Complacency

IN MANILA, I never wore any jewelry (I only own one genuine item anyway), and I always kept track of where my wallet, cellphone and keys were. When out at night, I kept an eye on strangers I shared a sidewalk with. I always gave detailed directions to taxi drivers and tried to read their face one the rear view mirror, forwarded e-mails about taxi abductions going through my mind. My bag or backpack was almost always with me. When alone at a cafe, I would bring with me to the ladies' room. At the gym, it would be safe in a locker or on the floor where I could keep an eye on it. That was the way it was in Manila. That is how most Manilenos behaved too.

Here in Duluth, it is hard to keep my Third World street smarts. At the university library, students leave their backpacks open--iPods and wallets spilling out on the desk--when they go to the loo. People leave their car windows down at the parking lot and leave their doors open on side streets. Laptops are left open and humming, and alone on front porches. And yesterday, I did it. I left my bag all alone on a library table. What is the matter me? What is the matter with with these people? Sometimes I look at C. in askance and he just tells me that's the way it is in these university towns.

I'm sure these behaviors are indicators that Duluth is a safe and pleasant place to live in. And it is indeed very beautiful. People are friendly, once you get the hang of American-Minnesota small talk. ("Hi! Howzit goin? Ooh now, isn't the day a beauty!") But they are easily perturbed too. I remember that talk I gave to a class of retirees for the University for Seniors program. They all wondered why I spoke English so well. And I explained that English has been the language of instruction in the Philippines since the US invaded us after the Spanish (or was it the Japanese) war. The old guys and gals were crestfallen. They never knew the US invaded the Philippines. Some of them never even knew about my country till that very day I spoke in front of them. All these retired engineers, homemakers, architects, nurses and school teachers. All of them well-meaning and kind, but unaware of many things and forces that change the world outside the predominantly Lutheran state of Minnesota.

I felt compelled to comfort the old folks. Tell them everything's okay. So I said, democracy is a messy business but at least we kicked you out and we've got our country back now. But instead of the relieved and relaxed looks that I hoped for, brows furrowed deeper. (Trademark Natasha taklesa! I realized what I said 3 seconds after I said it. Oh God, I could hear the sirens of Homeland Security police cars getting louder and louder. Lintek, baka ma-deport pa ako nito!) Everyone thought it, but no one dared say it: are we doing this to Afghanistan and Iraq too? In moments of panic, one reverts to the native tongue. I wanted to say "Biro lang!" but I knew I wasn't kidding. Like that tired journalism cliche, I was just calling a spade, a palakol.

But the damage had been done. I felt I had devirginized a roomfull of innocents. I was the bringer of uncomfortable truth. Me. A small Asian woman half their junior. I was sure I would never get invited to speak there again. Many of them approached me after the talk, to say how enlightening it all was. I am sure it was. Kind of like when you find out there isn't a Santa Claus.


I AM of two minds about the pleasant complacency of life in Duluth. I like it. It's probably something I wished I had in Manila. I also resist it, knowing I can never be as complacent as any true Duluthian is. It is part of my history and part of my journey.

Cities are different the way people are and the charms of home--good food, the proximity to friends, excellent choral music--are intertwined with the quirky kapit sa patalim way of life in Manila.

All I can do for now is keep chaining my bike to bike racks and hope the extra vigilance will someday pay-off.

Lukso ng Dugo

WHEN my aunt saw her long lost son for the first time after more than 20 years, she knew it was her very own Ashley. She said she could feel it in her bones and she felt her pulse quicken.

Lukso ng dugo, ika nga.

When I saw that a 60-ish Asian man at the Oriental Grocery on Fourth Street, lumukso rin ang dugo ko. I knew he was Filipino. He had that soft-skinned look that many long-time Asian immigrants have here. But the way his hands were snug in his trouser pockets, the way he padded, shuffled into the store in his slippers told me he was Pinoy. He reminded me of my fourth grade math teacher, Mr. Naguit. I also saw in him the Chinoy owner of Johnny's Grocery in Angeles City. Or the red-nosed cook of Orchids Canteen on Sto. Rosario Street, who was always dressed in checkered pants and white, Crispa-brand sandos.

