Quick Reflections

When asked “Where are you from?”, or Boy Abunda’s “Taga-saan ka sa atin?”, I tend to give different answers, thinking I can simplify my never-ending personal migration history. Now, I need to be somewhat honest, hoping for forgiveness to those I have confused in the past.

My birth certificate says Kawit, Cavite… not much memories other than sneaking out to our neighbors backyard for some fallen guavas, or being home schooled by my Mom. We moved to Camanci Norte, Numancia, Aklan, when I was 5.

Camanci Norte circa 1978 is the equivalent of Jurassic Park without the dinosaur. Your sense of direction is dependent upon the century-old mango tree, the dried-up creek, and local witches’ hut you avoid (they happen to be my grandpa’s 1st cousins, yaiks!). Boy, that Camanci place is so quiet you hear and see many earthy things. A twig snapping followed by a ‘swoosh’ is the sound of a coconut falling to the ground. Warnings of incoming rain include a darkened horizon from far away, and a distinctive, rapid pit-pit-pit-pit-pit-pit sound from some ground animal. The time of the day is defined by your shadow. Night sound is a combination of tuk-kooo, tik-tik-tik-tik and awoooo’s, nights lightened by gas lamps that make your nostrils black the following morning. What TV? What refrigerator? What gas range? Huh????

Thank goodness we moved to the town proper Kalibo. Where people talk fast and made the local PLDT bankrupt. Where we eat humay that Ilonggos just harvested. The place where everyone survives the week-long Ati-atihan with the dramatic full-day-long Sunday parade.  Where we call fondly call each other linti, yawa, abno, bilatan, amo^, sapat, aswang, kaumangon, animal, agi, alpot.

I am also a native of North Carolina, my American hometown. Dad was stationed in Womack Army Medical Center in Fort Bragg. Now, this is a place in the Deep South, drive 10 miles further away and the last living survivor of the Ku Klux Klan will magically appear. Oh Carolina…  the place where I had my first job (oh yes, I mopped floors!), where I brought my first car (a beat-up 1984 Ford Thunderbird) and where I met 6 year old Zach, my first autism case that defined my future professional life. In Bragg, I have experienced a totally different world being surrounded by (for a change) intelligent American G.I.’s from the 82nd Airborne Division and the elite Special Forces. I also started snapping in English: a trying-hard ‘Say what now?’ with the full taray gear.

I am from Iloilo, too. Not just by marriage, but I did stay in Miag-ao for a good 5 years during college — that freakin thesis took 1.5 years. I can also say I am from Georgia, I lived there for 3 years, and a huge fan of grits, corn bread and baby back ribs (yummy!). I am also Californian, got hitched here, popped a baby … I lost track…

Live. Experience. Embrace. 

Our local upscale magazine asked for stories to be featured in their Father’s Day special edition. I wrote, did my submission, and never thought about it. So it was a such pleasant surprise seeing my dear family’s picture on page 24 of N Magazine Sacramento June 2007 issue. Read on, here’s Celso’s 1/4 portion of the page with this picture…

—————–

With Fathers Day coming up, we asked for tributes to some special dads. Our best wishes to them and to all hard-working dads in Natomas!

Cheryl Martinez Avaricio’s tribute to her husband, Celso Avaricio II, begins in the Philippines, where as a single father Celso “fought hard to get his daughter Khayla’s much needed medical attention, even when people around him gave up,” she says. “When no one in the Philippines  listened to him, he wrote to all hospitals in the United States pleading for help. Now Khayla is a bubbly little girl, thanks to all the help we get from our community.” Celso continues to be a hands-on dad to eight-year-old Khayla as well as two-year-old Kenneth.

——————-

To my dear husband, happy fathers day to you. I can never find another man who is such a strong advocate for his children as you are. My tribute is also to all fathers, grandfathers, single fathers, Father priests and to all men who teach, guide and mentor our less fortunate children. And of course to my Dad who is still in Iraq… stop sneaking out from your Sergeants, you hear?

I still cannot forgive myself for braving a solo singing competition in 1985. I swear I was at least one octave off-key. I can remember that afternoon really well, but I am not going to make a fool of myself by further embarrassing my own self on my very own blog. Har har!

