Rock the Boat

The Sunshine Post #30: On Learning Something I Cannot Spell

2008-07-14T00:36:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

And so I am doing capoeira.

Oh dear.

I am doing capoeira. (I know, right? Another one? Sheesh. I guess I have to learn Portuguese now, too. Lech. And I haven’t even gotten my black belt in taekwondo yet. Talk about a jack-of-all-trades and master of none.) I couldn’t even pronounce this, let alone spell it, years ago.

I was in love the first class alone though – it was like the first time I did taekwondo in New York, or the time I fell in love with nunchucks and sai. In taekwondo, the first thing I thought when I saw all the black belts kicking was ,”Wow, that’s so cool!” But in capoeira, the sight of a couple dozen people doing synchronized gingas was just gorgeous. It’s a wonderfully balanced combination of kicking, striking, and rolling, with rhythm and song tying it all together. I also love how it makes a mockery of slavery, as capoeira was born from the slaves in Brazil. The happiest martial art of all!

After the first class, I welcomed the familiar feeling of being so sore and achy, with my feet black from the mat, and the undersides of my toes close to blistering. My whole body felt like it was made of lead, so much so that I skipped a parkour** class that weekend. Whee! I am home again! And finally, something that will develop my (non-existent) upper body strength! I can finally give up boxing, which I fear will smash my hands and render me incapable of sketching well.

** parkour – it’s this French thing that, as an exaggeration, involves you jumping from one building to the next. People who practice this (traceurs and traceuses) will tell you that it’s about efficiency.

I inwardly rejoice come kicking time, since squatting down for an hour makes me feel like my thighs disappeared. I am known by some as “the girl who does taekwondo” since the height of my kicks gave me away. Oh well. I guess the splits they made me do back then are so paying off now!

I will never give up taekwondo, though. I miss the resonating slap of a kick pad and the satisfying crack of a board breaking. It still comprises my roots and for God’s sake, I have bled for this sport! A lot of drama and angst and hard-earned cash went into my training and some of my teachers have seen me cry and that rarely happens. But I like having something to go back to where I don’t care about getting a belt; it’s just fun for me and I need to recreate that feeling of being so cleansed and spent without the 100 degree heat in yoga.

I think I am doing capoeira to force myself to socialize, as capoeira is a social art and we were told in the beginning that “no one is a stranger.” Yikes and whee, let’s get it on; I am losing this battle. Already my old habits are in place – I stand in the back corner and rarely speak to anyone. Hmm. I do not recall being in a bar voluntarily in my life, and I will make every single excuse not to attend press conferences, huge gatherings, and launch parties. Am I socially deficient or what? I have this feeling that they think me aloof – the pale girl from New York with the fancy handwriting (I was picked on during the first day when I had to sign my name.)

But where human beings are involved, I usually have a good first impression of martial artists. They’re usually more self-assured, respectful of people, and less obnoxious. It gives you a backbone without you realizing it. I think it explains my rather desperate answer to my father a couple days ago, when asked why I just HAD to go to class. I have to do it, Dad! Or else I get so mad at the world and then at myself. I’ve nearly thrown my cellphone on the floor three times the past week in exasperation. I need to get away, you guys, especially when I have this unstoppable urge to start breaking things.

One thing I’ve noticed consistently in martial arts is the apparent homogeneity of the initial mental states of the people who begin doing it. On one extreme, you get the people who are very competitive and want to be the best – the jock types who want to be cooler. On the other hand, you see those who are very problematic and who seem to be the types with self-esteem issues. I reckon that a number of them were picked on in school or at work, aren’t in love with their jobs, or are still seeking some life direction. A few months into it, it becomes quite beautiful to see their confidence boosted up, as though the simple act of hitting a kick pad did something to their heads. Each training day becomes something they can hang onto, to remind themselves that they can be something more than what they ever thought they could be. A few hours on the mat becomes their personal escape from the ordinariness of what has become the existence that is far removed from their childhood fantasies. They become more focused, feeling that if they can finally do a technique they were struggling with earlier, then they can do anything, including stand up for themselves or finally go for what they want.

One wonders whether the lone thing human beings need to trudge through life is a shot of affirmation.

Anyhoo, I am currently extremely jealous of the hosts of Fight Quest, a Discovery Channel documentary that chronicles the journey and training of two guys who go from one country to the next, learning their martial art. Whee! I am fascinated and in love and please, do you need a girl? Yes, you need a girl! And you need one from a different race and culture who is mixed and can speak a lot of languages! Three is a much better number than two and you need your comic relief. HIRE ME!!!!

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #29: Tae Kwon Do, Tae Kwon Don't

2008-07-14T00:35:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

So I’m taking another break in taekwondo. Tsk and sigh.

Is it just me, but as you go through your twenties, your body just isn’t the same anymore? I used to be high on adrenaline all the time; I got through the GREs on one hour of sleep (I was too excited. Yuck.), and for as long as I can remember, I have always been chasing deadlines. I never allowed insomnia, migraines, or PMS (yeah, I’m going there) affect me before, but now, they sweep me off my feet faster than a hero from a sappy romance novel. Oww.

Rahr. My black belt. So near. Yet. So. Flipping. Far. (I’ve three tests to go, yo.)

You know, there are times when I wonder why I even do this to begin with. I mean, I do not have the body of a martial artist by virtue of my hips alone. (They’re the only things that haven’t budged in my sudden and drastic weight loss. Carp.) Possessing these has made me incredibly grateful for celebrities like Jennifer Lopez who have equally, uhm, developed posteriors and have made them acceptable in modern society. (They run in the family. Maternal side. I am optimistic that childbirth will be a breeze.) The “taekwondo body,” as I have learned, is that of a tall and skinny person with no butt cheeks to speak of. In that case, I am so in the wrong sport.

But every time I ask this question, I always have the same answer: solitude. I’ve always seen martial arts as my way of zoning out the world. I think that we go through so many distractions every day that keeps us from realizing our potential in life, translating to a lot of bitterness and wasted time. It is also the one thing that has kept me grounded and allowed me to not take things way too seriously. I never liked team sports.

Even the choice of martial arts I’ve made is very telling. I like taekwondo because you use your legs to get attackers away from you, and my legs are quite long so I get great distance from humans. I love weapons, too, because they’re an extension of my body; yet more distance away from humans. I will never be caught dead doing jiu jitsu or judo or samba – arts that force you to be very near people, mixing with their sweat and bad breath and all. Eww.

I will always be grateful for the self-respect that I found while doing it. I think it makes you aware, every single day, of your dignity to the point that you will never let anyone take it away from you – they will have to take you down first and damn it, you are trained to be up to that challenge. It makes me impervious to pain and suffering.

I once read that doing things like yoga and martial arts releases creativity, which, considering the timeline of when I began them, completely makes me understand why my life has turned the way it has. I have no regrets, though. I LOVE being in the creative realm! I think I can finally look at my work from now on and know that I own it in its entirety, without feeling like a fraud because I keep having to check out what other people are doing.

These things serve a different purpose, too. For a writer, doing something physical is a metaphor for living. The board that I have to break in taekwondo is representative of the fear that prevents me from doing what I want. Twisting like a pretzel in yoga is analogous to my goal of pushing myself beyond what I thought I could do. I think it’s why I hate going to gyms despite my athletic lifestyle. Nothing like running like crazy on a treadmill and getting nowhere as a metaphor for life that might come true!

But I need to take it easy for a while, or at least find another time to do it and not at six in the morning. This isn’t an “adults-only” class with students who just want a release from work or school. People train here because they aim to compete, be it in a regional tournament or the Olympics. The vibe is completely different from the other martial arts classes I’ve had, where we all just go to let off steam. Here, you pretty much have to kill yourself. And I’m the ‘outsider’ in the class. Rahr. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago, when I was having my armor secured by the Skinny Jerk Who Keeps Calling Me ‘Heavy’ that I finally snapped and said to myself: That’s IT! I’m doing capoieraaaaa!!!!!

And so I cut one class. And then another. And finally, a whole month went by without me stepping on a mat. And then I had an idea.

…
(E-mail censored from here on out because this might bite me in the ass.)

J.K. Rowling's Commencement Speech at Harvard University

2008-07-07T08:13:00.000-07:00

Copyright J.K. Rowling, 2008

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates,

The first thing I would like to say is 'thank you.' Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honor, but the weeks of fear and nausea I've experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world's best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can't remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the 'gay wizard' joke, I've still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.
Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called 'real life', I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents' car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticize my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticized only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person's idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone's total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International's headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country's regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilizes thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people's minds, imagine themselves into other people's places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathize.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the willfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathize may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.
One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people's lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people's lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world's only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children's godparents, the people to whom I've been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I've used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:

As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.

The Sunshine Post #28: Can Vegetarians Eat Marmite? And Other Times I Think I Slipped

2008-06-23T08:31:00.001-07:00

Hello dears!

I turned vegetarian on November of 2006; a side effect of a martial arts retreat that I attended out of recommendation of one of my taekwondo teachers (I was stressed out and emo then. My brain cells were dying for the umpteenth time – not my brain; the rats'. Ugh.) Aside from being trained in knife fighting and kali, I also quit eating meat cold turkey (pun sort-of intended). I don't know, you guys … there's something about eating flesh that makes me queasy now. Even though I keep emphasizing that I do it for health reasons and not moral ones, it's hard not to put the "respect for life" factor in there at some point. I've decapitated way too many rats for a normal person; meat was serving as a gross reminder of what I once was: a grad student doing joyless drudgery.

The road to vegetarianism has its share of road kill, especially for one whose cultural heritages are notorious for eating anything and everything. To announce that I'm vegetarian has usually resulted in dismayed groans, and I've limited going to lunch with people, else to give me yet another nail to pound in my coffin of guilt for being such a burden. I'm very hard to feed.

I may be a gastronomic pariah, but there are excellent side effects to vegetarianism. Weight loss, great skin, great teeth (I just had the shortest dental appointment two weeks ago – I haven't had one in over a year and all she had to do was clean my teeth a bit. No meat, no cavities, yo! Woohoo!), and more energy. It's cheaper for me, too – when you've lost as much weight as I have, and when you can't eat anything that once had limbs, food stops becoming a tourist attraction to you. I feel so clean, which is timely for this stage in my life where I am hell-bent on cleaning out my life as much as possible.

Being relatively new to this dietary lifestyle, there were times when I wasn't as purely vegetarian as I thought. When desperate, for example, I would pluck out the meat from pizza and just eat the bread, or sip chicken stock when skipping a meal was the only other option. I've been slowly removing these little slip-ups, but sometimes, the world seems to be against me. Last week, while eating arugula salad at my favorite restaurant, I stopped short when I noticed something green moving among the leaves – a larvae! Eww. God knows how many of those I've already digested, since I'm always reading or writing while eating.

There are culinary discoveries that have made me wonder, as they don't seem to be meat, but they're not vegetables, fruits or grains either. To the Aussies and the Brits, is marmite vegetarian?* Are you sure? Hmm? I've had it and I don't think it's that bad – marmite/vegemite/black gold pizza is actually good. But it's from yeast, which moves and reproduces pretty quickly, as I've observed under a microscope. Yikes, yo! What have I done?

I had another dietary anomaly today. Out of curiosity and the need for WiFi, I ordered a shot of civet coffee. In my rather blunt and shameless way of describing things, I will define it as coffee beans that you pick from poop and then charge people a lot of money for. Here is the definition from the back of the really expensive jar: "Picked from the Philippine forest floors during coffee season, the Philippine Civet Coffee comes from the droppings of the palm civet, a nocturnal animal that chooses and gorges only the ripest and sweetest coffee cherries. These coffee cherries are fermented in the civet's digestive system and are dropped as whole beans. The beans are then washed, dried, and roasted, capturing the complex flavors for everyone to enjoy."

It was brought to me: hot, steamy, with the fascinating color of excrement. Ah! An expensive espresso shot. I took my first sip. And nearly choked. Whoa, yo! "Complex" is right. It's really strong and bitter; just two sips and I couldn't take any more. (Here's another thing with vegetarian yogis – we can't take as much caffeine as we used to.) "For everyone to enjoy," my ass. But back to my question – was this vegetarian or not? A show of hands, please. I mean, it went through some animal's intestines and went out its butt, for the love of God. Bleh. Regardless, I will never do it again; it's just too strong for me. Oh well. Now I know what it tastes like, I will never have to wonder anymore. It's my new thing for today – drink coffee from animal poop. (I have a daily habit of doing something new every single day. I might go racecar driving next week. We'll see. I will let you know.)

Ah. Just when I thought life was made simpler by exclusion, there are exceptions that I must consider. But to simplify everything, let's hear it for my new vegetarian rule (I might make a T-shirt out of this):

I don't eat anything that's greater than 15% homologous with my genome.

Lots of love,
Cathy

* Edit: Yes, marmite/vegemite is vegetarian, since yeast is a sentient organism and belongs to the taxonomic kingdom of Fungi, where mushrooms also belong. Ah, portobello mushrooms! Without you we vegetarians will starve!

P.S. Humans share a 47, 63, 38, 15, and 20% homology with the fruit fly, the mouse, C. elegans, baker's yeast, and Arabidopsis, respectively.

P.P.S. Yes, Manila was stormy over the weekend, but I'm ok! As are all my family and friends. Thank you for the concerned e-mails. You guys are the sweetest!

The Sunshine Post #27: Bugged and Bothered

2008-06-16T04:34:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

Dang it, I’m mad.

I am infuriated! I am outraged!

I have been stood up by a record eleven people in four days on six different occasions. Eleven! Dear God. Do I look like someone who has a lot of idle time on her hands? Leche*. Argh, if there’s one thing I hate worse than being late, it’s not showing up at all. Tsk. Such an insult to my feminine charms, yo. Am I this cancelable?

*Leche: lĕ’-chĕ. Spanish for milk. I use it as a way to curse without really cursing. It has a nice sharp phonetic zing to it. Say it with me now! Leche! Leche! Lech lech lech!

A second source of irritation is the number of cockroaches I have been encountering. I have killed dozens in the past week or so. There are a lot of them, man, both in the office and at home. (It’s the weather; it’s an odd mixture of humid and rainy now. Ugh. What on earth is this? The Reaping?) Having to gut and decapitate rodents for a while (and therefore desensitized to pests) has made me the Go-to Girl when it comes to these buggers, and I have learned that killing them consists of two phases – Step, then Slide. The second is mandatory because many a roach has resurrected itself, leading to a lot of screaming women in the office.

I don’t know which is worse, wasting my time, or going to war with a bunch of bugs that can survive nuclear warfare.

Ok, deep breath. And release. Ahhhhhh. Off to yoga! No humans for a week! Or until they know what to do with a watch.

I’m a little peeved today, yes. I mean, I had to drink coffee to get free WiFi! And it wasn’t even decaf! Harumph.

Dang it, I’m mad!

And a little hormonal. Oweeee. Sniffle.

Lots of (indignant) love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #26: Retroviral Reflections and the Wonders of 'Wawa'

2008-06-09T07:52:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

My unspoken vow of silence and isolation was broken this Saturday, when I had to speak the whole day for work. I know, right? For a “Director of Communications,” I’ve been pretty silent and anti-social, yo! But after years of listening to drivel, trust me, I’ve learned to pick the more efficient and lasting ways to communicate with people. I remember one class in grad school where everyone had to critique a paper. Everyone was just dissing the data for hours, while I had nothing to say because they all hated each other. I did, however, come up with a really long poem entitled “Vocabulary of a Poser.” Talk about a sign.

I slept at two in the morning the night before and awoke five hours later to give a workshop on HIV/AIDS. The gist was I had to give them a Powerpoint on how HIV works, how it is transmitted, why we’re interested in it, etc., and to get them to give an HIV speech. Ah, I had no idea how on earth this was going to go. I’ve never given a science talk to people who weren’t going to critique the work, ask me about experiments, and inquire which brand of Petri dish I used. The feeling was strangely pleasant – since transmission of information was the whole point, I was a lot more concerned with making sure they understood what I was saying, instead of trying to smoothly steer them away from the questionable numbers in my data. When competition and getting published are not an issue, the ability to educate and to inform is magnified a hundredfold.

I had hope after last May’s Blast-O-Cysted Summer Camp. (The word of the day, if you must know, was retrovirus.) A couple hours later, I was floored when Desiree used the words “retrovirus, “integrates” and “genome” in one sentence. I was shrieking with glee, bouncing up and down and clapping my hands. I nearly had tears in my eyes, yo. Whee! I can explain stuff without making people fall asleep! See, science isn’t that boring and hard!

Later that afternoon, I had to speak again, this time on how I came to do what I am doing now. (This is pretty much “the story” I say to everyone, so I didn’t have to prepare much.) From decapitating rodents to making vegan cupcakes and being among people who want to join the Cirque de Soleil -- I guess it does make for a rather unusual story for some people (although it makes perfect sense to me!). I’d like to think my audience recruitment and motivational skills weren’t too bad. I mean, how on earth can you go wrong with the theme “I-hated-humanity-before-coming-to-WYA-and-now-that-I’m-here-I-am-allergic-to-people-less-and-less,” right? I was under orders by the Directors here to tone down my personality (which was the hard part, but hell, I was a very proper Catholic schoolgirl with pigtails once upon a time).

As I was speaking, I noticed that many of the veteran members and former interns, Donna and Emily in particular, had these doe-eyed constipated “awwww” looks on their faces, which confounded me and almost made me lose my place, until I went out to dinner with the former at Cyma. Mein Gott, this is officially my Philippine-Greek equivalent of Gobo, although it’s not all vegetarian. I can eat their roka (arugula) salad every day forever. Finally! Something I can eat! Yum yum.

By some attack of misfortune, all of my friends cancelled their plans with me that day, which was annoying at first but I’m fine since it was a time for me to get to know these people more. Dinner with Donna that evening was … hmm, there is no word for this – let’s just say that imagining myself in her stories made me digest my dinner faster. Ah, the love these people have for this organization! Amazing. I am so happy to be here! But yow, you guys, I am glad for the more stoic, non-Filipino bloodline/s coursing through my veins – I don’t think I am built to be that emotional and weepy; I will likely have an aneurysm. I mean, I was exhausted just listening to her New York internship stories – so many sentimental tears! How… heh, I can’t believe I’m saying this word, but how wawa*.

* wawa (adj.) – Pronounced wáwâ. Say it with me now! Wawa. Wa. Wa. Wawa! Whee! A word that World Youth Alliance Asia Pacific members say a lot; I think we can trace it to Tams. It’s short for kawawa – Filipino for “pitiful.” Wawa is used in a loving way, especially when said with puppy-dog eyes in a voice that’s a few notes higher than normal. Example: Aww, a cockroach ran up your face? You’re so wawa. (Insert pout here.)

Whee! I am slowly building friendships here – a big relief to a lot of people, I know. As I write this, Peejay, a national committee member, just SMS-ed me to tell me that he loved the Bikram yoga class we just had. Yahoo! I will turn all of them into healthy focused yogis, one lechon**-eating person at a time. Trina, a former intern and my Gold Standard for Hyperactivity and Enthusiasm, sent me a message late one evening to tell me that Moleskines are still available in Manila in this particular bookstore. Thank God and aww, that was sweet. And Frank will teach me all about the stock market in exchange for web design instruction tomorrow. Yay!

** lechon – roasted suckling pig. Oh dear God. Donna told me about riding in a truck with her arm around one, with the oil dripping on her. I just blanched. Bleh.