Later on, as C. was paying for our tocino and longanisa I confirmed that the old man was indeed Pinoy. He leisurely regarded the bottles of masala, cumin, fennel and fenugreek. But when when he came to the bottles of Rufino patis, Maggie Seasoning and bottled bagoong, he could barely conceal the glee on his face.

"Pinoy ho kayo ano?" I said to him.

"Oo iha, taga saan ka?" he smiled at me.

He called me "iha". It has been a long time since I have been called this. All at once, I was ten years old again and my life was simpler. A math test the scariest thing I had ever to face on a regular basis. There were no mistakes to pay for and all of my heroes still stood on their pedestals: proud, just and shinning with hope. It gave me a curious, conflicting sensation of being lonesome for home but also of finding home. A warm tropical breeze had brushed my face right there on Fourth Street, in the nippy Autumn air of Duluth, Minnesota.

Old People

C. teased me one day about liking things that grannies like. We were at a scrapbooking place and I was shopping for little doodads and things called brads and grommets. I peered over a display of fancy metal embellishments to look at my fellow shoppers and, well, C. was right. I was amongst the hearing-aid set. People with walkers. Seventy-somethings with white fuzzy perms. (I have seen Marge Simpsons' sisters in living flesh!) People who spend their retirement checks on making scrapbooks of their rosy-cheeked grandchildren. They make their own greeting cards and send them out during birthdays and Thanksgiving and Halloween with twenty dollar bills hoping their grandkids would spend these on postage to write them back... and to hell with that thing called e-mail! Computers are evil and impersonal!

I was reading the Sunday paper today and saw that it had a section called "Grandparents Bragging Page" where seniors can send pictures of their grankids. And just last Wednesday I drove to 25 miles to Proctor to take advantage of a free hearing screening because I've always suspected na medyo bingi ako. When I got there, haha, I was the only person under 60 and who did come there for the hearing aid testing.

I never really noticed above-retireable-age people back in Manila. Maybe it's because we die younger there. It could also be because Caucasians look so much older, especially when they are older. I see lot of retirement homes in Duluth. Some of these call their establishments retirement resorts. Some are called Assisted Living centers. And many have names that want to convey a sense of elegance, grandness or goodness: Thunderbird House, lakeside Manor, Faith Haven, The Waters at Park Point, Green Acres Plus. If anything, I know that Green Acres is a better metaphore for twenty-somethings. Baka naman mas bagay ang Golden Acres.

Retirement homes make me feel sad. Isn't old age the time of a person's life when one needs his family the most? And isn't it so lonely to spend it in a place that is transient and you can't even call your own?

Little Gems in the Midst of My PMS Fog

HAVE been moody the past few days, and there's a pimple growing near my nose. I also have a craving for salty treats, like potato chips, bacon and tinapa sana but I can't get that around here. All signs of Aunt Flo's monthly visit.

Bagpipe Trance

Despite the grumpiness, nice unexpected little events have come my way the past few days. Last night, I was riding my bike across the UMD parking lot and came upon the Scottish Historial Society Bagpipe band practicing right there amongst the cars and SUVs. I have a thing for Scotland, having spent a month in a Scottish Castle in Midlothian in 2001. I also have a thing for a Scottsman by the name of Ewan McGregor, but I digress. A 10-year-old boy was standing with them and I asked him if they were preapring for a concert. He said they were just practising. I itched to take their picture but sensed it wouldnot be proper. I also did not have enough light. And so, after two numbers I got on my bike again and headed home.