Anyway, choral singing was better for me. My voice blends nicely in a group. Or so I thought, until I was assigned as the choir pianist. I thought it was a compliment, but thinking back, Kalibo didn’t have much of a choice. I was one of the very few survivors of Maam Acaling’s hand-swatting episodes. 

The urge to sing was always powerful. When I was in Georgia, I auditioned for the famous Atlanta’s Cathedral Choir.  I passed not because I can sing, but because I can sight-read notes from Handel’s Alleluia. Our choir director was darn good, and with practice, I got better at singing. As a bonus, I was earning ten 100s on karaoke.

And then last week, somebody asked me to sing. Oh My Darling Clementine, the 92 year old man dying man begged. The hospice nurse said I should honor his request, for he would not last a few days. I flipped thru my memory brain quickly, oh yes, Maam Maribojo taught us that song in Grade V. And so I sang, holding his hand.

He passed away one hour later.

I get it, I get it… it is indeed in the best interest of the general public to never hear me sing.

Church Pianist 1996-1999

Our Lady of Peace Chapel

Fort Bragg Army Base

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

I had the bragging rights since I found out that, after our regular check-up, my cholesterol level was at a good, normal level while my husband’s was very high. Hah! I have been nagging him to eat fresh veggies and fruits! And to never eat crispy pata, lechon and dinuguan! And now, who said I made a bad decision of not having cable TV in the house so no one becomes a couch potato? Aber? Who’s the man…er woman????

After 2 hours of non-stop bragging, I suddenly realized that if my husband is that unhealthy, I have a very good chance of being widowed early. And that is not a very pleasant thought.

Celso and I sat down and reviewed our overall physical health, insurance coverage and family medical history. We faced this painful truth because we are determined to live long enough to see our children grow. We also reminded ourselves that as partners in life, we need to constantly teach and help each other.  And if I need to take the lead in terms of eating right and exercising regularly, so be it.

For days now, I can still feel Celso cringe while he eats oatmeal with bananas for breakfast, baked salmon + spinach salad for lunch, and ½ cup rice + grilled skinless chicken w peas for dinner. I am still working on getting him to join me in my step aerobics, pilates and yoga routines.

A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

I had the bragging rights since I found out that, after our regular check-up, my cholesterol level was at a good, normal level while my husband’s was very high. Hah! I have been nagging him to eat fresh veggies and fruits! And to never eat crispy pata, lechon and dinuguan! And now, who said I made a bad decision of not having cable TV in the house so no one becomes a couch potato? Aber? Who’s the man…er woman????

After 2 hours of non-stop bragging, I suddenly realized that if my husband is that unhealthy, I have a very good chance of being widowed early. And that is not a very pleasant thought.

Celso and I sat down and reviewed our overall physical health, insurance coverage and family medical history. We faced this painful truth because we are determined to live long enough to see our children grow. We also reminded ourselves that as partners in life, we need to constantly teach and help each other.  And if I need to take the lead in terms of eating right and exercising regularly, so be it.

For days now, I can still feel Celso cringe while he eats oatmeal with bananas for breakfast, baked salmon + spinach salad for lunch, and ½ cup rice + grilled skinless chicken w peas for dinner. I am still working on getting him to join me in my step aerobics, pilates and yoga routines.

A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

Spanking was never my parents’ style. I was lucky. I heard horrible stories on how the belt was used. I am so relieved I never experienced corporal punishment, for I had my fair share of mischief.

My first (and last) crime happened on a rainy day when I was about 10 years old. Five of us soaking wet kids from the neighborhood decided to walk to the fields and chase some frogs. We happily ran to the rough roads leading to our destination, occasionally stopping to jump up and down the puddles. We also passed by our neighbor who works for Coca-Cola. Something caught my eye and my jaw just dropped.

At the top of his Coca-Cola truck lay the newly-released, limited quantity Mello Yello 12oz bottle. We were all in awe. Our local DYKR just announced that the Mello Yello has conquered Kalibo for the first time. We walked closer, smitten by this green, shiny bottle. We all wondered what the ‘Millo-Yillo’ taste like, and by default (for I was the best climber amongst us), I planned the big steal.