All this sounds pathetic, I know. But I’ve been so alienated and alone for so long and only had mice and Chloe, my purple Carebear Cub, to keep me company at night for three years, that I think wanting to be with the people around me as opposed to feeling forced to socialize in meetings and parties, listening to drivel and engaging in inconsequential small talk all the time is actually big and bloggable. I may want to take on more challenges in the future, but please God, don’t let me go through the a repeat performance of feeling so agonized and sad, thinking that a minute more with the wrong people will make me slit my wrists, and not having anyone’s name to place on my Emergency Contact Person box. How unbelievably depressing. How perfectly dull. How incredibly dismal.

How very wawa.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #25: Twenty-Five and Still Alive

2008-06-04T21:59:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I’m 25.

Twenty-five.

25.

Dalawampu’t lima. Er sher wu. Di tsah goh. Viente cinco. Vingt-cinq. Twenty five

Hmm. I’ve written this in all the languages I know but it still feels strangely new to me.

My birthday, for the first time, was uneventful. In fact, I did nothing to commemorate the day. I don’t know why; I wasn’t depressed or anything. But I’d like to think that I’m at that stage where I am finally on the right track and happy with everything I am doing that there’s no need for one big explosion of affirmation. I think that joy is the theme of my life, and that solitude happens to accompany it at this point although hopefully not forever. To be 25 seems to have some sort of finality – dang it, you’d better have learned SOMETHING at this point to make all this turmoil worthwhile!

Ah, but yes! What good is a blog without the necessary reflective post that I will cringe at years from now? Here are twenty-five points to commemorate twenty-five years:

Five Things I Will Do For a Long Time, if Not Forever
1. Create. If I cannot relate to the real world, then I shall make my own! Long live the power of the Whee!
2. Do yoga and martial arts. I refuse to be a Botoxed weakling when I am 40.
3. Learn new things and teach them to others. Passing knowledge on is my way of determining whether I really understood it or not.
4. Write. When the silence is deafening and my head is close to exploding, typing my thoughts on screen eases the migraines.
5. Attempt to make people happy, then bounce away! Doesn’t it make you feel warm and fuzzy inside? Repeat.

Five Things I Will (Hopefully) Never Do Again
1. Do a Ph.D. I seriously think it stifles creativity. And I have neither the attention span nor the competitive urge for it.
2. Eat meat. I can’t eat anything that used to have beaks or boobs anymore, you guys. I can’t even look at rotisserie chickens without having the urge to puke.
3. Hold back when I really want to do something. I think everyone should have a Bucket List written down as early as possible, and go back to it as regularly as they can.
4. Be anyone’s doormat. Ha! That goes without saying.
5. Ghost write for anyone. Ever! (Yeah, that’s right! Everyone has to do their own speeches, love letters and articles from now on, yo. You are stomping on my dignity by taking my words without proper compensation! The world has enough drivel; let’s at least remove the anonymity and own up to your loggorhea!)

Five Things I Am Grateful For
1. Knowing what I am innately good at and what I really want to do, without peer and parental pressure, competition or nepotism. And knowing is half the battle!
2. Being healthy. Trust me, this yoga/taekwondo/healthy eating thing was waaaay out of my character three years ago.
3. Three years alone in New York City. They were painful and tumultuous (and next time I’m in a new city by myself again, remind me to make friends earlier) but I guess that was the point. I think everyone should break out of the mold eventually. I’m just happy it came earlier than later.
4. Making friends wherever I go. Because nomads need love, too!
5. My sarcasm. I think irony is something we can all grab onto when the chips are down, so we won’t ever take some things way too seriously.

Five Things I Regret
1. Not spending more time with interesting people I’ve met. There may be no goodbyes, but there are farewells to the type of person your friends are at this moment.
2. Making excuses. When someone asks you how far you want to go, you don’t give a number; you say “All the way!”
3. Learning these lessons only now. When you look at it, they seem a little ‘duh.’ Didn’t we learn all these in kindergarten?
4. Being resistant to change. Ah. I still am, sometimes.
5. Not going to trapeze school when I had the chance! *sob* I shall fly one day, you’ll see!

(At Least) Five Things I Will Do This Year
1. Climb ______.
2. Learn ______.
3. Earn my ______.
4. Attempt to ______.
5. Create ______.
These will, of course, be documented in the most fun way possible.

Hmm. Now that I think about it, one reason I didn’t feel like partying was that I felt this irrepressible sense of exhaustion. The racetrack I placed myself on turned into a roller coaster that seemed to go on forever, and now I am dizzy and badly need to hurl. Too many things keep happening that I feel glad to have written about them so I have some sort of proof. (These e-mails aren’t some random idea, by the way. Before The Sunshine Posts, there were 100 Chronicles of Paranoia e-mailed to 200 of my friends. My writing mentor wants me to turn those into a book, but yikes, I don’t think so. There are way more embarrassing and incriminating things there than I want strangers to know. And who on earth wants to pay for some chick’s neurotic drivel? I might turn it into a blog for posterity’s sake.)

But I digress. Now that I think about it, adventurousness and productive creativity are just my Freudian way of making sure I never have to be embarrassed about revealing my age. I never want to have to hide my age (or look my age for that matter, hence the facials), and feel like being asked that question is a violation of my person because I feel I hadn’t done enough. I think it’s why I want to experience everything as early as possible, even just once – the twenties are, after all, the years where we laugh, cry, love, and hate with the greatest force we have ever known.

When I was 21, I dreaded uncertainty, but now I think it is a blessing and a challenge to have to carve out my life with my own hands. If there’s one scenario I am glad not to be in right now, it’s to be in the corporate/medical/law/academic world, surrounded by the same type of people I grew up with, engaged to someone in one of my circles. I’m sure it’s a nice pleasant story with more or less a happy ending, but I’d rather see the world and know how beautiful, destructive, joyful, painful and limitless life can actually be before settling down on some preordained path. That’s the true measure of a life well-lived, I think – to extract from it happiness with substance, instead of happiness that’s too thin and trite, even Hallmark doesn’t want to make a greeting card about it. And as the great and renowned tour guide and performer Carlos C------ reassured me just a few weeks ago (and to everyone in their twenties, I propose we turn this into our battle cry):

“It’s all drama until you hit 30.”

Lots of love,

Cathy

The Sunshine Post #24 - Vows through Vicissitudes

2008-05-29T07:31:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

My writing mentor Sandra tied the knot two Saturdays ago, and quite typically, it was not your typical wedding. The theme was pre-war times, and the bride and groom looked they were members of the Mafia. I love it! There was no entourage, which, now that I think about it, saves a lot of time, money, fabric, and social tension. The food was vegetarian-friendly, and the wedding cake came in the form of cupcakes that the two of them finished baking at four in the morning.

They were married in a library, with a couple of the great Filipino writers as sponsors, with up-and-coming writers for guests, and with books as souvenirs (They combined their library and wanted to get rid of the books that doubled. I ended up with Running in the Family by Michael Ondaatje; I had them pick it out for me.) Whee! I love events with themes! It’s like going to an amusement park with people and interior design as entertainment.

Seeing a mentor get married was quite an experience. You’re close, but in a different way; it was like seeing an older sister I didn’t grow up with get hitched. I’ve known of the groom for a while –teaching literature entails relating one’s personal stories to what your students are studying. His vows “came in the form of cupcakes,” he stated. Ah, my kind of guy. I actually think we’re related – his surname is the same as my mom’s maiden name and they came from the same province.

Years ago, being surrounded by all these writers would have made me giddy with excitement. (I’m calmer now, if you can believe that.) “You want to meet Philippine literature? Here, meet Philippine literature!” Sandra exclaimed, gesturing to her friends. These are the people who, as one of them pointed out in a toast, endeavored to use words like “vicissitudes” in everyday conversation. (I am not kidding. It’s like all the GRE words I studied are finally put to good use.)

Their marriage wasn’t a photograph -- one-shot, short, and immediately gratifying. Instead, it was a painting – multi-layered, textured, with patches that could either be interpreted as imperfections, or attributes that are just part of the art. It was a ceremony that represented years of knowing each other and realizing in the end that a life together made absolute sense.

There is something to be said about marriages that have a lot of history backing up the relationship. Instead of growing with each other when you get hitched young, you marry each other already the person you were meant to become. I guess in some ways, this makes the relationship stronger – each of you has already gone through so much, now you’ve finally figured yourself out and want to share that life you’ve made with someone else.

When I was in college, I looked at writers with a certain sense of awe. When you study in a university that is known for student activism, you see writing as a catalyst for change. You also begin to see writers for their (many) indulgences. I remember being 19 years old and Sandra assigned me to beer duty during one Writer’s Night. I had to do at least six beer runs (Six! Dear God.), which was odd (and exhausting and wasted on me) because I don’t drink. A lot of fiction writers love their booze; I guess that’s why I cannot be one full-time.

Hmm. The fact that I didn’t choose writing immediately after college makes me think that it’s not what I’m meant to do, at least for now. I think that anything original should be organic and come naturally – the struggle must exist, yes, but more so because that thing inside of you is just bursting to come out in the most perfect way possible. I think I didn’t want to pursue it head-on because people just kept telling me to write so that I could get published, or so that I could win something. It was technically feasible, but my mind wouldn’t do it because it felt so false.

Like marriage to the love of your life a bit later in life, I guess it’s the same way with professions. Whenever I talk to people of my generation (the ones who are not in medicine, business and law), I discover that we asked ourselves the very same thing: “Why only now?” (Incidentally, this is the English translation of this awesome Filipino song Bakit Ngayon Ka Lang which seems to be a World Youth Alliance thing – that, and Low by Flo Rida. Yikes. Apple bottom jeans! Boots with the fur! Grr! Enough!) I could have dedicated much more of my time and hard work if I knew that this was what I love to do, instead of slaving away in loneliness and despair with only deadly things to cheer me up. Must I feel that I wasted all those years, getting embittered and angry, for something that I eventually could easily let go of?

Well, I hope not. I think that in addition to finding The One, it’s also equally important to discover it at the right time. It’s why child actors fade away quickly, or give in to pressure so easily. There has to be some level of personal history behind success for it to mean anything in a human way. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself to get through the ordeal. (It has worked so far.)

In a way, it’s great. I’m not there yet, but I’m getting there! Whee! I just need to make friends with Photoshop to execute all the things in my head that are clogging up my neural networks. To be honest, I have to remind myself constantly of the joy I feel when I’m immersed in a personal project, because there are so many haunting distractions that call me back into my old life. In the same way as it’s not too late to change careers, it’s also not too late to go back to the old one, especially since I still cough up science every chance I get.

But just like relationships, I guess professions, especially creative ones, have to be fought for. You may not love it to death all the time, but in the end, you know you will lose yourself if you try doing something else. I am not letting The One be The One that Got Away.

I’d like to believe that what you’re meant to do in life (or in my mentor’s case, the person you end up with) is something you can get lost into, forgetting time, distractions, people who may or may not support you, the very air that you breathe. It still makes sense despite such contradictions; you will make all rational arguments not to do it, but you still need to do it anyway. You end up living in your own world with your own rules and sense of time. And you become grateful that for one indescribable moment, you actually lived. I guess that a big part of life is the search for The One, because we need it to understand ourselves better. Especially when encountering life’s vicissitudes.*

Lots of love,
Cathy

P.S. I am almost embarrassed to admit that I barely knew what this word exactly meant and had to Google it to be enlightened. Here you go:

Vicissitudes [viss-iss-it-yewds] changes in circumstances or fortune, often for the worse

Seriously, who uses this in everyday life? There’s just a lot of hissing.

Then again, I still get ridiculed here for the word “blastocyst,” so who am I to talk.

The Sunshine Post #23: Thoughts Before the Big Two Five

2008-05-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

In a week from now, I shall be turning the supposed dreaded age: twenty-five. You know, young people tend to be mortally terrified of reaching this age, and I’ve been given so much advice and warning on what should be either a milestone, or a death sentence. Even my aesthetician used to tell me that I don’t have to put on make-up, or begin to be seriously concerned about my skin, until I turn 25. What is it with this age? I am sort of imagining my body to suddenly deteriorate when June 3rd strikes. I will let you know.

But on this note, I wanted to share something I wrote on Christmas Day last year: a summary of the last three (lonely but tumultuous) years, written in three lists. (When you are alone for Christmas for the second time in a row, you write more as a way of talking to yourself to ward off the silence. Hmph. Hopefully, Yule 2009 will find me watching fireworks on some white sand beach.) Looking at these rosters after six months gives me such joy; I think of my life now and I am suprised to find out that I’m sticking to them, and I didn’t even have to check on them every so often – everything comes naturally now. Before, my life was very linear: It could be summarized as:

Get Ph.D. --> Head lab --> Die

Whee! Yeah baby! Thank God this wasn’t what I am meant to do!
***
December 25, 2007

10 Things I Learned about What I Should Do with My Life, Whether Scientific or Otherwise
1. There must be joy.
2. I must love the people, or they at least must not want to kill each other.
3. The odyssey must be as enjoyable as the destination.
4. I must be surrounded by role models.
5. Social skills and leadership qualities must be an absolute requirement.
6. It shouldn’t bank on knowing what other people are doing.
7. It must be based on actual talent and creativity.
8. I should not ride on anyone’s coattails.
9. There should be variety, instead of hammering a point down repeatedly to the point that it has lost all its wonder.
10. I should be able to make a personal, original contribution.

10 Things I Learned About Life and Myself through Cancer Research
1. The only thing worse than failure is questionable success.
2. Being correct does not matter to me.
3. I have a very short attention span.
4. I live in my own little world of happy.
5. I am capable of doing absolutely anything as long as I want it.
6. I am incapable of being obnoxious just to try to sound intelligent.
7. I have no desire to compete with other people.
8. When making plans, be as detailed as possible. But when something better pops up, grab it before it’s too late.
9. It is still cute to make mistakes in your early twenties, but tragic to do so much later.
10. Do what makes you happy!

Three Scenarios I Can Think of Ten Years from Now
1. I join the circus where my flexible yogafied butt will be paired with my juggling skills, and I livehappily ever after with a Spanish-speaking trapeze artist who caters to my vegetarian dietary needs.
2. I live in a Shaolin monastery where, in exchange for martial arts training and rent, I bake vegancupcakes to feed the bald monks.
3. I write novels and cartoons in the quiet European countryside and moonlight as a teacher of taekwondo to juvenile delinquents. Occasionally I may cross paths with Peter Mayle and Carolina Herrera* while shopping for organic food, and we high five each other for choosing the creative life.

* Peter Mayle left the corporate world of advertising to be a novelist. Carolina Herrera, Jr. took up biochemistry but joined her mother’s fashion empire. Added to this list is Yohji Yamamoto, Paris-based fashion designer who also has a black belt in karate. There are a lot of us! Woohoo! I hope to be like these people!
***

I just finished watching Iconoclasts, this show about today’s “visionaries” (I haven’t had a TV in so long; the good thing is that I am very selective about what I watch now. If it’s not CNN, BBC, the Discovery Channel, NatGeo, or reruns of Will and Grace, I think twice before giving it the time of day). Quentin Tarantino and Fiona Apple were on, and I loved how the former said that after doing Kill Bill, he felt like he climbed Mt. Everest. After that, so many other potential projects became small easy hills, which he didn’t want to do anymore. He also thought that he didn’t want to do another tumultuous Kill Bill climb. But he said that “Years from now, you won’t want to climb Mt. Everest. Now is the time you have to climb your Mt. Everests.”

Whee! Here’s to seeing the world and not letting any opportunity go to waste. Climb on!

Lots of love,
Cathy

P.S. Anyone interested in contributing to a happy creative project? Am looking for interested people! Please e-mail me!

The Sunshine Post #22: Of Blastocysts and the Beach

2008-05-21T18:48:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

Despite my vow never to do an experiment ever again, I find myself having to explain scientific concepts at work, which, surprisingly, I do like. Science is amazing! The logic of how these different parts just fall into place is just fantastic. This is even though being The Geek at Work entails you to be mercilessly teased for some of the terms you say.

Case in point: The lone contribution* I had to the past summer camp was the fact that, drum roll please, these kids now know the life cycle of the HIV virus. Ohmygod, you guys! They all know the Central Dogma of Molecular Biology! Whee! *takes a bow* I am so proud of my babies! And, ahem, they all know what a blastocyst is! (Although I kept getting ridiculed for that part. Dears, it’s BLAST-o-cyst, not blas-TOE-cyst! Please humor me.) You guys all know these, right? Right?

* (Well, it’s that plus the fact that I was placing acne medicine on everyone’s zits. Mario Badescu’s Buffering Lotion, yo! The best for those “headless” red bumps that are painful and inflamed. Badescu + Blastocyst on the Beach in Bicol = Annoying Alliterations I cannot Avoid)

But I digress. Sometimes I am frustrated by the unbalanced distribution of scientific knowledge in the world which I think is crucial for creating solutions and understanding life. On the one hand, you have all these academics who are too busy and are caught up in their careers to have time to make non-academics understand science, and on the other, you have those who have the best intentions and want to “save the world” but are unfamiliar with scientific concepts that they would really benefit from. Seriously, for the headlines that HIV/AIDS is currently making, I’m a little appalled that there are few/no ads that show what an HIV virus looks like, and so many of celebrities looking pretty. One can only take so many Gap ads in one lifetime. There must be some balance, you know.

I do think that science is sometimes explained in a really inaccessible way. I think it’s why I like talking about molecular biology to those with no scientific background: there must be more people with creative ways of presenting all these wonderful facts to the world in a manner that won’t kill their audience with boredom. I used to be able to explain neuronal polarity with kitchen utensils. To be fair, my friends all understood it (unless they were just trying to be supportive).

It takes a lot for me to admit this, but I hated what had to happen to me in grad school. I love science and I would still marvel over the accuracy of pipettes, and bounce up and down when I got a pellet for my DNA minipreps. I think that’s why I try to drown myself in work and in personal projects and try as hard as I can not to have idle time -- there is still a small part of me that wonders whether I was one of those who “didn’t make it” because she couldn’t hack it. I resented the feeling of being defeated by some insecure aging people who felt like the walls were closing in because of another grant deadline or that they were cheated because they didn’t have much to show despite their intelligence -- the egotistical nutjobs with nonexistent social and fashion skills whom I have never heard of and will likely never hear about ever again. I sound a little mad, I know, but argh! Woe to you and to your western blots, damn it.

There are times when I feel sick to my stomach when I think of how I told myself I would never do academia again. I lost two friends and an aunt to leukemia, and my grandfather to pancreatic cancer. I have a friend who got breast cancer at 25. These are some of the reasons I wanted to do cancer research in the first place – to reduce the suffering that I’ve seen it bring people and their families. Sometimes, I feel very ashamed of myself that I couldn’t just suck it up and do it anyway. I’ve been blessed to have lived this long, to have had countless beautiful relationships, and to have seen a lot of the world. If I must die tomorrow, then I can say that I’ve made the most of life. Why, then, couldn’t I have just devoted my work to something that should help people?

I think one thing that changed with me is how I see solutions. When you’ve grown up in a developing country, the way you solve problems is very reactionary – attend political rallies to go against corruption, incarcerate the criminals, cure the sick, feed the hungry. I think that when the slate isn’t blank to begin with, it limits the type of solutions you can think of. It’s like putting your finger through a hole in a dam that’s about to burst – it works for a few minutes, but it’s not sustainable. Perhaps if we instead create new innovative ways, whether they are geared to solving problems or not, then they will fill some void in our communities and we may even avoid encountering some problems to begin with. Now, I really do think that if we keep pushing ourselves beyond what we thought we could do and strive to be happy all the way, then we will be less angry with the things that befall us that are beyond our control because we will be better equipped to handle them.

