the whisper of a future.
The shadows and the rain.
The hands with grime,
Swollen bellies, forgotten uteruses
Littering streets paved with gold.
My country is that sound tapping against
My car window as we speed
Through a traffic light.
Poetry
This week before the New Year
I listen to typewriter keys
The aircon hums a pathetic whirr
In this room where friends come in threes.
I kill time with furtiveness
Pretending to be busy with my scribbles
My ink-stained notebook is a candidate
Witness to lunchtime, snacktime, dinnertime doodles.
This week before the New Year which happens
To be Annus Rabbitus (pardon the imaginary Latin)
I imagine that I am, a writer, or a Poet
Filling my page with tasteless snippets.
I’ve never liked, or aspired to be, Shakespeare
I read Romeo and Juliet for the sex scenes
Though poetry is my juvenile pacifier
I love the way it hugs me, like a well-worn sweater.
2010
On training
Residency training and vicarious traumatization
To give a name to something is to acknowledge its existence, to give it a name is to validate its being. I had been through 4 years of rigorous training in a physically and emotionally demanding specialty. I have, at first, decided to embark on it because of the optimistic “vibes” regarding the field – the kind of patients I would manage and the cases I would see—which did not seem to be as depressing compared to other specialties. For one, this field has very few mortalities that to lose a patient is considered a “mortal sin”.
The hopeful optimism of youth – that is the main reason why I chose to dedicate 4 years to delivering babies and taking care of laboring mothers and seeing women with diseases in their reproductive system. I am a female, and what better reason to go into this field than that? No one else can understand my patients’ condition as I do because I have the same XX chromosomes as they have. I will be able to empathize and help them and that would be fulfilling and a worthwhile thing to do everyday.
Somehow, though, disillusionment set in. There were just too many patients and too many demands. On my time, my strength, even my finances. There were days that I literally would dream awake because of lack of sleep. I would snooze standing up, and sometimes even on the operating table! A full day would pass with me going hungry, having missed breakfast, lunch and finally eating a lone dinner at 10 pm because there were just too many things to do. I wouldn’t go home on days on end, and even when I get home, it would be to shower, get a fresh batch of clothes and off I’d go to the hospital again.
I found myself getting easily irritated with my patients. My patience with them, was frayed to the hilt, to say the least. I was abrupt, hurried, unsympathetic. What happened to me? Why do I treat them, these people whom I have vowed to help, like pests and nuisance that I have to get over with. I did many things that I am not proud of. Good clinical practice was sacrificed for expediency – because I was just too tired and too preoccupied with a million and one things.
I can easily say that it was all a traumatic experience. But how can I say that when I have learned so many things as well? There were also times of happiness. A woman grateful for me saving her and her child, that old lady with cancer comforted by me talking with her (in the guise of getting her history), a small child whose abdominal pain was relieved by an operation I’ve done. In the end, do these moments make the whole experience worth it? This is a question I am still grappling with until now. Precious moments with my family and loved ones sacrificed for this training. Precious moments that I could have used to watch a movie, read a nice book (aside from the prescribed clinical texts). In the end, my training defined me. I cannot now be contented with being less than busy. And I have this great urge to always do something important; otherwise I’d go insane. I am grateful for everything I learned. They are just as precious as the things I chose to give up to learn them. But I am only now realizing the enormous cost of that learning, that choice.
Today I gave birth to myself
Today I gave birth to myself.
Squalling bundle of nerves and blood
And flesh protruding out
Of my mother’s all-encompassing soul.
I want to tell you
About my mother.
She with her bloody hands,
(chopping pork on a wooden block)
a butcher at that.
I took after her, this impatience
With meat.
I gave birth to myself.
The long gestation took me through
Antiseptic corridors,
Tunnels of guts… flesh… fibers… fluids
(God knows it was messy like war)
It didn’t have the neatness of death.
But then, I was afraid to die.
Over and over, I chose to live.
(My mother did not have that choice;
Her her-2-neu receptors failed her)
So for my mother, I gave birth
To myself.
How was I to know that birth
Is a death in itself?
Being born is leaving the quiet
Steadiness of the womb,
The thumping consistent rhythm
Of mommy’s heart.
I did not choose to be born
(the same way my mother did not choose to die –
but I forgive her anyway).
She gave me her heart.
Her butcher’s heart was steady.
It had to be, or else
She would have lost ten fingers
At the first thwack!
Her fingers,
Her heart
Gave birth to me
As I gave birth to myself.
2010
Simple Life
I have a small life. It’s composed of me, my husband, our apartment, occasionally our relatives, and our work.
When I was young I did have grandiose dreams. Notions of how I will turn out when I reach 30. They were dreams and in a way, a lot of my dreams did come true. Meeting the love of my life, living independently, reading all the books I want, cooking and trying out interesting meals.