I don’t exactly remember how I climbed the adjacent guava tree, nor do I remember jumping from one of its tree branches to the top of the truck. I don’t know how I grabbed 2 slippery bottles Mello Yello’s, or how I got down from that 50 ft, 18-wheeler truck. I had no idea why I didn’t get caught by any of our neighbors, nor set off the wild guard dogs. We must have walked home with our 2 Mello Yellos to share.

Then I remembered my father looking at me in the eye in complete disbelief. He calmly told me to quickly get my butt back to our neighbor’s house and return the bottles (unopened). I also need apologize to the truck driver for my wrongdoing, and swear with the ‘peks-man’ sign that from now on, I will leave his Coca-Cola truck alone. I did just that while I was still soaking wet from the rain. I ran home before the truck driver and his wife could ask me questions.

To this day, the soft drink stealing episode is a running joke in the family. My mom just told that story to a bunch of strangers attending Celso’s birthday party. I have to quickly interrupt her and tell her it must have been my sister Heidi who did it. But it was definitely me. Ha! Ha! Ha! Damn that Mello Yello and the 80s!

Marso, Buwan ng Kababaihan: Si Camille, habol nang habol kay Traa-vhiis….Si Bea Blanca, habol nang habol kay Angeloooh…. Si Elvira, halos mamatay sa kakahabol (at namatay nga), to kasing si Alicante…. Si Mimi, napilay at nakulong, nang dahil kay Carding.

Hoy, mga babae, kung ayaw sa iyo ni lalake, eh di huwag!

Pero hmmmm… kalian kaya uli babalik sa teleserye tong si Papa Piolo…

Celso and I were talking about our BS Bio days and sure enough, we perceived college life so differently. No wonder we never crossed paths eventhough we were (gasp) classmates. He was comfortable adjusting from WVSU High School while my first few weeks of June 1989 in college was, in all honesty, terrifying.

I remembered vividly what my main problem was: I didn’t know where to safely sit.

From the University of the Philippines Iloilo campus main gate, the benches were occupied by Stella-Scintillia Juris. Near the dorms were the tambayans of the Juventus’. Go further near the LT, sometimes the mushroom benches were available, but it was quite embarrassing to be right next to the Silak-Silabs. Near the gym, the mushroom benches were for the Hamilia-Hamili. The picnic bench near the volleyball court was for the Validus guys.

City cafeteria seating was worse. The crowd was grouped into UP Highs vs the non-UPHighs. The fashionable city girls and their admirers. Jocks in their basketball uniforms. The frat boys and their sorority sis. Those upperclassmen dressed in shorts and slippers and if you didn’t know better, can be mistaken for janitors. The university and college scholars. The chatty faculty and the visiting VIPs seated on special white chairs.

Talk about unwritten sitting arrangements. I cared so much about this back then. Like most of them probinsyanas, I didn’t want to offend anyone. I was as quiet as a mouse. A fly on the wall. I showed up for class at 830 then disappeared like smoke by 4pm. I cut class on Fridays to run and catch Manong Calbo’s 1130 Iloilo-Kalibo Ceres non-stop bus.

Why would I sit right next to them inglis-ispokening? I got no Levis 501’s or K-Swiss’. I didn’t use Aquanet nor socks with little pom-poms. College freshman year was one of the very awkward times in my life.

Hope you had better memories than mine!

Two years ago, I pledged to be the ultimate, all-in-one, stay-at-home Mom. But when my kitchen started to look like a ‘rat’ has attacked, and this ‘rat’ has been spreading cookies and chips around the house, I gave up.

Time for Kenneth to go to preschool.

Diaper bag and all, Ken and I drove around the neighborhood in search of the perfect place. I was crying in the car. This cant be *hikbi* my son is now a big boy, will he make new friends, is he gonna eat daycare food….

My drama was short-lived, as Ken didn’t even “qualify”. ‘Your son needs to be potty trained before admission’. Eh??? At two years old?