I suppose that being just a wee bit angry or defiant is necessary for someone to extract the best of herself, especially since I do concede that I am way too happy for a normal person. Don’t (just) get mad, and don’t get even – instead, go beyond what anyone thought was possible. It will surprise everyone, including yourself. To the social/corporate/academic ladder-climbing, pretentious simpering toadies with no grain of originality whatsoever, especially those meanies who bully interns, assistants and graduate students, this means war, yo! War! Waaarrrr! Creative people are happier, funner, and we have more friends and job satisfaction. One day you will be asking me for money.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #21: Back from Bicol!

2008-05-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I’m back in Manila after a fantastic week in Bicol, this region in the southeastern part of the Luzon island, for World Youth Alliance Asia Pacific’s Summer Camp. I’m one shade darker! Yay! Although it took a while for it to last. I kept running to people like an excited kid and going, “Look! Look! I’m tan! I’m tan! … Oh wait, it’s gone.” But looking at the mirror, I think it’s safe to say that I’m less pale, even though my legs still, as Gabby Tatad says, glow in the dark.

Ah, Bicol* with undoubtedly the happiest and most hyperactive group I’ve met in my life! What an adventure! It doesn’t matter that it rained buckets and that some things did not go precisely according to plan. That’s the thing I love about Pinoys. We can get soaked to the bone, be left stranded (once by our bus and another by our pick-up truck) in our swimsuits (we had to walk through town drenched in the rain), have pineapples fall on our face (one brave intern suffered through this – they came from nowhere, yo! She’s ok.), and be threatened by an earthquake of 6.8 magnitude (which did not happen, thankfully), but it’s all good! We will turn it into a photo op and have stomachaches from laughing so hard. Tuloy ang kaligayahan (The happiness continues.).

* pronounded Bee-kol. It ain’t Bī-call, yo! I’d kick your butt.

It felt amazing to be on the beach again. The last time my feet touched sand was on Coney Island, which trust me, doesn’t qualify as a summer paradise. I slept near the tent’s door and watched the stars and woke up to an orange-pink marmalade sunrise. I marveled at the foggy view of the distant mountains which looked like a cross between a Japanese painting, and a taco. The white froth of the waves appeared in staccato fashion on the shore, accompanying the crescendo of the tides. Heaven on earth, man! And this wasn’t even a white-sand beach! Argh! I cannot wait to go to Boracay! I’ve had it with concrete and asbestos and Botoxed women in their Manolos!

And the food, the food! After living off of yogurt, fruit and granola bars, it was felt sinfully delightful to indulge in one of the top ten Filipino practices that is rivaled only by karaoke and taking pictures: eating. Filipinos fry everything – from the garlic rice, eggs and sausages that make up longsilog, to the bananas that we first soak in batter and put cheese on. The latter sounds horrible, but trust me, it tastes amazing. We had fresh mangoes and coconuts after bathing and sunning ourselves in a river that was barely touched – we had to trek through mud to get there and back. We had a beach campfire where we had s’mores and hotdogs (well, everyone but me had hotdogs), and hours of photography and dancing. Really, it doesn’t take much to give us happiness that will last a long time.

There were some things I would rather not remember. I nearly fell out of the back of the (moving) pick-up truck that was driving us from one town to the other; I grabbed on to Frank Chiu, who was next to me. I wasn’t sure if it was still ok to use my towel which I hung from a window, after learning that the walls of our cabana were likely soaked in bat piss. And I think I am traumatized for life after riding a motorcycle between towns in my pink polka-dotted silk pajamas (I was strategically holding my shirt in place because my pants were falling down.) during a scavenger hunt.

But I can’t ever forget the kids who were there. I’ve met a lot of people who have studied human rights and parrot on how they can supposedly save the world, but don’t practice common decency with their fellow human beings; these kids are barely out of college but they know a lot more about dignity than, well, a lot of people. It’s just the little things really – one of them was insistent to lend me her sleeping bag because she didn’t want me to endure back pain from sleeping on the sand, I loved (LOVED!) my teammates who kept making me laugh, and even though Peejay Manalo et al mercilessly teased me for being vegetarian during training (“Cathy can’t eat anything with a face!”), they were practically spoonfeeding me with the food that they thought I could eat. And ahem, one of them thought I looked 20 years old. Good boy, 100 extra points to you! (He called me “Mommy” all the time, though. Yikes.) Three of us said goodbye to catch an earlier flight, and it was hilarious for me to go “Oh no! Goodbye! I will miss you! *Kiss kiss hug hug.*” and go through this ceremony three times even though I would likely see most of them the following week. Haha.

But seriously, I think the best people who can articulate human dignity are those who practice it as second nature, and just train and educate them well, as opposed to those who may have more education and experience, but who still have to have it spelled out to them that bullying people and caring only about yourself is not a good thing. Cultural differences, my ass. Heart is the one thing you can’t fake regardless of where you’re from.

You know, I’ve always thought that organizations like the World Youth Alliance typically attract the “good” people, but I wasn’t prepared for these. I only have half the hyperactivity that these kids have (which says a lot, I know). This may be biased, but I think that the fact that the Asia Pacific office is in Manila is an incredibly good thing. I don’t think you will find anyone as welcoming and as nurturing as Pinoys. It’s like caring for people is imprinted in our genome, and we may not know you much, but we will love you to death and you will not know what hit you.

My mind was considerably lighter when I got back. Honestly, I was a little hesitant to go in the first place. I didn’t realize how much being in the wrong lab damaged me. After cancer research, I was very withdrawn and subdued – I just hated being with humans. I didn’t want to create relationships with anyone and would always be somewhat detached; a barrier would be there. I would still do and create things for people but I would try not to feel anything for the person and just revel in the joy of doing – it felt very karmic that way. (You should see people’s photos – I carved out the organization’s logo on the inside of a coconut husk. I’m on a roll, yo. They all thought I was nuts.)

I think I am terrified of getting close to people now, and have inadvertently kept all of them at arm’s length. I have observed it even with the people I work with; I don’t think I’ve made much of an effort to tell people about myself, even though I have tried to make up for it by showing them every creative thing I’ve made. Even back in New York, my mind would always draw a blank every time I had to fill out the Emergency Contact Person box on any form. (This was quite sad, really.) Ah, curse the breakups and meltdowns and the loneliness that they cause! It’s amazing how these things can scar you for life, even though you know that they really don’t mean much in the larger scheme of things.

But being with all these college kids just dented the bubble I have imprisoned myself in, yo. (Albeit temporarily – I came back home and suddenly I want to hide from the world again. Oh well. This takes time.) They’re just so nice and warm and really quite unlike any other group of individuals I have come across – and I’m Filipino! I told myself that it is impossible to go as long as two years without getting my necessary shot of Pinoy love. They’re just so sweet, they sweat sugar. My heart was melting even though my waistline was expanding. Seriously you guys, how many fried bananas can you have before they wreak havoc on your digestive system? I couldn’t poop for two days, man.

I told Ren before I left that I think I’m slowly coming back to my pre-NYC/pre-cancer research self. She exclaimed, a bit exasperated, “Finally! After a year!” Oh shut up. I taught you how to swim, yo. Plus I can blackmail you forever after that little incident where you practically mooned the entire town by walking around in your bathing suit. In the rain.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #20

2008-05-09T08:50:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I am rethinking the wisdom of this No-Yoga-For-A-Month plan, and with good cause. Yoga is really one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself, even though it takes up a lot of time and money. I think it makes you a better person, if not for the belief in karma, then the biological effect of having your circulatory system become more effective in pumping blood throughout your organs, making you feel happier.

I never thought how effective these meditative exercises could be; it was so easy to poke fun at the people going “Ohm” before. But I guess you become less receptive to environmental distractions because your mind is so focused and spiritually content. It’s why yoga studios target people who lead extremely stressful lives. In a way, you are blessed with such a great sense of self-possession and internal harmony that you become immune to things like crowds, noise, gossip and the like. I am trapped in my own little universe, and I think I like it this way.

Well I guess the disadvantage of living in LaLa Land is I am numb to stimuli that should not be ignored. This week, I was riding a cab (that looked like it had seen better days) to go to the bank. For a long while, I slowly became aware of this ticklish feeling of something crawling, but paid no attention. Until, hmm, wait a second, it feels like it’s on my shoulder and huh, it’s been there for awhile. Ok, let us snap out of this reverie and check out reality, why don’t we? Landing on Planet Earth in 3… 2… 1!

I glanced down and saw a huge cockroach that was about two inches long, staring at me and looking like it was about to jump on my face. It’s antennae were already tickling my cheek, and the nagging creepy feeling was concretized right there, perched on my shoulder and looking like it was ready to attack.

And so for that one horrific moment, all illusions of poise and ladylike refinement went out the window and I just lost it.

“AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!” I screeched from the backseat.

The driver yelped. “What?! What’s wrong?!”

“There’s a cockroach near my face!” I cried. (Filipino Word of the Day for you guys: “IPIS!”)

So there I was, squealing and thrashing around in the backseat, alternating between high-pitched hysteria (I kept looking for the cockroach, which, in its terror at some howling girl, was nowhere to be found) and cautionary pragmatism (I was yelling at the cab driver to watch the damn road because he kept looking back at me, helpless and bewildered and clearly on Panic Mode.).

Minutes later, I was so exasperated and tried to regain my dignity. “Will you PLEASE clean your cab?” I sputtered.

“I do!” he protested.

At the end of the ride, I asked, “Hey, don’t I get a discount? That was the most traumatic cab ride of my life.”

“Uh, no.” He muttered something about how never in his years of cab driving had he encountered a passenger like me.

I trudged miserably to the bank, where three armed guards awaited me. I stared at one of them for three seconds and bluntly asked, “Can you please check if there’s a cockroach in my hair?” (I don’t know where that cockroach ended up. I distinctly remember flinging it in the general direction of my open bag, so it could actually be inside and I might have brought it home with me for all I know.)

Inside, the bank teller asked me what was the matter, because I was clearly distraught and not behaving normally. She gave me some hand sanitizer and led me to the ladies’ room. As I slowly regained my senses, I was soon aware of the entire establishment staring at me; they all heard what went on and were clearly amused. I managed a weak smile and locked myself in the bathroom for a few minutes, taking deep breaths and weighing the pros and cons of emptying the contents of my bag to see if the cursed insect was hiding inside.

Upon leaving, I was getting into another cab, when I caught the bank guards grinning at me and waving. I gamely waved back. I think I need to change banks, you guys. I just made myself an urban legend.

You know how the power of suggestion is, well, powerful? How the mere hint of something can lead people to let their imagination run away with them? In my case, every single brush of hair on my face, each trickle of sweat down my leg, the constant touch of fabric on my body, and every synapse of my nerve endings make me shudder at a possible replay of this horrible encounter; I keep scratching myself. I wanted to cut boxing class and do yoga instead. I cannot do this month-long abstinence, man; I might have a heart attack.

I don’t understand how I can guillotine rats so calmly, bounce up and down when using deadly weapons, and eagerly swing through the air so high above ground doing extreme sports, but I scream at the sight of a bug. Welcome to my world.

The saddest thing is that random incidents like this happen to me a lot. My biography is chockfull of these embarrassing moments that I have come to embrace, which explains why I cannot ever take myself way too seriously anymore. You hear that, world?! I am resigned to having my life as a big fat joke! Bring it on, yo!

Dear God, I think I just aged ten years and lost the effects of two years of yoga that day. Dignity is innate, isn’t it? You cannot take it away, right? Right? But I think I was close to losing it there.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #19

2008-05-06T09:33:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I’ve been spending a lot of time with old friends lately, and it’s been so nice. I’ve met a lot of great individuals in the past years, but it’s good to be with people who have known me since I was in kindergarten, playing in the swings and wearing pigtails. I tip the waiters here a lot because my friends and I get so engrossed in our conversations, we end up drowning out the whole restaurant with our laughter. Home is where you are with people who can emotionally blackmail you because they know you so well.

But I think this is the reason why a significant part of me dreaded going back home: I’m not particularly wealthy or anything, but I’m pretty spoiled here because of the people around me. My friends treat me incredibly well, especially because we’ve known each other since we were really young. I am very grateful especially for my guy (and gay!) friends who on the whole have entertained my every whim and fancy. Who else will teach me all about cars, the stock market, the recession, and all these other boring topics that need to be patiently explained to me? Who else will bike all the way to my house to give me vegetarian sisig out of the blue? (I guess he felt that I would starve here in Manila. Aww.) For everything I ever wanted to do, I always knew I had someone who can offer help should I need it.

I think that’s one aspect of living in a developing country that I am grateful for – having so many friends and a very strong sense of community. Being blessed with all these people made me deal with a bad boss a lot better, at least in some self-preserving psychological way. Dude, if my friends ever meet you, they will rip you apart for what you did to me!

As one who left home and spent years alone, one of the many experiences that stayed with me was working shifts for the yoga studio I frequented. Because money was tight and I couldn’t pay for classes anymore, I signed up as one of their workstudies – work a few hours every week maintaining the studio and you get free yoga. Woohoo!

As a workstudy, I mopped sweat off of floors, wiped mirrors, did hundreds of loads of laundry (You never know how many towels yogis would use, but man! It’s a lot.), cleaned sweaty mats, washed strangers’ used clothing and underwear, dealt with different bosses and teachers, fielded off sexual harassment (Some idiot on the phone; I’m ok, by the way. I told him I do taekwondo. Haha.), and once fell down the stairs while taking out the trash during a night shift when we were closing shop (Ouch!). I put on my happy face and gamely dealt with customers at 8 in the morning on Sundays -- surly New Yorkers who wouldn’t look twice at the girl behind the counter, swiping their credit cards and politely asking them whether they wanted a Vitamin Water or a Zico. There were so many nice people in yoga, though – if you must do customer service, do it in a yoga studio because people are generally nicer. It’s bad karma to be crabby in yoga.

I never thought much of that back then, but now, I think it was a good character-building experience. Where social hierarchy goes, people in customer service are generally placed down there in the ladder. I guess it’s not viewed as extremely intellectual, although I would argue that learning how to deal with different people’s moods and demands while being as amiable as humanly possible is a mind game in itself.

It feels very humbling and validating as a human being to know what it feels like to be in that position where you looked after people who only had their own interests in mind as paying customers. Your feet are more firmly planted on the ground because you have wiped that ground (in my case, with diluted Sol-U-Mel, yo. The smell was pretty addicting. Mmmm.) The best friends I’ve made in New York have all been waiters, bartenders, and hostesses while pursuing their dreams in acting, singing and musical theater. And they have been the most down-to-earth and fun people I’ve met.

I think everyone needs to have a job in customer service at least at some point in their lives, if at least to know what it’s like for people to think of you as “lowly” and “menial.” Everyone needs to be on the other side of the counter. I think that when I’m off to another foreign land all by myself again, I would choose to work in one of these service jobs, for a few shifts at least, in some café or diner or dojang whether I needed the money or not. It may sound crazy, but I think I have to remember what it’s like to feel just how cold humanity can be to you when they think you’re beneath them. Just to keep me real.

I think it’s what makes it sometimes difficult for me to be with a lot of the people I used to hang out with. A lot of my peers are driven in their luxury cars, are waited on hand and foot and have never mopped anything in their lives. They’ve not known real independence from their families because it was not necessary, and I can’t help but feel that this limits their perspective on the world. How can they help make the world better if they themselves have never struggled? They see poverty and hardship only through the tinted windows of their bulletproof BMWs.

We all run in the same circles too. I think that’s the annoying fact for us nomadic ones: you can never be anonymous. Everyone is related in some way; it’s like we’re inbreeding, yo! Gross. I think that’s one reason why there’s no sense of wonder when it comes to celebrity; we’re probably connected in less than six degrees anyway. My friend’s mother-in-law is the President, for crying out loud. (Eww, by the way.)

I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but I know that I will never be able to look at myself in the mirror and be proud of what I have accomplished if everything was handed down to me, or if things were made a bit easier by virtue of the life I was born into. I think that’s the curse of any oligarchy: mediocrity of ambition because you’re given so much so young, it’s hard to want for anything else. I still believe that we should live each day going beyond what we think is possible – to challenge ourselves whether we can be something bigger, something … more. To be passive and complacent because you were born into privilege is like becoming a bonsai – it’s purty, yo, but it’s not going to help curb global warming like a fully formed oak (oh fine, coconut tree).

I think that’s one reason why, despite me loving it here, I am itching to go off to other places and I won’t stick around home for long. I don’t want to feel content to the point that I will never want to be something more than what I am expected to be. I’m happy that my years in New York woke me up to the fact that I didn’t dream big enough; that I could be so much more than some chick with a PhD applying for tenure in 10 years – it’s not wrong, but I think I was created with this thirst for originality for a reason. I know that for the rest of my twenties and perhaps thirties, I will be traveling and seeing the world, meeting all of these fantastic friends while perfecting my craft and always pushing myself to go further beyond what I thought I could do.

In a way, though, I’m happy that all of these “paradigm shifts” happened to me now, even though having your life change over and over again made me think that someone up there became way too happy and excited rolling the dice of my life. I’m exhausted, man, but not yet broken. I’m so happy that my Quarter Life Crisis is over before my quarter life even began! It was over before I knew it, and I didn’t have to torture myself bracing for it to come.

At the very least, I know how I would want to raise my kids. Whee! I cannot wait to be a mom! Ohmygod, you guys! Can you imagine what fun I would have? I would make my babies organic sandwiches using that Sanrio toaster than burns Hello Kitty’s face on the bread and lots and lots of vegan cupcakes (of course), read them international bedtime stories, teach them sign language (one word every night), and give them at least 20 hugs a day. My kids will learn at least four languages from birth, can fix toilets and change car tires, would have read issues of the Economist, as well as the Bible, the Koran, the Talmud and Confucian literature before they go off to the prom, and will all have black belts before they have their driver’s licenses. As a summer job, I will send them to Maria Grizzetti’s house where they will learn about cleanliness, organization, and proper gourmet cooking. Half of them will take after me and will be very bubbly and hyperactive, while the other half will be a lot more serious and sensible and take after their dad* whose personality is much tamer than mine.

* (One would hope, right? One crazy person is more than enough in any marriage).

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #18

2008-05-05T09:47:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I have very few vices in life, but for the little that I have, at least they're good for me. They are, in no particular order: books, journals, and skin care products. The last one is something I got into only during high school after my best friend urged me to "invest in my skin." I may not own a makeup brush, or lip gloss, or a bottle of hair spray, but I own every type of skin care product known to man. If there's one thing I want in life, it's to age well – not to look your age, but to look like you made the most out of the years given to you.

My friends know this obsession as my thing – if I became a doctor, I would have likely become a dermatologist. I am optimistic every time I see my parents and my relatives who, thank God, age pretty well and look rather young for their years. Yes, Mom, genetics may have swayed me away from cancer research but dang it, I will still look good when I hit 60!

Last Sunday, my ex-professor Sandra took me to a department store to have something I hadn't had in months – a facial! Whee! As a registered bride, she and her friends can spend an afternoon being indulged in the pleasures of one of the most heinously expensive French skin care lines which I will not tell you because of this story. When a facial is free, apparently there is a catch – you are the one who will apply everything on yourself. There were bottles lined up on a red satin-covered table at which we sat (not lay down, oh no. Sheesh.) and were introduced to the skin care line with incredibly unpronounceable ingredients by a girl in a white lab coat. I used to have to draw those molecular structures in organic chemistry class, which I despised.