Fly Fishing Swishers

On my bike again two days ago, I was on Kirby drive and headed for the library when I heard a subtle series of swishing sounds. Have you every heard the sound a fishing line makes when it is cast? Multiply this by 30. Swish, swish, swishy-swish. Thirty men (I counted them) where practising casting their lines on a grassy knoll near the spanking new (shining, shimering, splendid pa) Swenson Science Building.

Women on the Wall

Finally, instead of going to a graduate student barbecue, I decided to follow my heart and attend the Women on the Wall session at the UMD Climbing Wall. There were only three participants and three instructors. All right! I climbed two walls and was surprised at how it was easier than I expected. My last wall-climbing experience was at the Boom na Boom carnival in Pasay City with a distracted belayer and a couple hundred people below staring at my derriere. Last night was a much more comfortable session. There was no pressure and I didn't feel bad about taking my time on the wall. I also liked the bouldering wall, though it is more challenging than it looks. I'm definitely getting myself a semester pass.

Respecting the Wind

"So tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" -- Mary Oliver


Saturday I went sailing. It was a warm, overcast day. Six of us--I, some undergrads and an RSOP coordinator--drove to the Duluth Sailing Club dock on Park Point, ready for an afternoon out on Lake Superior. It was an introductory course so I wasn't expecting much. Probably just a "these are the parts of the sail boat" spiel from the instructor and an enjoyable afternoon with my face in the wind.

Turns out, it wasn't much of a lesson. The old man didn't speak loudly enough so all I remember about that were the words "misensail" (actually "mainsail") and the "gib" (actually jib). My companions, Mel and her boyfriend, Laura and Scott the RSOP guy thought the jib was the mainsail and vice versa. Lynn probably knew these words though. She sailed a lot with her grandfather.

So, I was pretty much set to ride out the whole trip. It would have been a bad idea for us to take charge of any essential operation on the sailboat because gusts actually tipped the boat 45 degrees in the water. And that--to me--was scary.

It's something one knows only in an ordinary sense. The wind is a powerful force of nature. But that day on the sailboat, I could not wrap my mind around the thought that the same wind that was caressing my hair was pushing against the sails above us and tipping our boat. It was a very humbling experience. I should probably admit here that I was scared and not the least reassured by Instructor guy when he said it's a normal thing in sailing. Boats do roll and tip. Yeah, roll and tip...and I try to appreciate this fact while clinging to the mast on the side of the boat that's out of the water, willing the boat to please, please don't overturn and abandon us to the cold murky depths of Lake Superior.

Instructor man let us steer the boat one by one. The task was simple enough: keep the boat between the red and green buoys. Let larger boats through. Don't ram into other sailboats coming our way. Oh and yes, keep away from the cement plant to the right. When it was my turn, I had to struggle with a particularly strong gust of wind that tipped the boat six effing times. I nearly freaked out. But the undergrads were supportive :)

We made it back to the dock, all in one piece. Lynn wanted to eat out. But all I wanted to do was take a hot shower and crawl into bed.

Meowsie's Bitter Pill

Meowsie's Bitter Pill
Originally uploaded by Almondigas18.

I FIND brazing..addicting. I love making things with my hands instead of typing things in a computer and staring at a screen most of the day. Perhaps I was a welder or a sword-maker in another life.

Brazing Project No. 2: Meowsie's Bitter Pill

Brazing Project No. 2: Meowsie's Bitter Pill
Originally uploaded by Almondigas18.

Truth is, Meowsie doesn't take his anti-biotics (for a scratch that got infected) in pill form. He takes it in liquid form. But it had been difficult running after him twice a day to give him his medicine and me getting scratched in turn...until I thought of diluting the stuff in salmon juice. What cat can not resist that?

Brazing Project No. 1: "I think I CAN"

Brazing Project No. 1: "I think I CAN"
Originally uploaded by Almondigas18.

Well, summer's over and Fall is here. We have at least two more weeks of warm weather and then it is shivering time once more. I've been doing some brazing in the backyard. Can't do much with what I have because I need more hunks of metal. But it's enough to learn basic techniques and to practice how to do it safely.