Oh, okay. Potty training it is.

Two weeks went by and ten gallons of apple juice later, Ken was semi-ready. We marched to the other preschool in hopes they will be a little more flexible.

Oh, they were. For $200 a week.

What the ***$^@#^(*&$)(%**_$@/<#($_@*!+

Kenneth, anak, parang awa mo na. Huwag na lang munang pumasok ng paaralan. Pakabait ka na lang sa bahay, ha? Sa iyo na ang buong lata ng M.Y. San.

Last week, a friend who happens to be gay, poured his heart out to me. His boylet stopped calling. Although I had a hunch what happened and I believe my friend really knew what went wrong, we had difficulty explaining (conceptualizing) what transpired.

Until I remembered a social phenomenon a few years back when I worked with 10-year old girl with Down syndrome I’ll call Millie. When asked who her friends were, Millie told us that her ‘friends’ were her teacher, the case manager, the bus driver, her nurse, her social worker, and her pediatrician.

Bad answer, at least for psychologists.

Paid relationship, by definition, is when one person is financially compensated for having a relation with another person.

In Millie’s case, I was paid to be involved. Since I cannot be ‘friends’ with her (dual relationship ek-ek), I did the job I was paid to do: develop a social skills program. My goal was to minimize her paid relationships and hoping that someday Millie may develop sincere friendships with kids her age.

Life revolves around money. We work for money. And people see you differently if you are valued in dollars ($$-$$). Pesos stink.

Well, the good news is, my gay friend’s solution to the problem is so straightforward. All he needed was to produce money in order to keep the relationship.

Personally, I got no problem with people who scammed me. Oh yes, I was taken advantage of: $1400 vacuum cleaner from a door-to-door salesman, $450 for my wedding video that was never produced, etc-etc. And before I can formally say goodbye to my hard-earned money, these scumbags ran off within 10 minutes of the deal. Forever. No return, no exchange. No refund, no customer service. Gosh, too painful to even admit I was screwed.

I am a cautious woman who had no intentions to making stupid financial decisions. But I make mistakes. I have to remember that I am an adult and I need to take full responsibilities for my actions. At least I can put a money value on this so-called scam. All I have to do is to earn the money back, penny by penny. My pride was hurt, but life goes on.

I am so sorry my friend has to slowly digest this money-related-relationship reality. He has every right to be angry, needy, paranoid and depressed.

He only asked to be loved by his boylet.

Love ya, my friend, wherever you are now. Sorry I can’t do anything more.

P.S.

Random thought… Made me think of my family and friends who had accepted me unconditionally. Despite of my 5 ka’s: ka-tarayan, ka-tapangan, ka-prangkahan, ka-baduy-an at ka-tangahan. You guys know who you are. It has always been hard to be true to yourself. Thanks for the friendship.

Hindi po ako sentimental, pero nakakatuwa lang pong tingnan ang mga hitsura natin noon. Before I digitally archive these pictures, let me share em thru this blog!

Friendster got a 50 picture a month limit. More to come! Let me know what you think. Ako? Old pictures make me smile

The Photo Album ———>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Please shoot me for deciding NOT to go home, with Celso and Kenneth, this January 2007. Ay ki, indi’t ang ka-uli sa aton. Goodbye Ati-atihan, at ang pinaka-importante (super important), goodbye eating along the streets of Kalibo. As ya’all know, owa gid’ang it huya basta sa pagkaon!

Who can forget d delicious banana BBQ sold along the sidewalks of the church? Fat, whole, semi-ripe plantain bananas… dumped in searing hot oil…deep fried until golden brown… sprinkled with brown sugar… eat ‘em with a bottle of 8oz ice-cold coke….. AAAAGHHH!

Then the ‘BBQ nga tinapay’ near Cinemars:  monay bread served on a BBQ stick, braised with who-knows-what sauce, tsk, who cares. I eat those BBQ nga tinapay with pork BBQ (mostly fat), each piece a pitiful size of a penny. Oh, at tsaka yung atay na tinitinda nuon sa may NAWASA side ng Pilot for only 5 centavos per piece, may sawsawan pa!