Ah, what I'd give to be one of those rich housewives who do nothing but use their credit card! Uh, nothing. Inactivity is not my thing, yo. I think it's one reason why even something as simple as cleaning your face is made to be so complicated: to give the Ladies Who Lunch something to pass the time away. When removing cleanser, one had to rip a tissue paper into two, lay it on one's face, press hard, fold the lower half upwards, fold the left side to the right, then finally use that one square of paper to wipe the last corner of your face.

Applying toner is also new. You have to work on both cheeks with two hands to make both sides of your face have the same treatment – kind of like an experiment in that sense, but come ON, man! It's just toner, for the love of God.

As I obediently applied the next – hmm, moisturizer? Radiance booster? I don't remember. The girl looked at me and said very sternly, "No. Long strokes. Like this." And then she proceeded to illustrate The Touch that is trademark of the brand. Both hands on the face, then go upward from the corners of the mouth to the temples. Over. And over. Again. Repeat. That did it. You guys, I tried so hard to be silent and morose, but hearing the words "long strokes" and being so anal about a face cream made me laugh uncontrollably. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!, " I wheezed in between guffaws. "It's just that… HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" The girl looked like she wanted to kill me.

I calmed down after thinking sad thoughts, apologized and remarked on the nice cleansing sensation my pores were receiving (which they did). Minutes later, another girl entered the scene and proceeded to take photos for "our file." At this, we all shielded our faces from the camera with me shrieking, "No pictures! I work for non-profit!" The logic of that sentence befuddles me, too, but sheesh, man – if this gets published anywhere, I will sue your ass. I did learn something from them New Yorkers.

We did this for the next hour, applying product after product and removing them with sheets of cotton. My God, I love taking care of my skin but I never take this long, yo! I think vanity can only be taken so far before we all have to just slap ourselves in the face and say, "Our cells are all going to senesce. Let us accept it and move on."

Oh spite, oh hell. I don't know if it's a bad thing that I don't take a lot of things very seriously anymore, but it's very liberating not to feel like I must obey something just because someone in "authority" tells me to. That's one thing I'm not sure how to feel about – the lack of strong opinions on most things. I think I've developed the ability to zone out people and environmental stimuli to the point that there have been many times when I've nearly gotten hit by cars because I don't hear them. On the other hand, it's very peaceful and joyous to know that you don't care about what anyone else says. It allows me to make decisions solely on the basis of whether I believe in them or not, instead of asking myself if it will make someone else happy. Sometimes, it takes as much strength to take responsibility for yourself as it is to care about other people.

While we were sitting there quietly for a mandatory 15-minutes to wait for our beauty masks to work their magic, I with a hideous white silk bib over my yellow "Procrastinators: Leaders of Tomorrow" t-shirt and an equally hideous white headband with my face full of gunk, Sandra turns to me looking equally monstrous and says:

"You know, when you were my student, I never thought we would have this moment."

I had 10 products on my face. It's starting to smell weird.

Does anyone want a picture?

Lots of love,

Cathy

P.S. Everyone's been calling me 'Catherine' the past week. What's up with that, man?!

The Sunshine Post #17

2008-04-30T09:00:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

There are two things that Mexicans and Filipinos will happily argue about who has the better one: mangoes and boxing. As for the latter, it’s something I’ve found myself doing. Whoa, guys! I am temporarily retiring from yoga and taekwondo for a month. Gasp! It’s just for a short, experimental time, though. Due to the bad sprain I had in early March, I don’t think I should be kicking anything still. And yoga is really expensive. I think I’ve plateaued in both and wouldn’t mind doing something new.

I’m doing it in the school near the office, whose gym I went to years ago. It’s funny seeing the usual people: the university jocks who are older, the trainers who are (still) there. My trainer now, well, doesn’t take me seriously. In hindsight, I don’t blame him. Note to self, don’t wear your Happy Shirt on the first day of anything lethal! The one with the picture of the cookie and the milk carton holding hands, with one of them is saying “I love you!” The bright pink one. Uh huh. And I think I should stop smiling, too. They just read into it so much. Growl next time, for the love of God.

It was slightly better than my first (and only) boxing class in New York City. The trainer led me to the boxing ring. I stared at it, looked back at him, then asked, “Where’s the entrance?” Oops.

It’s been almost two weeks now. My trainer calls me “The Main Event.” He finds my punching so amusing for some reason, and he says that women are weaker. I think he enjoys making me suffer. How sadistic. How infuriating. Hmph. Maybe it’s deliberate; I end up so angry that I make my punches harder. I’m a bit afraid that I will accidentally hit him, but my subconscious will scream, “Yes!” I got neon pink hand wraps to further bother him. Plus they match a lot of what I own.

I’ve gotten much better; he actually falls into the ringside when I punch hard enough. And we play around by exchanging muay thai and taekwondo kicks. When I’m feeling exhausted and want to stall for time, I teach him hapkido moves. Woohoo!

Boxing is a great workout, but a bit barbaric. I like martial arts so much better, where respect is instilled in you from Day One. None of this “You’re a woman so you’re weaker” rubbish, which still is a bit stronger in Asia than in other places. That’s one thing I didn’t like, growing up in a largely patriarchal environment, and there are good and bad things to it. The men are on the whole very gentlemanly, but there are moments when I think whether they’re being gracious because they have a high regard for us, or because they really don’t think much of us. Sometimes I just stand there, seething with rage. I can kick your butt, and I’m taller than you, Oh Puny One. So there.

That’s another reason to love martial arts. Everyone is equal, and no one dares make more of what you say. Everything just… is. Argh. I miss my weapons, my yoga mat, doing poomsae, my martial arts masters in New York who became my therapists!! Two weeks down, two to go! I cannot wait to get back to yoga and taekwondo!!

Anyone think I’m a little hormonal today? Yeah, me too. I’m starting to rhyme; that’s a sure sign.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #16

2008-04-28T05:51:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I went to cover my first press conference after so long. It wasn't entirely by choice – Tammy kind of bullied me into it because my chief was a bit desperate (they got the press release late) and it was for a good cause. She also said it might be good for me to get into the swing of things again, just like old times. My chief seemed pretty happy to hear from me after three years. I hate to admit it, but it felt good being "on assignment" again. Years ago, I liked being "on the go" and off to events that were supposed to be of some national significance.

I have mixed feelings with journalism. I've been doing it since I was, hmm, ten years old, I think. Asking questions is second nature to me, and I am truly interested in the life stories of people. I guess that was my mistake when I went into science – I love asking questions, but not of inanimate objects!

Some of my best stories have come from assignments that I came up with. That's the beauty of being a writer – you can justify EVERYTHING that has ever happened to you, whether good or bad, because they will always be useful, whether they serve as the zenith or nadir of your storyline.

I've had a lot of happy stories. I named one of my (irregular) columns "Temporarily Yours." In it, I wrote about my experiences on a taking a job for a day. I've done a lot of unusual things I wouldn't be able to do if not for this craft. "Oh I'm writing an article," is enough for people to nod wisely and "understand."

For some, college years are forever marked with theses, papers, and presentations. I remember them because of my assignments. I've given a bath to a tiger cub and an albino snake as a zookeeper ("Close Encounter with Wild Things"), taken pizza delivery orders as a call-center agent ("On the Other Side of the Phone Line"), served espresso as a barista ("Conquering the Espresso Machine"), made sushi as a Japanese chef ("Frying Nemo"), became a magician's assistant ("The Sorcerer's Apprentice" – although this title was changed. Blast it.), played the piano in a mall ("The Affair of the Ivory Keys") and once trained as a performing bartender (This I had to scrap because I was busy preparing for my New York move.).

One of my most unforgettable assignments was the time I was a Jollibee mascot. Ah, one of my favorite projects ever! Jollibee is the reason why McDonald's never made it to the top of the fast food hierarchy in the Philippines. Their mascot is a very cute and happy bee (A jolly bee, get it? Get…? Oh never mind.) I couldn't remember an article I wanted more – dude, unless you actually want to work as a mascot, you will never get this chance ever again! I remember a huge head, a lot of sweat, and a sense of imbalance. The title of the article was "A Bug's Life." I couldn't fit my butt in the doorway.

I loved being able to have a lot of fun experiences, and being forced to record them so I could look back and see the adventures I've had. I learned a lot on the job because I was researching things that actually mattered to me; things I would never have learned in school. It was great having feedback from readers, too. I think that was a sign of my naivete – when you're 18, it feels very validating to have your experiences being chronicled for the sake of a publication. It made me feel like I meant something in the larger scheme of things, even though it's just a few paragraphs with my byline, written in between experiments.

But journalism done at a very early age admittedly did make me jaded early on in life. I felt very uncomfortable having my ass kissed by PR people and consultants who were more than twice my age when I hadn't even reach the legal one. But it did make me take my job a lot more seriously than I would say most of my peers. I paid more attention to ethics and accuracy because many of them were more enthralled about having their names on a national newspaper that was actually respected. I think that I was more terrified about being "unworthy" when I was supposedly giving the "truth" to people; I would agonize over every angry e-mail from readers and feel like a million bucks when I received a good one. Say what you will about the evils of the press – the newspapers that are out now will be the source of information for history books that your grandchildren will digest.

I think the stories that really bother me are product launches, which I'm happy to say that I've kept to the barest minimum during the years I worked as a correspondent. I hated those kinds of press cons. Dang it, of COURSE you have to write something good about them – they gave you free stuff! They sat with you and offered you wine and made you feel good about your job. Sheesh, you're almost bullied into giving them a gushy review because of all the PR crap that they went through just to make you feel important.

There are good things in keeping to your so-called "principles," for lack of a better term. The time I declined going to Singapore for a press con by a cellphone company (free flight + free phone + free accommodations = what an ethical nightmare. Would you like a side order of fries with my dignity, sir?) was also the weekend where my thesis experiments finally worked after months of zero results. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally mutagenized my breast cancer antibodies, yo! Mein Gott, site-directed mutagenesis is a bitch. At least when you're doing the whole plasmid with a gene insert of epic proportions. The lab techs and I were screaming ourselves hoarse in the DNA sequencing room -- the security guard actually went in the lab to ask what the hell was going on.

The lone time I agreed to go on a trip was my last article before I said goodbye to Manila. It was for this delegation going to China on some diplomatic thingy. I felt like I should at least say yes my chief once and at least it was for the purposes of patriotism and not a product. I thought it was for, like 10 people. It turned out to be 100+, which was freaky at first but you adapt quickly after four years of covering the unexpected. It was also a nice big farewell article for me after such a long time and ~150 published stories of things I would remember forever because I wrote them all down and I could research on microfilm.

For this night, however, I think I left the event a bit sad. (I was also a bit peeved – it was a product launch, but for a good environmental cause. I'm a bit on the fence on how I feel about it but I think I'm fine since they partnered with this environmental nonprofit. Now that I am working for one, I feel a certain solidarity with fellow NGOs -- yes, we're poor but we mean well: please be nice to us!). I liked the guy and what he and his people stood for. He had a beautiful family, and I really enjoyed being with them. They were even vegetarian! His family made me eat at their table so I could get vegetarian food. I was teaching their 5-year-old son "The Pound" and was giving him high-fives and was pointing to the fireworks on display at the end of the event (We were on a cruise).

But I feel very dismayed that we can never really be friends in the truest sense of the word at least now – I'm still the girl who's writing a story about them so the public can know them. To them, I have to be their ally by virtue of my position. The purity of the relationship is tainted, even though they seem to be very sincere.

But what IS sincerity, anyway? Is there really a relationship where one gives without expecting anything in return? Does a company become less honorable because they wanted the press to know what they are doing, and wish to do so in luxury and style? Does a fancy spread with hired hands who smiled and waved at a set of given instructions make their cause any less?

For every person who has ever reached out to the press, I'm sure they're perfectly nice people. But why do I feel so violated for every smile that seems wider than normal, for every stranger who comes up to me to introduce himself and asks for my number because he has a story to tell? Why does cynicism kick in even though most of parts of me do believe they're good and want to help people?

Man, I suddenly feel so old. And bitter. Haha.

The ex-editor-in-chief in me is heartbroken because the majority of this doesn't feel right to me anymore. I've grown to be way to ensconced in my own little world to want to dig up the dirt from anyone else's. I want to meet people whom I can be great friends with, not beings who will end up as "connections" who will be contacted when they are "useful." I can't live having people want to get to know me because they want their names published in a paper. I don't want to wear a nametag with my name plus some organization's because I will always be identified for the latter. Ah, curse the eternal hubris of creative people! We don't want to be known for something we didn't make ourselves.

If my disastrous affair with cancer research is any indication, I think I'm going to suck at doing journalism full-time, at least if I do it in the wrong area. I'm sure I'm not cutthroat enough to obtain information through sneaky underhanded means. And it's hard for me to be completely and coldly objective sometimes, especially when dealing with people who seem to need help. Sometimes, when you're part of the press, compassion is a great weakness.

Science is the perfect example of something I (thought I) desperately wanted, but didn't want me. Journalism, on the other hand, may be the other way around. At least if I still have to compete with nimrods writing about makeup and shoes. Crap, you guys! I swear there were so many times I wanted to raise hell because of this. Me-ow! I still love to write, and I do believe in the power of the press when implemented the right way, but I really can't do just that. Or at least I will swear off lifestyle journalism forever and ever and stick to, hmm, creative human interest pieces, which I think can represent some of the best work I've had, plus command a high level of originality so that I don't have to compete with anyone. I just want to write about people at their normal, unaffected unpress-conned selves because I find them fascinating, and because it is these raw stories that I'd like to believe sustain us. Plus I never have to open a press kit ever again!

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #15

2008-04-23T05:20:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I had dinner with The Mafia the other night. Not THAT mafia – just a group of girls in my high school who used that term to name themselves for reasons I never knew. But the name stuck all the way to our twenties. I guess it's a better, edgier name that most. Every high school has that clique – the girls who dressed well, are confident and very polished … the glamoristas of their class. They're not like The Plastics (circa Mean Girls), but more of, hmm, Cher and Dionne in Clueless. (My age is showing, I know.) Back then, I was half a loner and always played hopscotch on the Venn diagrams of peer groups, and this was one of those who made me an honorary member. Every group needs their resident nerd.

For those who may wonder how a geek like me who doesn't watch TV and has a world of her own can be so up-to-date with trends, society, fashion, and other things that nerds shouldn't know about, well, now you know. Dude, it's not like I had a choice: They would have probably pounced on me and held me down if I still didn't do something about my wardrobe. These are the people who urged me to "invest" in my skin, to abandon sweatpants and dress up every so often, to know the difference between dulce and Dolce, to know who people like Anna Wintour and Dan Eldon are, and to welcome hair removal. They gave me the education every girl (and boy) should have -- at least for informational purposes.

Anyway, meet some of my favorite people who are extremely important to me, and whom you will meet should I get married or die young:

Rhea – My source of financial knowledge. One of the many friends who was so worried about me in grad school, when I was showing uncharacteristic signs of depression. We're closer now because of my tumultuous "breakup" with academia. She's that girl in your class who has the patience to arrange reunions, parties, dinners, etc. -- the girl who will head your PTA.

Alby – Like me, an honorary member, especially since he's a dude. He's also my favorite "son" (A term I use for my friends' boyfriends whom I have adopted and am now BFF with forever and ever.) He used to drive me around when I first arrived in New York City to show me the sights. Yes, dear. Pick me up at eight. Mommy doesn't drive. Grandma, he used to live in your building! He could see right into a certain Victoria's Secret model's apartment window.

Carissa – The fashion prodigy, and one who has known me since we were six years old. The only one who can drag me to Scoop NYC and make it an educational experience! I will never forget the time when she took me to Woodbury's last September to shop for a suit for the UN. The sight of her bustling to and from my dressing room in Armani, weighed down with expensive Italian suiting while I just sat there frustrated and amused, was priceless. (We settled for an eighty-dollar suit from Calvin Klein because I'm cheap and I hate suits.)

Cat (short for Cathrine à Phil, does this spelling look familiar to you? Hmm? Tsk, tsk.) – One of my many friends in medical school, but one who actually wants to be there. I'm urging her to be a dermatologist since she already has great skin, and also because I need one.

Cher – Assistant editor for this lifestyle mag. One of the many people who always had to call me by my full name. In high school, there was no "Cathy." Everyone would call me "Cathy Young." I guess this means I have to hyphenate when I get married? She gave me green eyeliner once – the brave girl -- in an attempt to jumpstart my makeup skills which have remained undeveloped.
Tammy – The Godmother and the photojournalist. My source of all knowledge about what goes on in Manila. We can all thank her for unleashing the non-conservative side of me. I swear I was not like this before. We seem to be polar opposites, but we hit it off quite well. She used to pick on me in high school. She's one of the few people who mother me instead of the other way around. We worked for the same newspaper; she helped me write my first piece. I will do anything for this girl, including watch a Will Ferrell movie (although you will have to drag me screaming before I do it again).

There are friends you will play sports with, talk on the phone with, work with, go to school with. These are the people I will eat with. We dined in a place with very rich Filipino food in one of the best things that popped up in Manila since I left – Greenbelt 5. (It's a mall, but man, what a mall! I could live here.) You meat-lovers out there would have been in heaven. Pork, chicken, beef! Sauteed, roasted, fried, simmered, gutted, grilled, and drowned in every imaginable sauce. In every corner of the table, except mine, which had broccoli and mushrooms. (Boo, I know.) Tammy kept telling me to pass the meat. I gave her a withering stare. The less sarcastic ones kept putting vegetarian food on my plate because they felt sorry for me.

The advantage of being vegetarian in a meat-eating country is that people feel so bad for you, they don't make you pay for dinner because you "just ate grass." And so went the cheapest date I've ever had in Manila's outrageously expensive financial district, Makati.

I think I am slowly attaining normalcy here. I've gotten reacquainted with almost everyone. I'm re-assimilating into the society that I left. I can text message like a native again! (This means that I can do it at lightning speed and with my eyes closed.) Woohoo! I'm Filipino again! I'm glad that I've had time to myself and with people who've known me when I was still in pigtails. It makes The New Plan seem more attainable because I still feel comfortable going for it despite being in my old box. I think that's the Happy Note of the Day – home doesn't feel like a box anymore, and so the new dream may just be, I hope, The Real Thing.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #14

2008-04-21T09:59:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I repent of childhood fears – of all the times when I didn’t climb trees, or run outside more, or eat dirt (which likely strengthens your immune system). I think this form of physical shelteredness is one reason why I was very easily injured before, or why my hands feel like they’ve been submerged in shea butter for weeks, or why I’m so pale for one of my race. Apart from a chicken pox mark smack in the middle of my forehead, a very faint almost-diminished white line on my left leg because of a karting accident, and random scratches that did not mark me, I have no physical childhood scars. My body does not tell a story.

Well this weekend, I tried something completely new again: rock climbing. It was indoors, at a place that’s only a three-minute drive from my house. I’ve heard that the mountaineers here in Manila are also the capoeiristas and the surfers – the cool people in the city, in other words. I will seek them out and learn this all!

I went with my writing mentor, Sandra (well, we’re more of friends now, so yay). How very poetic of us – first she helps me scale academic heights, now she’s with me in scaling literal heights.

After we were all strapped and geared up, we were given safety instructions, but honestly, I barely listened. The lone precaution I remembered was to keep the rope in front of you so you won’t get rope burn. (I’m vain, I know.) Yup, keep everything locked. Uh huh. I just wanted to go up there, you guys! I’ve never climbed before and I didn’t want fear to set in. Let’s just go, go, go!

