So fast.

Sometimes life comes at you, all at once, so fast.  Earlier this week, my sister called me in the  middle of the night.  Even on the cusp of consciousness and sleep, I knew something was wrong.  My grandma Martina, who I visited in Mindanao last October, had passed away, just a few days after my parents and sisters flew to the southern provinces to celebrate her 90th birthday.  I did not go.

That entire day, I was floating.  I count only two and a half hours where I was focused and that was during my interviews with the Syrian asylum-seeker brothers.  In their talks of bombs, their memories surrounding the sounds of constant gunfire, of death around each corner, I found concentration.

But the rest of the day was gone.

In the next two weeks, I have to wrap up my cases, go to Mindanao for my grandmother's funeral, go back to Bangkok, pack, and then make a huge move to the US.   This week (and the next few) will be an exercise in compartmentalization.  

Happy Mother's Day

I took this picture of my grandma Elpidia several years ago, as she was en route to the Philippines.  She says the funniest things, partly because she knows she can away with these things.  

Example 1:

Grandma is staring quietly at me over the breakfast table. It is a week after my first trip home from Cambodia.

Me [aware that she is staring]: What is it, grandma?

Grandma: You're not as dark as you were when you arrived.  Your skin is getting back to normal.  You no longer look like you were toiling in the rice fields.

Example 2:

Three days ago during a telephone call.

Grandma: You're old, you know.

Me: Yes. Is that news to you?

Grandma: You're old. Is this . . . is this . . . just how you are?   
 

(I still don't know what exactly she meant because she wouldn't elaborate, but I think it had to do with my work abroad.)

Happy Mother's Day to my crazy mom and grandmothers!  I love you.

A Khmer Wedding

What a week it has been!  A friend's departure, another friend's wedding, and yet another friend's return.  And in between the various gatherings and celebrations scattered throughout the week to punctuate these events, there was the publication mess, one which left me at the printers, poring over words, until 11PM on Friday evening and then most of my Saturday morning.  I spent Sunday recovering.

But let's talk about weddings, because a dear colleague was wedded mid-week.  What to say about these events?   These events always evaporate in an overload of color, taffetta, ruffles, gilded eyes and lips and alcohol.  For this wedding, the bride had 11 (yes) dress changes, each ensemble more ornate than the other.   (Foreigners should note that your Khmer counterparts will always out-dress you for these events.)  Oh, there is always Khmer dancing in a circle, around a pole.

This colleague, a young, ambitious woman who dares to dream of higher education  and a thriving career as a researcher, was wedded to a classmate, who showed up at her door to ask her parents for her hand in marriage.  After a dowry and other details were negotiated, her parents agreed. That was that, and she was informed.  Until that day, she had no idea that the young man even fancied her.

Lately, I've been thinking about the concept and assumptions related to Western  marriage.  My grandma Elpidia was party to an arranged marriage, to a man many years her senior who she had never met before.  Perhaps love wasn't there to begin with, but I will tell you that when she lost my grandpa Felipe, after  decades of marriage, rearing three children and shuttling between two continents, she was so broken at the loss of her life companion.  It broke my heart to see her that way.

P.S.

Happy belated birthday to my grandma Elpidia. I love you, love you, love you!

Winter

via Domahoka

I missed the lunar eclipse on Winter Solstice because the rain clouds obstructed my view. Bummer, indeed.

Winter Solstice has always appeared magical for me. Marking the longest night of the year, this event was believed by ancient tribes to signify the victory of light over darkness. In other traditions, you were urged to enjoy yourself as much as possible during the solstice and to surround yourself with as much "lightness."

With my cultural upbringing, this celebration attached itself to the holiday of Christmas. And so every year, no matter where I am (or will be), this holiday makes me want to journey back home, to my crazy family.

Today, I am cooking, cooking, cooking with my Mum and my grandma. Family and friends are coming over later tonight, and I am hoping we can finish the several bottles of wine that have been languishing.

I wish you and your kin a wonderful, warm holiday!

Game Show

via Scenestirz

My grandma Elpidia has never forgiven Bob Barker, the former host of her once-favorite game show, The Price Is Right, for slighting her. Six years ago, before my move to Portland, my sisters, my grandma, and I queued up for a taping of the show in Los Angeles, hoping to be part of the audience and therefore a potential contestant. That morning was pregnant with possibilities, and you could sense my grandma's giddiness.

But, after five hours of sitting around, we were told that a large group had reserved most of the seats for that day's taping. My grandma was not going to be part of the show that day; she was, like us, a reject.

Thus began my grandma's boycott and growing resentment of a show that my sisters and I had grown up watching with her, on days when school let out early (or, when we feigned illness), while she painstakingly prepared our lunches.

It is all very funny, but if you know my grandma, you know she'll hold this grudge for a very long time -- she's not the kind of woman you cross, even if you are Bob Barker. In her stead, Cherlou and I are plotting to get on a gameshow, maybe as a pair.

Feliz Cumpleanos!

via ???

Tomorrow is my grandma Elpidia's 82nd birthday! While part of me still grapples with the reality of my departure from Portland, I am truly excited that my arrival in Los Angeles coincides with her birthday.

Sometimes, when looking at my grandmother, I laugh at how her little size belies an immense strength. She has been a presence in my life even before I was able to comprehend what that meant. I only need to think back to the earliest days of my childhood and look past the haze of banana, coconut and mango trees in the empty field in which I played; past the images of the small farm in the country on which I lived; past the river with the sandy rockbed in which I bathed; and past the shifting images of jungle and concrete. And, there she is, always, a stalwart, silent figure of a woman. (She remains silent until you get her mad, and then ...) After we immigrated to the United States, she shuttled my sister and me between the two worlds that sought to define us, acting as a cultural anchor, a reminder of days spent in foreign lands and in foreign tongues. And so she remains.

Tomorrow, my sister and I are going to throw my grandma, in elementary school fashion, a birthday celebration at the senior center, where she spends her days rabblerousing. We (rather, my sister and my mum) are going to make savories. And I am going to bake chocolate chip cookies.

I thought of bringing a pinata, but things could go very wrong with a pinata in a senior center.

I will pass.