The biggest secret I hid from my Dad (a respected doctor in Provincial during that time) was that on top of renting the forbidden Wakasan komiks for 25centavos and playing the 41 card game, I drank THOMPSON GULAMAN! Holy crap, that was some serious, dangerous, lethal drink! I had a hard time resisting those green carts during summer months, when I had to walk and walk to find a tricycle mercifully lingering the deserted XIX Martyrs in mid-afternoons after guitar practice. Thank God I have such tough stomach, for I love this refreshing drink so much, only for 25 centavos per Nescafe glass!

          Jeez, I wish my husband can bring me home some of these foods. Well, I don’t think customs allow it anyway (sourgraping). Okay na lang, baklan nya man ‘ko sang biscocho ah. Greenwich pizza pa tani o Lapaz batchoy nga may puto, no egg.

  This is so pathetic L . Kaoeogot!

For the past 10 years or so, I slept thru New Year Eve, went to church the next day, then ate a good meal. This simplistic no-stress ritual changed when Kenneth came into my life.

Celso and I promised ourselves that our children will learn Filipino traditions and celebrations. And so, this New Years Eve, it was way too Filipino. No Auld Lang Syne, no champagne, no ball drops, no Roses Parade. It was our own Media Noche, just like I remembered it back in the Philippines.

Yes, I was well-stocked on rice, salt and sugar (I wished for abundance). I also gave my home a thorough cleaning (I did the cleansing thing). I cooked bihon pancit (noodles, they say, for long life). I displayed 12 circular fresh fruits: cantaloupe, grapes, peach, orange, plum, promenade, mango, lemon, pear, apple, pineapple and avocado (each fruit for monthly good luck)… I know, the last 6 fruits were oval in shape, sorry… pero okay rin naman siguro yun.

At exactly 12:00 am of Jan 1, 2007, Celso and I opened all windows and doors (to let good fortune in), ignoring the chilly winter breeze and increased heating bill. We also turned all the lights on (to scare away evil spirits). I grabbed Kenneth, who was already sleeping and we jumped up and down like crazy (so we may both grow taller). We instructed Khayla to bang pots and pans (to ward off bad luck). I didn’t forget: I was dressed in polka-dots, too (so I may attract money, who-hoo). Sorry, we didn’t do the watusi thing, the deadly triangle, nor fire the cannons made of bamboo (to greet the coming year) — I seriously believe these firecrackers are illegal out here in Sacramento County.

Well, that was it, our little celebration. My family just wanted to wish you all a happy new year. May you have your own holiday traditions to celebrate, remember and be proud of.

It was the first week of school and I was in Grade III. I was honored to do the job fit for an eight-year-old:

I was elected Sergeant-At-Arms.

That meant whenever Mrs Gomez, our Grade III teacher left the room, I prevented the boys from acting up and causing trouble. I was able to stand up to them, just like I defended myself from a baboy-stealing jackstone opponent. I had a notebook to write the names of those whose butt got off their seats. My position was a big deal.

The second electoral position I had was the Secretary. Thanks to my mother, a Grade III teacher herself, I learned the beautiful cursive handwriting method. From Grade IV to VI, I was nominated Class Secretary, the Girl Scout Secretary, and the Pilipino Club Secretary.

I seem to like being in the forefront, so by High School, I entered school politics. I campaigned hard every election year. I made fancy cartolina posters. I distributed nice bookmarks. Said hi to anyone who was polite enough to acknowledge me. I posted big, fat streamers that said "Vote: Cheryl Joy for Governor". Our political party strategized to win, from campaign slogan to dance number routines.

Mayor to Governor, Secretary to Vice President to President. The Student Council. The Squirettes. The Pilipino Club. The Reflector. As if I didn’t have enough thrills in my life, I kept volunteering as coordinator for almost every school project: cultural contests, the interschool basketball tournament, the Hampang Kitahanon, the JS Prom. Additionally, I was the church organist for the 730am mass, First Friday mass, some saint’s birthday mass, occasional weddings and funerals.