Wall Number One was a 30-foot “easy” wall. On all of them, there are different rocks of various shapes all bolted – securely, I hope, except for one rogue step that freaked me out. Rock climbing is daunting, because I didn’t know how to “read” a wall yet. I didn’t know whether one rock is good to climb on until I grabbed it (yes, rock climbing is a metaphor for life). I had to learn how to stretch my limbs, too – a good complement to yoga – and spread myself across the rocks for several seconds until I figured out the smartest way to gain another couple of inches.

Climbing has a very zen feel to it. It’s very straightforward – you’re down there, get up there, figure out the in-between. Your hands and feet become almost claw-like, clutching the rocks and quickly transferring your weight from one grip to the next. I methodically made my way up. Five feet … Then ten … Twenty … Twenty-five… Almost there…

And. Then. I. Touched. The. Top. Rock!

Yay! I did it! I rock (that was not a pun)! Woohoo!

Then Sandra yelled from the ground: “Now let go!”

What?

“Let go of the wall! Just sit in the air!”

My heart stopped. “What? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I was not briefed on this part of the climb!

“Just do it, Cathy!”

Oh crap it, I said, relenting to her demands. And. I. Let. Go….

And WHOA, yo! Hanging suspended in mid-air was just so… whee! Happy! It’s so Cirque du Soleil. Ole! I can’t stand it. I felt so lightheaded when I came down. I can’t believe I reached the top the first time! And I can’t believe I let go so easily! This is totally not the old me, who would have probably double-checked the instructor’s resume, practiced for a bit, and learned the history and physics of mountaineering before even going out at all.

Wall Number Two was ok. The difficulty lies in the steepness and type of incline, as well as the kind of rocks embedded in the wall. I think it will develop my upper body strength; it takes all my arms’ energy to launch my ass up in the air. It reminds me of the first few times I tried to get into my bed at the top bunk in the WYA house (hmm, you guys think this helped make this easy for me?). This time, it was a lot easier to let go; I actually loved that part. It’s hard to keep your butt cheeks 30 feet in the air when you’ve never done it before!

Last on our list was Wall Number Three. (There are six walls there – the hardest one involves you traversing a wall that is parallel to the sky. Yow! I’ve heard that experienced mountaineers actually develop “Spiderman fingers” – their hands are so calloused and tough, the fact that they are even touching the wall gives them support.)

But halfway through, I was so exhausted, and the rocks were farther apart and smaller. Realizing I wouldn’t make it to the top of that wall, at least for the day, I let go and was swinging 15 feet in the air. “Are you ok? Are you terrified?” Sandra yelled from below. Hmm, other people in my situation may, but because I’m Filipino, the sentence that came out of my mouth was:

“Hey, can you take a picture of me?”

And she did. Woohoo! It came out a bit blurry since I was moving.

I was swinging happily in mid-air and shrieking “Woohoo!” every so often, wiggling my legs like a cockroach on its back. I attempted to glide in the air like a trapeze artist, which elicited snickers from the staff. This went on for a few minutes, with my mentor staring up at me as though I was mad. I stopped when I realized my harness was giving me a wedgie. They belayed* me slowly, and I was still laughing when I hit the floor. Man, I will never forget that day.

*(belay: mountaineering term for “controlling the rope,” in this case, to bring the climber down)

Ah, and to think that I used to be afraid of heights! (Or at least that’s what I thought to myself. When I was 8 years old, I nearly fell off of a roof in my school. We were spying on one of our teachers who was sleeping – when you’re eight, these things are quite scandalous to you. She jerked awake, I ran, and my arm hit a window and I fell to my feet. The edges of my fingers were hanging off of the roof. My arm was sliced open, bleeding, but hell, it’s better than dying.)

Before, I used to tell everyone that I’m afraid of everything, but I’ll do it anyway. Now, I think I’m accustomed to the fact that I will naturally and earnestly go beyond my sandbox and seek out alternative means of play, which means that I will have to forget the concept of fear anyway. This makes me even more grateful for immersing myself in martial arts, yoga, first aid, etc. – things that will keep me alive for as long as possible despite the shenanigans I will likely get myself into.

As for rock climbing though, I don’t want to do this for too long – your skin gets so dry and calloused. I’ll admit I’m vain that way. But I’ll try (almost) anything once, or for a while until the wonder wears off.

But until that happens, ha! Wall Number Three, see you next Sunday!

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #13

2008-04-20T05:22:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

My weekend rocked, you guys! So many things to tell, but let’s do this one post at a time.

Saturday: My first formal Adobe class. I’m largely – no, make that completely – self-taught, but I decided to see what a classroom setting will bring me instead of me pressing buttons and seeing what they will do. And ohmigod. I have not known joy like this since the first time I held my nunchucks. That time, I was so depressed in graduate school but learning how to use them made me snap out of it like that. It was the same this Saturday. Wheee!!!!! Eee!!!!!! I am happy again! This since I found out that:

Adobe Illustrator CS3 is the best thing since Luna bars!

It can complement colors! It can do 3-D shapes! I think I just died. I was palpitating like there was no tomorrow. IT HAS ALL THE PANTONE COLORS IN THE SWATCH LIBRARY IN DIFFERENT PAPER STOCKS!!!!

Whee! I love it I love it I love it I am back I Am Me Again!

(I am bouncing around so much, I can’t stand myself.)

My teacher is a graphic designer and is formerly a physical therapist. Filipino-Chinese, also the eldest, family gave him hell when he left medicine. Hello, he sounds just like me! Give me a few more days to pick his brain and yes! I have another ally! I might ask him to help me with my design manual. (Mary, you were right. I have no shame at all. But I make up for it with healthy baked goods.)

Looking back, I think the things that gave me the most joy were those times where I discovered something new, or when I pushed myself beyond what I thought I could do. It’s like a child realizing that he can walk on two feet by himself, instead of having his parents hold him by the hand. Winning, by contrast, only gave me … oh I don’t know, relief, I guess, that I satisfied other people and maintained what they thought of me. It felt so false.

Ten years ago, I used to be one of those people who felt validated only when I was stressed out or frustrated at the silliest of things. But over time, I’ve met people who were so much more than that and who I didn’t have much admiration for. They only had degrees that meant nothing to themselves and published papers that no one interesting would read. I guess I become allergic to people who were just so voluntarily self-destructive. Ugh. Get over yourselves. You’re not that important.

I think that’s the reason why I’m happy most of the time now. Happiness is my way of giving the finger to negative elements that be. Things may not go my way, or I may be with people I don’t like, but I have learned to play with the cards that I am dealt with and be the player at the poker table that gets the most exciting round. To be happy is a choice. I think that’s the one thing I learned while being in a place where smiles were rare, and in a city where we may have every material luxury available but no soul. I learned the hard way that to attain your goals with joy and integrity is doubly victorious. How you got there is more important that actually getting there; the only thing worse than failure is questionable success.

Lots of love,
Cathy

P.S. Eww, you guys. I think I accidentally ate bread mold the other day. Bleh.

The Sunshine Post #12

2008-04-18T05:59:00.001-07:00

Hello dears!

You know you’re not so young anymore when your peers begin to get married, have kids, or worse, ask you to be godmother to their kids. The tally so far: Three people have asked me to be godmother to future children. One of my best friends has plans to tie the knot. I know some people in my class who have already done so, some out of wedlock. And one of them expressly stated that she wants a small torch as a present for her wedding this May so she can make crème brulee. (I also need to find a dress from the prewar era. Which war?! Maria? Bissy? Any suggestions? I’m a little lost in that department.)

Any other single people out there who think that if this keeps up for the next few years, he or she will give in to people’s well-intentioned but ultimately distressing suggestions to join an on-line dating service? Raise your hands. Let’s form a support group. There will be chocolate gatherings, panel discussions and cocktail hours. Let us toast the single life.

Ah the pressure to procreate and perpetuate the human race! To find love and live happily ever after! Mein Gott. Must I do it now? I haven’t even gotten my pilot’s license yet! I still have to go to school! And I am so behind in taekwondo! *sob* Somebody please hit the Freeze button on the stopwatch of life!

For what it’s worth, I’m sure that I will marry outside my culture. I think it’s a whole lot sexier and a lot more interesting. I’ve observed that those who are at least biracial or have been raised in at least two different cultures are less likely to be arrogant and more likely to be self-possessed and sensitive to other people. I think it’s because they’re already marked as “different” from the rest of the “purebloods,” and so become less cliquish and more open from birth. They’re not deeply entrenched into their own practices and actively seek out other perspectives and viewpoints. Or at least that has been my experience. The happiest and warmest people I’ve met usually come from “Melting Pots” – Philippines, Brazil, Australia, to name a few.

I also think you become prouder of your heritage because you get to pick the best of each of the bloodlines coursing through your veins. That’s one advantage of not being fully accepted – you yourself don’t have to accept everything about one culture. You can take your pick and make it your own. Culture becomes a link and not a barrier, and issues on racism are lessened because races themselves are diluted. Plus the bilingualism is built in, which I’ve found quite helpful.

I’ve always loved meeting people who are really mixed in terms of upbringing. They have the most interesting stories – like one of my yoga teachers who was raised in a kibbutz in India and traveled around the world. They also look amazingly interesting and striking. The best example I can come up with right now is Naima Mora (Irish + Native American + Mexican + African American. I love it! America’s Next Top Model Cycle 4, yo! Don’t laugh, it was my cheap indulgence back when I still watched TV – I think the photo shoots are pretty.)

I’m already three-quarters Filipino, making it half the battle (which supposedly means Malay + Spanish + Chinese + other stuff in there. Who knows?! Yay! My cousin told me she found out she’s part Portuguese as well, although whether that’s also in my bloodline is something I have yet to find out.) and one-quarter Chinese (i.e. my grandfather came straight from the Mainland) and I was raised in both environments, studied in a high school headed by strict French-Canadian nuns and in a university where fraternity men streaked through the school to protest government corruption as an annual activity.

So whee! Oriental + arguably Hispanic? Check! Strange and often-contrasting modes of education? Double check! Extremely questionable skin color? Hello, I’m whiter than white people! Now if I can only find a part-African, part-Caucasian part-Kiwi guy who spent his childhood scuba diving in Australia and once worked as an interpreter of Egyptian hieroglyphics, I cannot wait to see what my kids will look like. My household will be a mini-UN.

It’s the same with altruism and philanthropy too, I guess. I think the most successful non-profits are those that are very international. (Yay, WYA!) To be brutally honest, everyone is forced to behave themselves and really think outside the box in order to be diplomatic and to substantially address the cause that they chose to espouse, instead of half-assing their charity case and still feeling good about themselves but not truly addressing the issue.

I think diversity is the way it’s supposed to be for almost everything. People who were raised in one environment will never truly know what the outside world feels like unless they see it for themselves. For the most part, and with notable exceptions, I have found that those who want to help but whose philosophy is very homogeneous will be (unwittingly) condescending and culturally insensitive to the people they want to aid no matter how good their intentions may be – how will they know how the other side lives if they’ve only seen it in pictures? On the flipside, those who need help and who have insulated themselves may likely try to solve their own problems the usual way instead of looking for what other communities have done. The coolest people are those who have the richest and most varied of experiences.

Plus I think they have better pick-up lines. I remember one embarrassing incident in one of my many extra-curricular classes (which I’d rather not specify since I don’t want this to turn scandalous. This is just an anecdote.). One of my classmates thought that cupcakes and hugs and being nice equal to me saying “Let’s get it on” as illustrated in a brief but rather shocking e-mail.

I didn’t speak to him for two months. Argh. I feel like I should wear a T-shirt that says “Just Because I Hug You Does Not Mean I’m In Love With You” in front and “ ‘Dear’ Is My Default Name For All Living Beings” on the back. Good grief. It was just a cupcake, dear. Let’s not get carried away. What’s next? Do I complete you, too?

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #11

2008-04-15T07:40:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

Ohmygod, you guys! Today, I saved the owner of a yoga studio from a completely heinous grammatical error on a poster he was going to blow up to be 53 feet high. Bad design must die, but grammatically incorrect design must burn forever! That cheered me up just a teeny bit. For at least a few seconds anyway!

***
"You know, thank God I'm not in medical school," was the one big conclusion I had after several weeks back in The Motherland. I think I finally had it with meeting friends in medicine who were so sick of what they were doing but didn't know what they wanted to do outside the box that they found themselves in. My Chinese side of the family has been screaming "Medical School!" since they found out I was out of research. Admittedly, I did think of this briefly. Surely there isn't anything bad in wanting to alleviate human suffering, right? But I just imagine myself buried under piles of textbooks, filled with drivel I have to memorize and spit out, being concerned with every single tedious detail only to have theories overturned the next year, and being obsessed with which hospitals to go to and which doctor I wanted to be with and that just did it. I can't do this, man. No more standardized tests – heck, standardized anything -- for me!

"Uh, Cathy dear, you do realize that's what we do, right?" my best guy friend who is in medical school told me after I had to explain (for the umpteenth freaking time!) Why. I. Don't. Want. To. Do. Research. Anymore. I think he thought I was allergic to doctors or something.

Well, not exactly. I think there are doctors, and then there are great doctors – the ones who really wanted to devote their lives to healing the sick, instead of those hacks who simply want the degree.

It might be an odd thing to say, but sometimes I feel that medical school (or law or business school) is Every Overachiever's Insurance Policy – what they would latch onto when they don't know what to do with their lives but wish to do something "respectable" in the minds of everyone else. No one wants to be in a phase where they don't have a "vision" of the future. But while they see it as a safety net, I see it as intelligence of no consequence if it's really not what you want.

It was August of last year when I experienced, for the first time, what it's like not to know what the future will bring. Oddly enough, while I was beleaguered with panic attacks during separate points, it was one of those phases in my life that kicked ass – the dreaded Transition Period. There is something to be said about being in a phase that wasn't in The Plan. Ohmygod, you guys! It was painful, but it rocked. For those who might be experiencing the same thing, here are the main points that I encountered:

1. People who are "transitioning" will take a language class because it's one of those things they can finally have time for, and it would be good to put on their CVs. In my case, I took up Spanish and French because I wanted to have a reason to wake up in the morning. Before I came to WYA, I planned to just pack it all up and go to Spain for a year. (When I tell this to my friends, they say, "Whoa, way to go, Cath! I didn't know you had it in you." Thank you. *takes a bow*) Language class also became my therapy session – you meet a lot of kindred spirits there. Everyone will say "Yo soy desempleado" or "Je ne travaille pas." I do not have a job. My favorite line was "Yo no se lo que hago." I don't know what I'm doing. Hell yeah.
2. Random strangers will applaud your dreams and share their life stories with you. In my case, I clearly remember a nice cheery Aussie woman in the top floor of Barnes and Noble Lincoln Center telling me to go for what I really want. The books you read, the movies you watch, the people you meet at that particular time will be very timely to your condition – it's like a film that Mother Nature is making out of your life.
3. There is an incomparable feeling of lightness that you will feel, letting go of a phase in your life and trusting that the next one will come. You feel like the world is yours to conquer again because you are starting on a clean slate, untainted by past (naïve) desires.
4. You meet a lot of people who are in the middle of the horrible state you were just in. They will tell you that you're lucky to have gotten out while you still can. This makes the period much easier.
5. Telling my parents I wasn't a scientist anymore was like coming out of the closet. And hel-lo! What a relief. Yeah Mom, I'm pregnant, a lesbian, and I work for non-profit. Just kidding about the pregnant and lesbian part!
6. I felt extremely happy being emancipated from having to decapitate rats all the time. I will never channel Lady Macbeth again, you guys! Out, damned spot, out I say! No more massacres!
7. I got through two taekwondo belt tests because I went to class everyday.

I've noticed that old friends want to meet up with me not necessarily because they want to catch up, but they want to see what I've been doing and what I plan to do. ( -- the latter of which I am so happy to keep to myself … My future, for the first time, is mine! All mine! Whee! You can bribe me with facials and massages and vegan desserts but I'm not telling you what I'm doing next year!) I think that it's the trend for those in their early-to-mid-twenties – we want to see how our peers are doing as a gauge to see how we are doing. Am I slacking off? Am I just on the right track? I hope I'm not the burnout of my generation. These are the thoughts that I can hear them thinking, mainly because my own brain is echoing them. No one wants to be the person who didn't "make it," especially when people had such high expectations of you.

You know, growing up, I've always had these nutty ideas and executed them until the end because they haunt me at night if I don't and I get these crippling migraines. But instead of "creative," they call it "obsessive compulsive." You have no idea how being referred to as The Creative One has turned my world upside down, you guys. I was just The Nerd before! "Happy" today was "Neurotic" in high school. Hahaha! Yahoo! Ah, how perspectives change when the wording is different. I think I hated everyone's previous labels of me because I haven't done anything with my life yet; I felt like they expected something of me that I couldn't give and because they implied some sort of defect. They laud the potential, instead of waiting for the actual achievement. They saw me as a freak. I think I like this now because it commands me to have something completely original and unaffected to give instead of being just another fraud. At least I hope so – Steve Jobs once said to stay hungry and stay foolish. I am both of those things right now and it will likely remain that way forever. But I hope minus the hungry part. It's hard to live on yogurt and granola bars alone, y'know. Vegetarian or otherwise.

***
I've been saying the weirdest things lately. Last week, at the Australian embassy when I attended the World Youth Day info session, I was waiting for a cab outside, under the blazing heat of Manila's summer. I skipped to the elderly woman ahead of me and said, "Excuse me! If I hold your umbrella, may I share it with you? My hair is starting to fry." Umbrellas during the summer are one thing you can see in Asia but not in the West. For them, it's because they don't want to darken; for me, it's because I don't want my thymines to dimerize and cause genetic mutations! Sigh. I wish I had a built-in tan.

Lots of love (and yes, I promise to be happier next time I write),
Cathy

The Not-so-Sunshine Post #10

2008-04-11T20:25:00.000-07:00

Hello dears.

Horrible day. Rahr. I want to crawl into a hole because some of my closest friends don’t understand why I do what I do and I hate having to explain myself all the time. You’re my friends and you’re supposed to love me! I tutored you when you were in training bras! I didn’t judge you when you dated your weird boyfriends! I’m just working for non-profit here! Bah. My cab driver today had engine trouble and left me stranded on one of Manila’s deadliest avenues. And I feel bloated and nauseous after eating cheesecake before yoga class. I poked out my classmate’s eye while attempting the Balancing Stick pose, and I didn’t even care! What’s wrong with me today?!

Aaarghhhh!! Rosa! Fabiano! Oh Master Lee! Yoohoo! Sniff. I need a black belt hug. Come here. We can train on the beach. I promise to stop horsing around. I’m distraught and upset and alone and I need to hit something but I can’t because I can’t wake up at 5 am on a Saturday for taekwondo class and arnis gives me zits. Boo.

I think I’m being made to feel like I eloped with some guy my family and friends don’t approve of, and now I’m a social pariah. Man, I hope this is an indication that I will marry for love and not money.

Ok, deep breath. And release. Aahhhhh.

Look, one reason I never wanted to do the corporate world was that I thought the lot of it was based on common sense – be respectful to your peers, be a team player, give work your 150%, don’t hurt anyone, be nice. I thought that I would be better off in fields where so much is unknown and where actual thought and innovation would have to come into play. Hence why I wanted to do research to begin with.