Aside from my mother’s death, I did not experience any grand heartaches. I am not a risk-taker, I have become happy in my safe major-disaster-free world. And that was how I wanted it to be.
Sometimes I wonder, what it would be like if I had a “rebellious”phase. The problem is, what would I rebel against? Food for thought.
Tokwa’t Baboy
Tokwa't baboy for Sunday lunch!
This is one dish that I can do in my sleep. It has been 2 decades since I first tasted this dish, when my mom, a pork vendor, decided to try out a way to dispose of the pig heads she couldn’t sell. That was also the first time I tasted beancurd (tokwa) and it was love at first taste.
For this recipe I used about 200 gms of pork liempo which I boiled in salted water until well done. Afterwards, I fried it in some oil until brown on both sides. It would be better if one uses pork head or pork ears — boil that then grill — but cleaning and preparing a pork’s head with the snout and ears would entail more work and I’m not feeling up to that today. Slice the fried pork into small pieces then set aside. Four squares of tokwa would do for this dish. Tokwa costs about 4 or 5 pesos in the wet market. Cut it into small cubes and fry until golden. Drain it and set aside.
The key to a good tokwa’t baboy is the the sauce, particularly, the proportion of soy-sauce and vinegar. I usually just estimate the amount I use, and then taste the concoction until I am satisfied. But since a recipe to be followed need adequate instructions, I propose to use 1 part soy sauce to three parts vinegar. For this recipe it’s 1 cup vinegar to 1/3 cup soy sauce. That will ensure that the sauce won’t be too salty. It would also be wise to add 2 tbsp of red sugar to the mixture to temper the sourness of the vinegar. Add a pinch of crushed black pepper and stir. You can add a pinch of salt but I prefer not to do that since the pork I used was already salted. Finely chop a medium red onion (the white one is not as flavorful), and a piece of green finger chilli (or “siling haba” in local parlance). Throw that in into the sauce and mix well.
You can serve the sauce on the side or mix the pork, the tokwa and the sauce together before serving. I personally prefer the latter because it’s more flavorful.
This serves 2 and would be a great accompaniment to lugaw or arroz caldo. Bon appetit!
Look at what I cooked this morning
I was pretty stressed up lately. I am in a transition phase in my life and I hate the feeling that I don’t seem to know where it’s going.
One of the things I love to do when I’m stressed is to cook. I love the routine of chopping up ingredients, the hiss and sizzle of the pan calm my nerves. So even if it was 7 am I went ahead with my ampalaya with pork. So this will be both breakfast and lunch for today.
Ampalaya with pork (good for 2)
1/4 kg pork laman
1 medium ampalaya
3 cloves garlic crushed
1/2 head of medium onion minced
1 medium tomato cut in quarters
olive oil (about 1 tbsp)
pinch of crushed black pepper
soy sauce
The fat and the meat of the pork must be separated first. I wanted the fatty part drained of oil so I usually boil it with a little water then fry it until it looks like chicharon. I drained about 1 tsp of oil from the fat of 1/4 kg of pork laman. I then added olive oil for flavor and then sauteed the garlic, onion and tomato. I added the pork meat and let it cook, occasionally mixing. When the meat was half cooked, I added the ampalaya and stir-
fried it with the meat. I seasoned it with pepper and soy sauce and voila! A not-quite-usual breakfast eaten with piping hot rice.
Coffee Ko
I love coffee. I love it black or with cream. I love drinking it with something sweet like Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
I just consumed the last of the Kona coffee I bought in Hawaii last January. I have to remember to call my mother in law and ask her to send some of that barako beans she has with her.
We tend to believe that coffee is bad for us but literature abounds regarding its beneficial effects. It contains antioxidants, chemicals that may play a role in delaying aging. It has been documented to have protective effects against Alzheimer’s disease and Parkinson’s disease, both brain diseases common in the elderly. Although documentation is unclear, coffee was drank as early as the 6th century in Africa; in the 17th century it caught up in the Arabian peninsula and started to be enjoyed in Europe particularly Venice in the 1700′s.
Ah coffee, one of my passions. Got to drink this cup. More on this topic later.
Blogging
I have been trying to determine what the point of blogging is. Many people do it to express themselves while others want to make money. I want both. But I have found it quite hard to achieve that.
First off, I have no traffic. Aside from me nobody else seem to be reading what I write. In the first place, sometimes what I write is just intellectual masturbation and nothing else — so should I blame anyone if my entries are unread and unappreciated?
I want to stop yakking and complaining and start doing stuff that are actually useful and productive but I find it very difficult to start. Unlike when I was younger, creativity is so much more difficult to come by for me now. Is that the natural course of things, I wonder. Does creativity atrophy with age?