By the end of high school, I was drained. I was only 15 and made a lot of enemies. Students refused to pay tickets they have used. Teachers subtracted 10 points from my final grade because I organized the JS Prom. I felt unappreciated when I learned that extra-curricular activities never add points on your final grade.

So, without warning, I stopped being in the political limelight. Cold turkey. I didn’t join any clubs or organizations in college. I avoid all Fil-Am clubs here in the U.S. My political life was so over.

Thinking back, I look at myself as a teen with a purpose. And I had fun. I made lots of friends. I acquired some leadership and negotiating skills. I learned to smell critics a mile away. And I can boisterously say that I did civil service at one point in my life.

Kenneth has this vibrant, happy and active personality. Eversince birth, he is upbeat and curious, but never naughty. Well, I started to observe Ken a little bit closer lately. He is just amazing. Ken can locate my ringing cell phone that is in my bag, across the room, in time before voice mail kicks in. Last month, he picked up one dead worm from the garden, briefly examined it, and proudly gave it a shrieking me. All cabinet safety locks were useless after 4 days of "professional" installation. On and on, a proud mama I am.

Kenneth’s enthusiasm for phones, locked doors and outdoor critters are surefire indicators of an intelligent kid, according to a few biased "experts". My Dad is convinced that Ken will go to West Point. Celso disagrees, as Ken will go to Harvard.

Will go, will be: my greatest fears growing up.

Admittedly, I was blessed with some decent IQ at birth. Unfortunately, as soon as I have shown relatives and a bunch of teachers that I have some smarts, they started to EXPECT things. That I will go Phil Sci and Princeton. That I will become a great scientist or a doctor someday. Further, around Kalibo, I have to be socially acceptable and morally right at all times.

Funny, none of it turned out right. I was loud, audacious and mataray.  I never won a single Model Religious Student award. I was sent to the Ms Malilay’s office twice for talking back at a visiting priest. I was not wild, just living the life of a child with friends. Then my grades became inconsistent. Every year, my Mom gets confused on what color of medal I receive. A red or gold perhaps, the coveted First Honors? Or an okay green/ yellow/blue ribbon as an nth honor?

Well, being smart gives you a lot of perks, I may say. Proven intelligence (such as medals or the Quiz Bee titles) compensates for a lot of things. Unwanted traits, such as being ugly, poor or socially inept, are magically forgotten. With some luck, you go to a good school on a scholarship; given a break, you get good jobs. Odds for marriage are higher, too. Like I said, I am lucky, and I am blessed with what looks like such a sharp kid, so I am not complaining. I am just worried.

Let’s face it, it takes more than a God-given brains to be successful. For one, a child needs a safe environment: how many talented kids are wasted due to parents who are alcoholics, womanizers, negligent or physically abusive?  Then, you have to have money. Serious money that can send you to the best schools outside Aklan, get private tutors and hire a yaya separately from the maids. (Flashback: How come my chores include feeding the dogs, chickens and pigs … when we dont live on a farm???). Money can also buy you more than one pair of shoes, three pairs of uniform, Game & Watch (Turtle Bridge or Octopus preferred), a fancy bag, and non-recycled artista notebook from last year’s. You also need to have an encyclopedia, a typewriter, and in case of week-long brown-outs, a kerosene lamp. A king-ki doesn’t provide you with adequate lighting and it is a fire hazard anyway.

I wish I had all of these resources back then. Then I would have been a consistent first honors, a UP student who graduated on time, a PhD degree holder rather than a MA. Well, it doesn’t matter now, for I am still happy with my accomplishments, both professionally and personally. What am I now is molded by my past, a very simple past, that I need to completely embrace. I may not have those opportunities back then, but I am now in the U.S. that offers so much for me and my family.

I cannot join my father’s or my husband’s enthusiam for Kenneth’s future, yet. For me, it is not fair planning for someone else’s extremely distant future.  Because I lived that childhood full of expectations. I turned from a sharp 5-year-old kid into a confused, scared and insecure 10-year-old child.

Well, I said it myself, Ken’s college education is still a distant future. For now, I need to aggressively teach Kenneth that Celso’s precious surround sound is not a symphonic remote-controlled, high-blasting show.