But I have no regrets about what I learned in university. I loved my major – Molecular Biology and Biotechnology – at that time, I was jumping up and down whenever I heard the word “DNA.” I was with the right class with the right mentor and at the right time. But it wasn’t handed to me just like that. There were only 40 slots for the entire country and these were usually reserved for those who went to specialized science schools. I, offspring of a private Catholic school (Yes, I was a Catholic schoolgirl. Shut up.), didn’t make the cut and was first relocated to Computer Science (Two semesters of programming hell! Dear God. When I dozed off during my final exam, I knew it was time to go.)

After my freshman year, I applied to transfer but they still didn’t want me. Persistent, indignant, and refusing to take no for an answer, I set up a meeting with the Director of the institute. I begged, pleaded, and showed her my writing portfolio, saying that, Ok, I may not have been raised in a laboratory but dang it, I can write! And I can write for you!

It was one of my happier stories. Whatever I lacked in training and intellect, I made up for in balls, and I guess this has been a recurring theme. I ended up doing my thesis in the lab that the Director shared with her best friend. The latter became my mentor and thesis adviser; she would teach me about science and life while I became her ghostwriter. She’s a really good friend of mine now and apparently is a friend of one of WYA’s Board Members. The rest, as they say, is history.

Looking back, there was something good in not getting what you want the first time. It made me value my studies a lot more, because it didn’t come to me easily, and because it made me endure a lot for the sake of the program. (This includes a rather traumatic Calculus class with one of the more heinous and perverted professors in my university. To this day I can’t look at asymptotes and hyperbolas without imagining the things he told us to. Insufferable jerk.)

I guess I’m hoping that because this new desire came after (and during) such a distressing time, then it means it’s the real thing and I will live happily ever after.

There is a faint scar on my left wrist that makes me unable to forget what I experienced in graduate school. (No worries; this wasn’t some suicidal drama – I was rescuing tubes of cell lines that disappeared into the abyss of a liquid nitrogen tank whose temperature was –80 degrees Celsius, and my wrist touched the lid. Ouch, yo! It burns, it burns! Two nice people from the lab next door helped me fish them out with bucket.)

When I glance down at my arm, I would remember that feeling of cold dread when I would enter a lecture and be with my classmates, who, hands down, would have to be one of the most discordant, insecure, cliquish, catty groups of people I have ever come across. (I was the lone Asian girl during my year. People kept asking me about Imelda Marcos’s shoes. Look, I don’t know, ok? I wasn’t born yet.) Or the thought of being in my old lab where I would wonder when I would get yelled at next, and when those degrading sessions would transpire, I was forced to just sit there and take it. Oh, and let’s not forget the rats; I don’t think I need to elaborate on that. It’s why I’m vegetarian, yo.

I have this involuntary fantasy where I face all the people who made me so unhappy there and just scream, “At least some of us have talent, you egotistical hacks! All you ever do is rip off other people’s work and read instruction manuals!” Then I take a bow and happily skip away. Fare thee well, lemmings!

Sheesh. I feel like that kid who was bullied in high school and wants to take a shot at her tormentors during homecoming. Oh well. Writers need to feel everything.

I look back at my really old journals and I feel utter disbelief at seeing how much I’ve changed in terms of what I value now. You know how if you’re in a very competitive academic environment, and at the end of every semester, everyone pulls out a calculator and tries to see what their foreseen average/GPA/end-of-year marks are? Dude, I was one of those number-crunchers; I even had index cards. Eww. I guess I needed graduate school to forcefully eviscerate that part of myself. God, I hate that old version of me now! Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and slap my younger self to her senses. My darling child, any idiot can graduate valedictorian. Rise above your number.

Cathy

P.S. I’m sad and I’m sorry I’m taking this out on you all.

The Sunshine Post #9

2008-04-09T19:41:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I think I've finally realized why I was in a funk, and no, it's not PMS.

Geez, get a load of this post-quarter life crisis, yo. After the cycle of Depression, Desperation, Hope, Revelation, Excitement, and Giddiness, now comes the phase of Impatience, Restlessness, Hostility and Dissatisfaction. (I can illustrate this in a graph for those who are interested; the y-coordinate will represent my blood pressure.) When you finally know exactly what you want to do with your life, you become increasingly aggravated when things don't move fast enough. Patience is one of my two weak points (the other is subtlety).

I think now is also the time for me to start letting go of some things so as to concentrate on what I keep telling myself is The New Plan, which, may I add, so kicks the ass of the old plan. Woohoo! But I've become more realistic and pragmatic over the years. I've always believed in "following through" with my so-called "passions" and I've finally told myself that I should probably let go of wild dreams like playing the piano in public or competing professionally in archery, etc. – things where I showed some potential, but let's face it: I am no prodigy.

I've been thinking a lot of how I've always walked the line between journalism and science; those were the things I gravitated towards early in life. But I'm now vacillating between thinking whether I love those fields in their entirety, or because they seemed to satisfy a need for me to be productive. I've always steered clear of areas that concentrate on intangible philosophical ideas and arguments; I like things where I can produce something – anything -- at the end of the day and call it my own. The work is irrefutable because I printed it out.

I can't help but go back to this one time in New York City – the day when I played freeze tag with complete strangers. One of them asked what I was doing and after the usual stiff introductions, she goes "Director of Communications? You, like, what? Make sure the phones work?" There was an uncomfortable three-second silence.

Actually, Phil does that, I told myself silently. I suck at machines. The only association I have with anything electric is the fact that I am, ahem, the Voice of the World Youth Alliance International Headquarters' Phone Lines (i.e. If you get our voice mail, you get me! How do you do?). Unless they've already changed it.

(I think this was the first time I had to tell a stranger what I do. I have learned from this since then and now I just say, "Oh I work for non-profit. Bye!" I hate long-winded explanations.)

That got me thinking, too. I don't want to be known for positions I've held, or schools I've studied at, or fancy places I've worked in, or awards I've received. I just want to produce work that will speak for itself, and to have a lot of friends and loved ones while doing that. It's amazing how your desires are suddenly simplified when you're older.

Ah, output. The thing that has driven me since I was young; coming from an Asian upbringing, I thought that this showed a utilitarian mindset, but now I'm at peace with it. I don't care about titles, positions, corporate/academic ladders, degrees and opinions – I just want to spend my life perfecting my craft and hoping that this would do some level of good in the larger scheme of things. I'm uncertain whether to be alarmed at the fact that this may suggest a certain absence of conviction, or to be relieved because at least I know I will be happy doing something that I love.

I just hope it's not too late. I think it was during college when I started to become allergic to people who would rest on their laurels because they were, by society's standards, pretty young to be doing what they were doing. I was writing feature articles about kids who did well early in life, but looking back, I think part of the reason they couldn't recapitulate that "glory" as they grew older was because they were complacently luxuriating in their youth, thinking they were too cute and already successful, and therefore, they could stop exploring.

But in graduate school, I became exasperated at those who made excuses because they thought themselves too old; they refused to go outside the box because they thought they lost their chance. Sheesh. Why this dumb obsession with age? It just makes you limit yourself and come up with meaningless excuses for setting limits on what you can do.

Regardless of what I will do with my life, I think I'm pretty sure that I won't go for a Ph.D. ever again. I think it dissolves your sense of wonder because you keep hammering your subject down to the point that it may not even matter to you anymore. I'm not proud enough to want to be an "established authority" at anything, then feel like the walls are closing in when someone else's theory goes against mine. I would rather live in joy, and be able to live anywhere I please.

I guess it's a manifestation of a previous lack of self-awareness that I can admit this to myself now, and in hindsight, I should have seen this coming. My favorite book growing up was Alice in Wonderland. It still is.

But maybe things just happen in some odd precision in due time. I've had my moments of "Uh oh, time is running out" when I see my peers already doing their internships in medical and law school or getting married, especially when I am still on a journey career-wise, and single at that. (My mom is on my butt about this now, telling me that I'm "wasting my genes" if I end up a spinster. Ah, the quirks of having a mother who made a living discussing Mendelian segregation.)

Whew, that was a load off. But on a happier note, I have finally found my design heroes! Yay! I am getting poorer by the day, buying all of these designer monographs. They are pricey, man. I vowed to myself, as I was paying at the counter, that I will publish my own one day. And it will be as expensive as these.

My favorite designer so far has pushed the limits of art, at least in my opinion. I'm so happy to have found one of his last commercially available, slightly battered, and outrageously expensive monographs – in Manila of all places. (I called his studio when I was in NYC and even they ran out of copies). I begged, pleaded, and gave excellent arguments to the manager, but sadly, only got the price down by 5%. I'm losing my touch, yo. But still, it was so worth it -- every single page made me smile and now I have ideas once again. Maria Miriam Giovane Grizzetti, the rut is so over!! One day, I will be better than this guy.

Well, a girl can dream. At least we have some things in common. We both left something scientific, we're very playful, we have no sense of hierarchy and bureaucracy whatsoever, and (people think) we have no qualms about nudity.

Co-ed naked nonsexual yoga, anyone? :-)

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #8

2008-04-07T06:20:00.001-07:00

Hello dears!

Show and tell!

Because I miss doing this with Maria, here is an e-mail with a photo. Look! Look! Happy-ness!

(I can't upload this right now. Oh boo. Will try again later.)

It's supposed to be a modern take on Asian basket bags, but made of a more durable waterproof material and was handmade in Thailand. It's one of the Happiest Bags in the World and it's mine for $15! The slots on the side are perfect for my arnis sticks! It's the happy bag with deadly objects.

***
I just finished reading this adorable graphic novel called, "Goodbye, Chunky Rice." It's about this turtle, Chunky Rice (I'm not kidding), who leaves home to see the world and has to leave behind his little mouse friend, Dandel. At sea, he meets Ruth and Livinore, a set of bickering conjoined twins, and Charles, their cynical captain. Aieee!!!! It is so happy and profound and I can totally relate to that turtle… I will make my own one day, but with weirder names. And I will reincarnate you all as happy creatures.

***
I have realized that it's already April and I have yet to read a novel. I've been busy devouring monographs, graphic novels, and design books that I have no time to read stuff like The Manuscript found in Saragossa (yet). Yay! I christen 2008 as the year where I just make my own stuff and look at other people's work in hopes of getting inspired. I think I have to temporarily leave the age where I read things just to escape from reality.

***
I had coffee with one of my best guy friends over the weekend (Phil! Phil! It just occurred to me that you two are so alike. Your birthdays are a day apart, you're both really tall and super smart, and you both have really low voices that turn falsetto when feeling shock and indignation.) It's great to know that despite everything changing, some things are still the same.

***
I am slowly bonding with the WYA people here in good ol' Asia Pacific. I'm almost ashamed to admit this, but I was holding myself back a bit, perhaps unfairly so, given that these are probably the most open, most accommodating, most outrageously happy group I've come across. I love them all! But I've had a lot of people enter and leave my life now. It's my weakness to rapidly get attached to living beings and I think I've evolved to not want to have too many strings attached to too many people, because they will leave me one day and I would not be able to bear it. If you lock me up in a room with a cactus, it and I will be best friends at the end of the day. It is almost impossible for me to un-love someone*.

* (As long as I remember that they exist.)

I was having lunch with one of them once, and she told me that I am "a bit hyperactive to be vegetarian." Haha! It's not the first time I was told this, and I doubt it will be the last.

I miss my jet-setting Grandma and my gay best friend.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #7

2008-04-03T08:45:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

A couple of nights ago, I took my first arnis class after so long. Arnis, or kali, is a Filipino martial art that primarily consists of stick- and blade- fighting and emphasizes flow over power. I thought that I may as well re-learn it from its birthplace, and maybe even teach a thing or two to my teachers back in New York.

I was a bit afraid of getting hit in the face – something that is also possible, although less likely, to happen in taekwondo. As for the latter art, the worst thing that happened to me was when I was 13 years old. During kicking drills, I fell in line at the back of an eight-year-old kid who was pretending to be the Pink Power Ranger (He was a boy, too. How gay.) He turned to me, shouted "Yaaah!" and kicked me in the crotch, forcing me to my knees in unspeakable (!) pain. Never was I more thankful not to be a boy at that moment – I'm sure the pain would have been infinitely worse had that been so. (I'm ok, by the way.)

I've accidentally kicked many a boy in the nether regions over time; there came a class where I was standing to one side, absently observing my fellow students, and then thought to myself: "Hmm, you know, I have kicked everyone here in the balls." It's really the only reason why some of them are careful around me; they actually place their hands in front of their pants as a precaution. One of my teachers, Fabiano, would always yell, "Cate! Knees up!" to coax my legs make contact with the person's torso instead. None of my taekwondo teachers got my name right in the beginning.

Surprisingly, it was hard for me to find a class here; I was given a cellphone number of some stranger who told me they had an all-boys club that they don't advertise. That night, I left for the class and told my dad that my contact's name, Bernie, is short for Beatrice. (It's actually Bernard.) I just didn't want him to panic since I was the only girl there in the company of much older, much more muscular guys.

For the record, I have pretty good instincts and I didn't feel that there was any reason for me not to go. (As insurance, I did tell one of the interns here where I would be.) Plus, I think I've trained for a while and I have been under so many martial arts masters that if something happened and I couldn't defend myself for one lousy night where I had weapons with me and I was completely lucid, then by God I deserved to get a couple of black eyes.

There's something to be said about being the lone bouncy female in the company of grown men who live to fight. I think they are caught in between disbelief and amusement. Hmph. On the bright side, I didn't care whether I hit them. Haha! Do I look helpless to you? Take that! And that! And that! I think of all the negative experiences I have had in graduate school and that is enough to fuel my rhythm.

They were really nice; it was one of the best and well-rounded classes I've taken – double sticks, single stick, blades, and empty grappling! Woohoo! But I don't think I'll take the class again though, and it's not for reasons you think. The commute is just way too long and polluted; my face broke out in zits that night and I am now in dire need of a facial. I miss my aesthetician in Maria Badescu, yo. Olga from Ecuador! She exfoliates quite well.

I learned the hard way that martial arts was the way for me to release hidden anger that I am incapable of unleashing the verbal way. I used to think it was a cultural thing, but now, not so much. But I just can't scream at people for some reason; it adds to my stress and makes me break out. It is easier for me to ignore you and forget you existed. In hindsight, I've always lived in my own little world of happy. It is a selective form of ADD.

I think that's one reason I've always gravitated towards weapons. The first time I held my nunchucks was incomparable; you just cannot photocopy that kind of happiness anywhere, man. Whee! I was swinging them around like Day-Glo sticks, and my first teacher said he had never seen anyone take to them so naturally before. (I took that as a compliment for my sake.) Ever since then, I've been collecting and learning how to use contact weapons, and so far, I think my favorites are the sai and the bo staff. Now all I need is a samurai sword and I'm a walking Ninja Turtle.

I think it's also why I like arnis in general. The clash of stick on stick is supremely satisfying, with its frequency reverberating through my body, making me feel so high with adrenaline. It's why I like ending my days with martial arts, or yoga, or anything physical. I feel so much calmer, like all of the problems in the world are reduced to a swing of a weapon, a kick to a target, or a minute of meditation. It just makes life easier and bearable and puts things in perspective.

All the guys who trained with me that night had one common thing to say:

"Don't hit so hard!"

"Sorry," I said sheepishly. "I have a lot of aggression."

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Sunshine Post #6

2008-04-01T19:20:00.000-07:00

I have renamed all my e-mails of love to all you beloved New Yorkers and ex-New Yorkers into one uniform, numbered subject line. When I did this to my Asian brethren, there were 100 e-mails; my imagination is neither big nor patient enough to think of 100 titles. :-) Stay in touch, dears!

Hello dears!

I have been catching up with the art scene in Manila. The design bubble burst the year after I left, and there are now so many new artists out there who are making money doing what they love. There's a part of me that is so happy because I think I picked the right field to replace the lab. I actually intuitively get it, am consumed by it, and I wouldn't mind having to do it for a long time. I think I can even do this anywhere in the world, as long as I have peace and quiet, up-to-date software, and a speedy Internet connection.

The designers I've met seem more down-to-earth, less impressed with themselves, more in disbelief that something they love to do is appreciated by other people. I'm still a bit wary of the moody, arrogant-looking types, but I have developed a sixth sense for those people now and I just stay away. Run! Run! But on the whole, they seem less intimidating, since I look at them and don't see these scary degrees, but instead, immediately think of the work they've done. They seem so much happier as well, in contrast to my old life where the people looked like they were on the verge of killing themselves. Creativity is our lifestyle, and because of it, work essentially doesn't feel like a job at all.

But there is another voice in my head that bugs me about it all. I realize that I need to rethink my opinions about art. I grew up thinking that it's too self-indulgent, and that for all that ails the world, what I should pick is something that helps people, instead of just making the world pretty. Beauty is a good goal, and yes it has a lot of fantastic secondary effects, but I think we should strive for something beyond that: ideas that make you think and that prompt you to act on that thought, and hopefully make your environment better for it. I am not a big fan of the whole philosophy of "art for art's sake," although I can understand and appreciate this way of thinking. But dude, I can't just sell cute T-shirts and die a fulfilled person.

I think that's another fear: becoming one of those emo pseudo-artistes. I have this nightmare where I have an out-of-body experience and land in a parallel universe, where I see another version of myself. That person has greasy streaked hair and bad skin, is waving a paintbrush maniacally after shooting up on heroin, and then painting a freaking dot on a wall-sized canvas and calling it her masterpiece. She has no family, no real friends, no direction, nothing happy to give the world.

I will beat her to a pulp without a moment's hesitation.

I am hoping that there was a reason why I chose to study molecular biology to begin with. To love both art and science isn't new, but I've noticed it's more common to choose one or the other. That's one thing I'm relieved about with what I fondly call my "academic ejection" – I still truly love science. I think it's spectacularly amazing and beautiful, and that it belongs to everyone, not just to the sickos who need tenure. Maybe I just need to serve it in the best and happiest way that I can.

I hope I've found my calling, yo. I ran into one of our trainers in the debate team late last year – in the UN of all places! Ugh. After summarizing our lives in a few sentences, he told me that I can't go into law, business and finance – fields with a high probability of me meeting evil people. I feel very sad that despite me being raised to think I can do anything I want with my life, I am limited by virtue of personality alone. Crap. Maybe instead of finding my field, I have to carve out a niche for myself and die in my own little hole. *sob* But you can bet that it will be a happy hole!

But my irrepressible side of sunshine is still optimistic. When I was in Shanghai, a Chinese lady came up to me and said that my face was "lucky." I was with a group of delegates and we were shopping like there was no tomorrow. Another time, I was in NYC's Union Square going to my, uhm, personal mecca and headquarters, Barnes and Noble – still one of the best things about America, in my opinion! Along the way, a loopy blonde woman dressed in blue approached me and said that she was a "spiritualist" and that she saw "something" in my "aura." Both times, and in all other similarly creepy cases, I smiled uneasily and hurriedly walked away. I am wishing that this means there really is something important I'm supposed to do with myself and perhaps hopefully explain why my life always been pretty eventful and annoyingly dramatic despite all my attempts not to make it so.

Or maybe David, the guy who sat next to me on one of my earlier flights to NYC, was right: I look like a target. Hmph. I hope not. I still remember him: middle aged, white, hairy, gregarious, works in the field of aboriginal media -- one of those culturally insensitive guys who thinks I'm so exotic I'm like Pocahontas, and then feels like the earth moved when he finds out my English is better than his. Annoying cow. The flight attendant thought we were "together." Eww. Watch it, lady. I am no one's Miss Saigon.

Lots of love,
Cathy

April 1st, 2008 - Sent to some of the staff and interns

2008-04-01T01:48:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I have a sad confession to make. (Pause for dramatic effect.)

I ate meat! I'm not vegetarian anymore! Gasp! Press release!

Ah, we all saw this coming, didn't we? Manila is the worst place for vegetarians! It's impossible to enter a restaurant without the smell of cooked meat wafting through the doors, inviting people in. I didn't want to just end my love affair with rabbit food just like that, so I devoted an entire day to sampling the goodies that I've missed.

The first on my list was sisig – essentially a sizzling plate of everything you don't want to eat in a pig, but chopped, diced, minced and marinated to gustatory perfection to make you forget that you're ingesting the guts of a once-living being. Sisig is served on a charcoal-black platter, and you can hear the meat crackling as it is set in front of you. The smell assaults your olfactory nerves, and what can balance the savory taste of grilled flesh is a tiny squeeze of lime juice. People usually eat this with soft, sticky rice that was sautéed with garlic. I was in college when I first had this; I was a late-bloomer for a carnivore.

Since I was already there, I had my first taste of lechon – essentially a pig roasted on a spit. I am told that lechon lovers enjoy the skin the most – who knew that swine skin could be so crispy and tasty, kind of like popping Doritos? Crunch, crunch. I was with a group of meat enthusiasts and we succeeded in stripping off the bottom half of the poor pig. It's funny how it looks naked – it looks like it lost its pants. Out of sheer inspiration, I "repainted" it with ketchup, tomato slices, and bell peppers. It looked like it was dressed for a luau.

So to wrap up my day, I had one of my favorite things in the world that I hadn't had in years – adobo. To the Latinos, it's a spice; to Filipinos, it's an entire dish. It's essentially meat that's been marinated and stewed. The rich texture of meat steeped in soy sauce, topped with the fragrant infusion of garlic and black pepper, makes it one of the yummiest meals ever! Whee! I am so happy I could die. I went home tired from chewing but completely satisfied. I passed out in bed.

Mmmmm. Flesh and blood and entrails. So. Bloody. Good.

Meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder.

And then I woke up.

Happy April Fools' Day!

Lots of love,
Cathy

P.S. This was for YOU, Mary Eileen Halpine! Happy happy birthday! Besos muchos! I miss you lots and lots!

P.P.S. For those who still need their morning coffee, let me spell it out. This was just a joke. :-D But if I do end this veggie spell, it will be as delicious as I imagined, or probably more! (except for lechon, which I could never eat)

P.P.P.S. You know, I've been rereading this and I don't think I was very convincing. I think I just succeeded in disgusting myself with the lechon part. Bleh. I just traumatized myself anew. Oh boo. Hey, I tried. Miss you all! Have a great week ahead!

Chapter 4 - Love from Manila! (The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition)

2008-03-29T08:10:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I need to improve on my subject lines, I know.

I spent the past weekends catching up with people I hadn’t seen in almost two years. It was a bit tiring having to tell “my story” over and over again. What happened to you? (I left the bench.) Your skin is so clear! (It’s called a facial.) You really don’t eat meat? (No.) How’s your love life? (I almost had one. So close, man. Hey, I tried.) What is WYA? (Please see www.wya.net. Would you like to sign the Charter? Here is our brochure. I made that. Would you like me to do yours? Big smile.). I felt like I should have prepared a Powerpoint presentation to show at the beginning of every meeting. Geez. Repetition wipes me out.

I had dinner with my writing mentor one night. She told me later that she was watching me closely, seeing how much I’ve changed. Most of me is still the same; I’m still really sarcastic and free-spirited and I still have the same physical habits, like clapping my hands when I’m happy and skipping when I walk. She also said that there’s a certain hardness to me now. Thank God. With my hyperactivity and happiness, I would die young if the past couple of years didn’t toughen me up or made me just a wee bit cynical.

I’ve been getting minor separation anxiety from my old life. There are things I wish I did, from the material (like stock up on Luna bars and hardbound Utrecht sketchbooks and Rives BFK paper and CMYK magazines and a list of art supplies and literature that goes on and on), to the more substantial (spent more time with friends I will likely not see again for years and years). On the bright side, it’s not as bad as when I first arrived at New York from halfway around the world. (Back then, I was pining for fresh mangoes and this particular brand of pen you can only get in Asia. Desperate, I once rehydrated dried mangoes by soaking them in water overnight. It sort of worked.) I like to think I’m getting better at this whole nomad thing, since I think it will be my lifestyle for years to come. At least I know what I usually miss: comfort food and art supplies.

I’ve learned a lot from having to change paths over and over again. Here in Manila, I try to discover something new every day, not unlike what I was doing in New York. It’s fun getting to know your home city again, and I am so happy at how it has changed since I last saw it. The art and design culture has taken off (yippee!), making me feel optimistic at meeting creative people and catching up on the art education I should have had. I am determined to find time to go on one of Carlos Celdran’s now-famous old Manila tours and perhaps discover new avenues of inspiration, since a recent bout of insomnia and listlessness has given me a creative slump the past two weeks. (I don’t know what’s up with me, but something’s not right for the past few days. Maybe it’s the heat?)

I also feel very happy at seeing young people who are determined to make the country better; despite me wanting to hop around the world and friends betting that I will likely end up in Europe (I think so, too), I still want to spend a good slice of my adult years here. Sun! Sand! Happy people! Cheap massages! You become more loyal to what you’ve left once you return to them.

One thing though – I am glad I spent time in the US that was substantial enough for me to realize that I don’t want to stay there. To be brutally honest, when you’re Asian, or in a developing country, or both, it’s somehow ingrained in your culture that America is an end in itself, a destination, the goal to shoot for. And I do see why; the respect for individualism, the education, and the potential for financial growth are among the best things I’ve seen in it. I’ve noticed this motivation in a lot of foreigners from all over the world – they would take a lot of rubbish for the sake of American citizenship, which I respect and all that. But I feel very relieved that it doesn’t fall into my list of goals.

But there is a certain sense of incompleteness I’ve always felt, living in Asia for so long. I love the continent – the reverence for nature, the respect for people and relationships, and the almost instinctive sense to care for others are things I’ve always been grateful for, more so now that I’ve been a bit more worldly and aware of how people who were not raised with these values can end up as. I think it’s having to be raised in a bi-cultural context, with my Filipino side arguably the “less Asian” than the Chinese side, in the never-ending debate on racial and cultural fractions. No side really adopts you as its own; it’s the blessing and the curse of being mixed and being distinctly so.

Asians are, on the whole, way more repressed than what I’ve experienced on the other side of the world. I’ve noticed that we have a lot of hidden anger, in contrast to my New York experiences where people would scream hysterically into their cellphones in public. I’ve often felt that we were contained in a box, being molded into something that society expected of us, which explains why we’re obsessed with getting degrees in medicine, business and law, regardless of whether we’re even passionate about the field. To rock the boat is just unspeakable, and to fall short should be something that warranted shame.

Being Filipino though, is sometimes a whole other matter altogether. If my family’s general bi-polar reactions to my career change are any indication, Filipinos will always be happy with anything I do. Thank God I’m mixed, yo! Whee! We just love having fun. It explains why, despite poverty and political turmoil, Pinoys will always rank spectacularly high on any Happiness Index. I’ve sometimes felt that it was why we kept getting colonized in the first place; we’re just way too nice and accommodating. It has its ups and downs just like anything else.

I feel so much happier being here now than I was three years ago, when I was doing grad school applications like crazy. I feel like I can finally enjoy Asian living without the societal pressure. It’s like I finally have a shot at succeeding personally, now that I don’t feel like there’s something fundamental lacking and now that no one is on my ass, knowing exactly what I will do next. I’d rather be anonymous. The only thing my friends know is that I don’t want to do anything that rides a lot on standardized tests anymore. Screw the GREs. I’m finally free! Whee! Oh happy day!

But I really miss my taekwondo class. It’s just not the same, yo. And yes, I miss you all! Sniff.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition, Chapter 3

2008-03-24T06:36:00.000-07:00

Hello dears!

I finally talked to my parents about me defecting from academia! Yay!

First thing, though. A big thank you to Patrick Birde for making me see the light last year and forcing me to come clean to my parents on the phone last November. I think that's one reason my folks seemed completely fine when I came back; it had enough time to sink in.

My mother was understanding, not just because she's my mom and I came out of her uterus. She was a genetics professor for 30 years, so she understood it from a genetics perspective – her side of the family had a lot of artists. Go genetics! So really, Mom, I reasoned. It's not me, it's my genome. Your half of my chromosomes made me not want to be a scientist anymore.

(That defense seemed a lot less pathetic than what I told her last November: "I'm sorry that I disappointed you and that I'm still single.")

I began with the easiest reason: I just didn't fit in. I tried, but some things are just not possible. I'm way too free-spirited and happy to be there. I think only WYA had the charity to take me in and condone my crazy ways. I paraphrased one of my art teachers at The League, too: Arrogance is for the weak and the confused, which have no place in my castle.

(Whee! Can you imagine my castle? It will be pink with balloons, goldfish in the moat, and baby Carebears instead of gargoyles. And every single knight will have a black belt in taekwondo. But I digress.)

Most of us, I feel, fail at or question our first enterprise because of the naivete of youth, or feeling that going through the stress of university makes us sufficiently equipped with going through life. In your early twenties, I think it is critical to be struggling in a new environment with hostile people. It forces you to grow up much quicker, allowing you to figure out what you really want to do and makes you so fed up with your current state that you will want to follow your bliss immediately. I've seen people who've been with the same people and environment for so long; they act as though they are still riding on training wheels. I told my mom that I didn't want to be pushing 30 and feeling like I was coasting along, with nothing much to show for what was supposed to be the most exciting time of one's life.

Being treated like dirt also forces you to seek solace elsewhere, potentially in things you never thought you would do, and become passionate about it. I think that was one reason I really wanted to be out of Manila – I'm way too spoiled here. I need to have every single breakdown imaginable now, so I won't have to deal with them later on. In New York, I was abused, rejected, disrespected, discriminated against, but I ended up trying out things I never thought I would do. Struggle is as important to me as success.

I'm trying to look at the bright side and think that all of the people I've admired (nice scientists included!) initially failed or left their first attempt at something. I'm thinking that failure gave these people motivation and drive when they finally found what they loved to do and pursued it despite societal pressure; no one wants them to be right.

My friends used to chide me that I should learn how to stand up for myself more. They still do; I think they want me to show some fangs every now and then. That will take work; I try, but I keep cracking up. It's just not in my character. But deep down, I'm sure I can be a gossipy manipulative pretentious bitch, yo! I'm sure it just takes a little imagination.

I'm really happy I found taekwondo, though. I think it gives you a certain sense of dignity, and allows you to carry yourself in a way that no one will think of taking advantage of you. I'm not particularly good at it and I guess I'm never going to be great at it; no one starts a sport at 22 and expects to compete in the Olympics. I just love it because as a writer, it's an excellent metaphor, and made me look at my life in a different light. I guess looking back during my lab rat days, I vowed to myself that I will never let any guy treat me like that again. I'll break him in half first.

But it's really useful for me here. In this country, when you're a few shades lighter and/or a couple of inches taller than the majority, you might as well tattoo your forehead with the words "Kidnap Me." This is what I didn't love about Manila – I was driven everywhere. At least my parents never hired a bodyguard. I would have likely made his life a living hell.

You have no idea how martial arts have simplified my life, yo. I walk around the city with my arnis/kali sticks, and no one harasses me anymore. Whenever I leave the house, or wear something that does not pass my dad's Chastity Control, I can tell him, "It's ok, Daddy, I can kill people now." It's amazing! I should have done this before. Maybe everyone will make way for me when I start carrying my sai. I may never have to wait in line ever again.

Lots of love,
Cathy

The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition

2008-03-14T10:15:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2: Hugs from Manila!

Hello dears,

So it seems I'll be in Manila longer than I thought. I hate to admit it, but as much as I love to be home, it's hard to be back after so long. When you come back a different person in the same environment you left, it's very unsettling. Time stopped for me in New York; I didn't care about anything and anyone except exploring new things.

It's hard to feel like an outsider in your own motherland.

As far as reconnecting with my country, though, it's not so bad. I've had three massages since I got here. At $7, it's pretty expensive – apparently it could go as low as 5. I've been duped, yo. But my masseuse comes to my house so she can work on me while I'm working on brochures, so it's fine by me. I've discovered coconut yogurt, and have been drinking mango shakes wherever I go. I've also made plans to go to the beach. I have to; I'm whiter than Mary and Phil, you guys. How on earth can I be paler than a blonde Canadian who loves the snow, and a Brit? I'm from the tropics, for the love of God.

Barely a week in the Philippines and I already sprained my foot in a taekwondo class. The next few weeks for me include graphic design classes, taekwondo, arnis, and potentially hip hop. Keeping busy is the one thing that makes the sensation of newness less apparent to me. Just like the initial retreat from academia, I am hell-bent on establishing a semblance of normalcy wherever I go. At least Bikram yoga is the same all over the world.

I have had a lot of social faux pas since I got back; think hugging complete strangers, among other things. I partially blame it on being in the lab (no people, only mice), and partly on being in NYC (I can go for days without talking to human beings). I think I should keep to myself for a while and save myself from further embarrassment.

(No more crying outburts, though. Apparently my weepy breakdowns when I left were due to a horrible case of PMS. Oops. Sorry guys. False alarm.)

Food-wise, I'm surviving here. Filipino cuisine can be a vegetarian's nightmare. My mother has given up trying to feed me, and just like in New York, I am a handicap to group lunches. Since my vow not to eat anything that walks, swims, flies and crawls, I've only nearly caved twice – once with schnitzel, and another time with sisig. It is a constant ordeal here, without Caramel Nut Brownie Luna bars to keep me happy. I suspect some of my friends are taking bets on how soon I'll go down.

I've been relatively less bouncy here because I am in a place where everything affects me. I can't shut out politics as I did back in New York. When I left Manila, they were trying to impeach our president; I'm back and they're still trying to do the same thing. In an odd way, I feel a bit sorry for her – it must be sad to be hated by so many people, knowing that you can't do anything else with your life because of how famous you are. It must be what those Enron people feel.

I think the main thing that's bothering me now is the fact that I am finally facing the consequences of my actions. It's agonizing to go through the same spiel of "I don't want to be in the academe anymore" every time I have coffee with someone I haven't seen for so long. It's humiliating, too; science was all I ever wanted not so long ago, and to come back with a completely different perspective makes me feel so irresponsible.

Not everything has been great. Some of my friends are quite disappointed with my sudden career change. That sucks. But you can't have it all. I think the most important thing I earned last year was, after all this time, a backbone. I'm from Asia; if you did well in school, you had to be a doctor or a lawyer. I often felt that it was a crime against the people who really wanted to heal people or to uphold justice. Plus, any idiot can do well in school, follow the rules, get the grades, be at the top of the class. It just takes a little effort. The best thing I've realized is that you should bring something of yourself the way no one else can. I think my biggest nightmare now isn't to fail, but to be following what everyone else does all the time, competing against them because I had nothing original to give. Mediocrity terrifies me.

But just like what I endured last year, I'm taking everything one day at a time. I had dinner with one of my mentors last night, and instead of a lecture, she said that she's totally supportive of what I do now. It also turns out that she's good friends with one of our board members; they go to the same salon. Her words to me: "You're glowing and you're thinner. I approve." Hahaha. Manila is a big city with a small town feel – we run in very tiny circles, which, I guess, makes it quite similar to New York City.

So I'm trapped in paradise, but at least I'm not schlepping in it. Tomorrow, I'm off to – of all things – a slumber party. I hope no one expects cupcakes, because they're not getting any!

Lots of love,
Cathy

My Babies!

2008-03-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

Voila, after weeks of learning Adobe Illustrator by myself and feeling like an idiot, my children are born! Yay! Farewell to pipettes forever, yo! I can create! Whee! Watch out for these in the blogs, coloring books, comic strips, etc.

Love,
Cathy

The Chronicles of Paranoia, New York Edition

2008-03-03T20:51:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1: Aloha in Manila!

Hello dears!

This trip home has been the most traumatic one of my life. I was ill-prepared and was packing until the last minute. I didn't sleep after the party that WYA threw for me, which meant I had a few hours to kill. I ended up taking out the trash and loading the dishwasher because I didn't know what to do with myself. When I'm really stressed out, I clean.

Mary's friend, Eduardo, unwittingly came to my rescue during the pre-flight ordeal. He reminded me of airport security's policy on bringing liquids on the plane, which of course meant I had to repack my skin care products. I had half an hour before I had to go, and still wasn't done with my luggage. It was 4 in the morning, and I was hysterical and in tears and needed to talk to a human being; he was the only one in the house who was still awake. The poor guy (and now my favorite person in my Adopted Latino Family), nearly collapsed under the weight of one of my suitcases. (I had baggage overload; I shelled out $160. This is why Filipinos applaud after a plane has landed; our suitcases alone threaten airline safety.) He stayed with me throughout the entire ordeal, partly because it was during the crack of dawn, and partly because he didn't want me to have a heart attack.**

**Mary and Tom, if you can please take this guy out to dinner, I would appreciate it. I will pay you back.

I was crying uncontrollably when I left the house, and this spell continued during the cab ride (the stupid Super Shuttle was late, leaving me no choice but to do this the expensive way. And while we're at it, I want my money back! ) and while checking in. The airport personnel were asking me what was wrong and were very sympathetic, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I was so emotional right then. I silently sat in a corner, transferring excess baggage into a box. It is sad, but this wasn't the first time I've waded through my underwear in public.

I wanted so badly to be home, but not like this, I guess. I'm still at the stage where I couldn't face my parents and mentors who were shocked at this sudden career change. My life has been changing repeatedly for a while now, perhaps out of habit. But I think I am at the point where these life changes aren't quaint little methods of personal discovery and self-actualization anymore, but are starting to seriously piss me off.

My last flight to Manila took 24 hours due to additional security checks; that was about two years ago and now, things are bit speedier. But I have never had a flight where the entertainment system worked for me. For both flights to Hong Kong and then to Manila, my monitor refused to work after a time. I am starting to think that my fingertips are shooting invisible gamma rays of happiness, frying the TV's circuits and leaving me quite bored for a few hours.

I remember the last time I was here and was shocked by how my parents had "memorialized" me. When your family misses you, they are going to frame everything you have ever won and done. I remember being horrified by a completely unflattering and unrecognizable portrait they had made of me. This time was no different. There are more pictures and medals on the walls, and not one, but two hideously executed portraits of myself. I felt like I died.

Ever since my breakup with academia, I have had many friends who have offered jobs, alternative paths, and collaborations. And so, barely 24 hours into the country, one of my friends already presented me with an aggressive job offer. It's incredible. It's like life is hell bent on making me productive after a year of just sitting on my scientific ass, watching cells grow.

I just got in Sunday night, but I've been so pampered and taken care of that the jet lag is completely irrelevant. Manila is so much fun; kind of like New York but with more space and less of the rush. I didn't realize how much I missed these things:

Cheap massages
Warm and happy people
A toilet with a bidet. Don't ask.
Relaxing shopping and dining experiences
Freshly made everything
A chauffeur
The tropical sunshine
The beach
Yummy food in non-ginormous portions
The metric system

But I still miss you guys!

Lots of love,

Cathy

Freeze Tag on Wall Street

2008-02-24T20:07:00.000-08:00

Ah, New York City. Land of Broadway, Lady Liberty, and The Naked Cowboy (who currently has legal issues with the makers of M&Ms). There is something for everyone here – careers for the ones driven by ambition, education for those driven to learn, and sheer happy nonsense for those who want to take a break from the clutches of adulthood.

Perhaps because silliness is part of my job, I was ordered by President Mary to participate in something we got from one of our mailing lists – Freeze Tag on Wall Street. That’s it, no cover charge, no solicitations – just a bunch of yuppie strangers hanging out on a chilly Sunday afternoon, playing childhood games.

And so after art class at The League, I, armed with my sketchbooks and Mary’s hideous beer goggles that she dared me to wear in public (heck, I’ll try anything once), rushed to Wall Street and patiently waited for complete strangers to have a little fun while hearing the following words in my head:

“Please God, don’t let me regret this.”

A few seconds into the game and we were stopped by the cops. Matt Levy, who has organized this game for four years in a row now, vainly argued for our right to play, but apparently we were risking homeland security through freeze tag. Undeterred, still enthusiastic, and wanting to stick it to The Man, we continued the game a few blocks away.

While playing, it became immediately clear to us why adults don’t do this anymore: Freeze tag is exhausting. Towards the end, when it became too tiring for one person, we ended up playing “blob tag” – as the “It” catches you, you link hands and tag another person, until the last one who isn’t part of the “blob” wins. As the “blob” grew to six people, we screamed, “Mitosis!” and divided into two groups to catch the remaining runners. We had hot apple cider to toast the day.

Tourists would stop and stare, a couple of reporters were taking pictures, and a group of brazen breakdancers were a few steps away and encouraging us to join their gig instead, but we didn’t care. We were happy and silly and probably too old to be playing freeze tag in the snow, but for that one beautiful day in New York City, all was right with the world**.

But yes, thank God, we weren’t arrested.

** Until we see nutty photos of ourselves in The New York Sun.

From Pipettes to Pencils

2008-02-20T20:00:00.001-08:00

To make myself better at my job, I have decided to go back to art classes. Ok, it’s also a good excuse for me to do one of the things I’ve always wanted to, but never had the motivation before. Only for art class will I wake up early on a Sunday morning with a smile on my face, and only for the Alliance will I do it for seven hours a day, every week. The class I am taking is Comics and Sequential Art at The Art Students League with Jamal Igle and Steve Walker, professional comic book artists.

Walking into a studio was a bit disconcerting for me. For years, I held a pipette in one hand and beaker in the other. To replace those with a graphite pen and a sketchbook was quite unsettling. On the first day, Jamal actually came up to me and said, “You have to relax. You’re a bit tight.” They taught me how to sharpen my pencil.

Years of art classes as a kid all came back to me. Illustration is definitely one of the earliest skills a person acquires. For three hours each class, we do figure drawing with different time limits. I’ve since taken it to the next level and started drawing friends and subway riders during the rest of the week. It’s quite fun; it’s one of those things where time just flows for me.

In addition to reclaiming my drawing skills, I also wanted to have my WYA cartoons critiqued. I’m glad I have the perfect excuse (human dignity! Whee!) to doing one of the things I’ve always wanted to do in life: make my own comic strips.

One major apprehension I’m getting is that I still have to learn all the software that artists of this century have to know. I didn’t even know that Illustrator existed until I came to WYA. Now, when people ask me how I learned it, I would respond honestly: “I pressed a button and saw what it would do.” My friends in their late twenties have told me repeatedly that I have “a long way to go” in life. I guess that is true in the Adobe context.

After showing my designs to my class, the first reaction I got was one of collective disbelief. “You did this on POWERPOINT? Are you crazy?”

“Give me a break,” I retorted. “I was decapitating rats before I met you!” I need one of those fancy graphic design gadgets. I don’t even remember what it’s called. A graph pad? Or at least learn to master the Pen tool. On the bright side, my stuff will only look better if I learn how to do it the easy way.

Artists are definitely so much nicer than scientists. I figure it’s the nature of the job. We’re all drawing the same thing, but we bring so much of ourselves into it that competition doesn’t predominate. There is always room for another person’s way of seeing the world. There’s less gossip, too; we’re just so busy talking about ourselves and our projects. I’ll take artistic narcissism over spiteful cattiness any day.

Maybe I am meant to do something artsy with my life. God knows I already dress like an artist; I’m always in black. (It’s a slimming color.) The era of lab coats and yoga pants is so over.

So after a few weeks of art class, a number of naked people, several episodes of carpal tunnel syndrome and me wrestling with my computer mouse, meet my latest character design:

Emily. b 2008

I named her Emily in honor of (what else) taekwondo. My first master, Lee, has this weird problem with names and called me Emily for months. It’s become a joke with us now; I still sign my e-mails as Emily. With her, I am immortalizing his amnesia.

One hilarious thing I did find out while working in an organization with a lot of women is that I will always get Fat Comments on my designs. I design a T-shirt: “Wait, that makes me look fat!” I propose a certain fabric: “No, that will add pounds!” This body image thing apparently extends to my illustrations.

To my blog readers,

Do you think Emily is fat? And should this matter at all?

Discuss.

Leaving the Quarter Life Crisis

2008-02-20T19:48:00.000-08:00

You know you’ve grown up a lot when you read your writing that must be about two years old, and the first thing that pops into your mind is: “Oh my God. I’m an idiot.” Looking back at my old words, I see a kid who was half-terrified, half-excited, and eager to see what the world was like beyond the home territory.

I think it’s a reasonable fear to reach 30 years old and feel like you haven’t done much with your life, and I’ve seen it manifested enough to know exactly what I don’t want to be, six years from now. I’ve observed that people who are bitter end up more materialistic and nitpick on the pettiest of things. They are obsessed with making sure that they do not end up with the shorter end of the stick. They become close-minded, ensuring that their opinions will be the loudest and therefore the accepted, hanging on to hot air because that’s the only thing they have. They end up being nosy, listening to other people’s conversations and make sure that they know what everyone else is doing instead of concentrating on their work.

I think the most important thing I learned in the past two years is that in whatever you do with your life, it should be based on something solid that you can bring. To have nothing else but good intentions isn’t enough; I think it’s better to have a concrete vision of what you want to do, and have visible output to back it up – to do what brings you joy and what is based on actual talent. Looking back, I wanted a Ph.D. for the wrong reasons -- I thought that it would make me something I was not.

Second to this is the realization that how you do something is just as important as what you do, or possibly more. I think what ultimately got me was being so enthusiastic about working with all these famous scientists whose work I read about, then meeting them and realizing that “Oh lord, you’re a jerk. I can’t believe I wanted to meet you. Crap.” But such is the case for most professions when you end up in the wrong places.

I’m traumatized enough by bitter angsty people that I mostly hang out with creative people now, and avoid those who base their life’s work on empty blabber. I’ve observed that creative people are the happiest and the most independent bunch, because they have something tangible that only they can make. It is their take on life the way no one else can replicate, and because of this stake of authorship, they can confidently move on with life knowing that they can do something worthwhile. The hubris of man entails the desire to matter, to know that one lived and the world was the better for it.

I’m happy that I am able to laugh about what I’ve often referred to as the Incredibly Horrific Yet Oddly Hilarious Scientific Nightmare. Years ago, I would have flipped out irreversibly when something that was Not In The Plan would transpire. In another life, it would be downright humiliating to be shunned by the herd. Now, I am ecstatic! Whee! I’m not afraid of what conservative people may think! I finally have my own voice! I can now be original! I finally have an actual shot at succeeding in life! Yipee!

I hope this new perspective in life is really what the point was of traveling halfway around the world, starting life from scratch and enduring horrible 24-hour international flights, breaking out in adult acne thousands of feet above the ocean.

A (Semi)-Rhyming Prayer from One Who Went Through Her Quarter Life Crisis before Her Quarter Life:

Please God, do not let me be a bitter power-tripping person pushing 30 with manic obsessive tendencies and bad skin. Please help me maintain my joy and hyperactivity in whatever environment I’m in. Please don’t let me crack under pressure, or act like a prick when seeking tenure.

And above all, please don’t ask me to be a doctor or a lawyer.

Amen and namaste!

The First 60 Days

2008-02-17T17:07:00.001-08:00

So it’s been a while since this official break-up with cancer research and I am still stunned. It’s like getting hit by a truck and learning, much later, that I’m still alive. But the Pipette Itch is slowly but surely subsiding, and I am really glad that the era of lab coats is so over. My petri dishes have been replaced with sketchbooks; my beakers with acid-free portfolios. The only other person that comes to mind who has done this much self-reinvention is Madonna.

I guess when one comes out of what she perceives is her biggest failure, she will do everything in her power to make up for it. I’ve gone through a big slice of my Strategic Plan (I had to submit one before I got here) and it’s only been a few weeks. It has become clear to me that the past couple of months have been of atonement, of reassuring myself that this was not a mistake, that I am finally doing what I am supposed to do at this point in time. It is a bit like making up for lost time, since I was so unproductive yet exhausted for a year in the Lab from Hell. To slack off at this point would only prove them right.

I’ve often wondered why I chose the lab in the first place, when creativity is something that came naturally. I guess I thought that science was more original than it is now. I believed that I would be able to do something far more inspired when I chose research over the typical medical school track, which I’ve often viewed as a box. Instead, I ended up jumping from one box to the next. The ivory tower of the academe is still a box, only bigger yet oddly with less space.

I like to think that my time in science served as a phase to toughen me up, such that almost everything else is a walk in the park. Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times once said that “One of the best preparations of life is a strong dose of humility.” Man, is that ever true. When you think you know where you’re going, then the path shifts unexpectedly, the feeling of enlightenment is incomparable. It makes you release all inhibitions and just take whatever added challenges that come your way. Hell, everything else went to blazes, what’s another bonfire?

Here at WYA, I keep asking for more work, and repetitively ask, perhaps to their consternation, if there’s anything they’re displeased with. I’ve become less afraid of criticism. “Trust me, you guys cannot do anything to me that they haven’t done to me already.”

There are times when I feel the need to slow down. Once, after a long Sunday of art class boot camp and yoga, I accidentally tossed my iPod into the laundry. Miraculously, it’s still ok. (If this happens to you, don’t panic. Let it dry, then charge it again.)

When I’m meeting Mary (WYA Prez), I would bluntly ask her, “Are you sure I’m working hard enough? Because I’m really not dying here.” They respect my desire for balance, and I am relieved that I don’t have to feel apologetic every time taekwondo hour draws near and I run off because I don’t want to do extra push-ups. I’m glad I can live my life without having to apologize for it.

I’m a bit disconcerted that I am labeled as the creative one here, mainly because I’ve been the scientific geek all my life. It’s just weird. Everything I’ve done here so far, I’ve done without much strategizing or long hours of brainstorming; I just do them. It’s fun. They seem happy with it so far. I think I’m mainly disturbed by the fact that they appreciate what I do, which didn’t really happen when I was in science.

I’m also wondering whether I’m having way too much fun here. As I write this, Phil, our IDO is on the phone, working on some financial project that has been going on for more than week now. Behind me is Maria, our Director of Development, who is busy meeting deadlines and following up her fundraising events. Meanwhile, I am busy tweaking my sketches on Adobe Illustrator, learning how to draw cartoon hands and wondering if my African cartoon character would look better if I painted her skin Cappuccino.

It feels a bit funny to live and work with the same people in the same place. On the positive side, I get a lot of cardio in this house. I am finally building my upper body strength the way taekwondo doesn’t do, for the simple reason that it takes all my energy to launch my ass up to the top bunk of the bed. Bulging biceps, here I come.

The people all think I’m nuts here. And liberated, too. I’ve been voted Most Likely to Do Co-Ed Naked Yoga over and over again, perhaps due to the combination of my sarcasm, yogic lifestyle, and interest in Gael Garcia Bernal’s films. This is very refreshing, considering that people thought I was going to be a nun back in high school.

The people here have to control me sometimes, because I am just way too happy for a normal person. I freaked out our entire executive board with my Extremely Exuberant E-mail (see the inaugural entry of this blog); Mary had to do some serious damage control. (I know they are traumatized, and trust me, so am I.) In another lifetime, however, I would be completely mortified, but now, it just makes perfect sense:

Only I can freak out the entire executive board of an international organization that represents a million people on the first week on the job.

I’m sure the fact that this has happened before doesn’t ease their worries.

Blue Sugar and Pink Farming Equipment

2008-02-09T19:12:00.000-08:00

At an event we had at the WYA house last night, I figured out a way to take the WYA logo to the next diabetic level: by stenciling it onto cupcakes with blue sugar.

It's sad, but this isn't the nuttiest thing I've ever made.

The fanciness of the evening was only rivaled by the pain that my shoes were giving me. As the night went on, I came to the horrible conclusion that I need to brush up on etiquette and table manners. Years of being on the rush, all the time, have crippled my fine dining habits -- I barely know which glass is for which wine, never mind from which side of the person I should serve the food. I don't even think I know how to operate a coffee machine; I normally microwave water for two minutes, dump two teaspoons of coffee, and off I go. For someone who has plucked out brain cells, dissected embryos, and worked on complicated microscopes for hours, I found this night a bit disconcerting and educational.

I should have done what most aspiring actors do: take a waitressing job.

Later, in possibly one of the funniest snapshots of pathetic-ism, behold, WYA staff and interns (I had to hold the camera), holding the coats for the guests on their way out:

We waited for quite a while downstairs, and, feeling restless, started singing and horsing around:

***

The next day, I crawled out of bed long enough to watch one of my taekwondo teachers take his test for his fourth degree black belt. Whee! I am so inspired! He did a form with a pair of kamas, which are, hands down, way cooler than my sai. I cannot wait to get my own! They're even available in pink! This is so exciting!

WYA Seminar/Workshop Series #2: Juggling!

2008-02-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

WYA International kicked off 2008 with a juggling workshop hosted by Viveca Gardiner, president of Playful Productions and co-founder of JuggleNYC.com.

Check out this extremely happy invitation:

Why juggling? It's one of my favorite activities to date. I met Viveca and the other Carmine Street Jugglers right after I was out of grad school, so juggling was major therapy for me.

The diversity of jugglers easily made them my favorite group of New Yorkers. How else can you find scientists, mathematicians, ex-rabbi clowns, teachers, artists and geeks all gathered together? Viveca herself has an interesting background: She was a literature major in Harvard, and has a business degree from Yale.

A few sessions with the Carminers made me realize that people juggle for a myriad of reasons. It's very therapeutic; there's something about rhythmically tossing stuff in the air that just eases headaches and stress. It's one of those exercises that integrates the right and left brain. It's a moving meditation -- yoga for the brain.

Here, some WYA members and friends begin their first juggling class:

For the workshop, I was excited because Sean, probably the best juggler I've seen in NYC, was coming. I've seen him juggle probably 10 or 11 rings at once. He never disappoints:

Here, he is demonstrating his trademark trick, the Chandelier:

I was impressed by how young they can be. Our third speaker, Kyle, is still in high school, but is already set on joining the Cirque du Soleil. Give him some clubs, and it's hard for him to stand still:

In her talk, Viveca spoke about how juggling is one of those things that no one can give to nor take away from you. It's one of the most joyful and rewarding activities. The ability to go from three balls to four depends solely on one's determination. I guess that it is for this reason that there is a lot of camaraderie among jugglers; everyone is usually more than willing to teach you, or even better, demonstrate. It's extremely addicting.

Did I mention that it also makes the brain bigger?

Meet three of the most coordinated, skilled people on the planet (From L-R: Sean, Viveca, Kyle)

Cavorting with the Carminers

2008-02-04T14:35:00.000-08:00

New York City is home to a variety of characters, a lot of whom I’ve become quite good friends with. Martial artists, yogis, performers, visual artists, fellow vegetarians – all have been sources of comfort as well as fodder for my stories. None, however, can compare to the diversity and nuttiness exuded by one of the coolest, most skilled groups I’ve met: the Carmine Street Jugglers.

Juggling is amazing because of the diversity of people in terms of culture and career. I’ve met jugglers who are also school administrators, animators, computer geeks, mathematicians, businessmen, scientists, designers, etc. The first night I went out with these guys, I sat at a table with a nomadic delivery boy, an animator, and a depressed clown who used to be in rabbi school. I met someone who was the first woman to win the International Juggling Association's Championship. Her dad is a physicist who plays the piano, her mom is a music journalist who is a stand-up comic, and her real name is Cindy Marvell. I think I’ve found my people.

Where else can I find odd characters such as Fernando, whom I apparently first saw two years ago, in front of the American Museum of Natural History? Déjà vu ensued the moment he introduced himself to me at the Tony Dapolito Recreation Center in downtown NYC, where Carminers hang out every Thursday to toss some balls.

Fernando, circa 2005

It’s incredible to see jugglers in action because they all look so happy while doing it. You can see it in their eyes, how they can shut out the rest of the world while tossing stuff in the air, be it clubs(don’t call them pins), rings or beanbags (my personal favorite as they remind me of Chinese jacks).

I learned to juggle when I was about 11 or 12, although my skill level reached a plateau of three balls for a while. (One of my many New Year resolutions is to make it to four.) There is something very calming about it, and it helps stymie my afternoon migraines somewhat. It improves coordination, and heightens my sense of balance and symmetry. Plus, it just feels so good to learn one trick then move on to the next. Juggling has been proven to increase brain mass as well, which probably explains why a lot of mathematicians do it. As my fellow Carminer Viveca said, juggling is one of those things where we seek to make things more difficult.

Beyond the fancy tricks and the equipment jugglers are among the friendliest people. Most are willing to teach you how to perform that extra trick, or how to add another ball to your cascade. I have, however, encountered people who take it way too seriously. I will never forget the time when a ball rolled towards me, and as I bent over, this person screeched, “I’ll get it, Cathy, I’ll get it!” The polite idiot in me still picked it up and handed it to him, whereby he grabbed it from me without a word, roared “Argh!” and stomped away. This was a very valuable lesson; in some instances, be forewarned:

Never touch a juggler’s balls.

WYA Seminar/Workshop #1: Fear, Instincts and Self-Defense with HealthDefense.org’s Ken Gibson

2008-02-04T11:53:00.000-08:00

One of the best things I love about WYA is that they can use absolutely everything I am interested in. I love learning things, especially if it’s something I can’t find in a regular school. One of my projects involves holding a seminar/workshop here in the WYA house, in which I get to apply a lot of things I’ve learned in the past two years, and where my long list of interesting acquaintances comes in handy.

The World Youth Alliance Seminar/Workshop Series (I will have to think of a catchier name for this) has the following goals:

1. To gather speakers who love what they do (i.e. live in dignity!) and let them pass on that joy to others
2. To go beyond the traditional lecture-style event and make have audience members participate by learning how to do something (no more Powerpoints, for the love of God.)
3. To gather members for a night of learning and fun

For the first workshop, held last December, one of my martial arts teachers, Ken Gibson, agreed to teach us self-defense. With two black belts – one in hapkido and one in farang mu sul, Ken has had a lot of training and experience in defending oneself. Incidentally, he was the person who inspired me to start eating healthy after attending one of this retreats. His book, “What to Feed Your Enemy,” should be out soon, and I can’t wait to get one.

As an aside, I also love how this project is allowing me to play around with graphic design again:

Learning how to defend oneself is one of the more important skills I’ve acquired since coming to NYC, where muggings are common and the detritus of humanity come out at night, preying on unsuspecting victims. I think it’s also a great thing to pass on to WYA interns who have come from all over the world.

When defending yourself or your loved ones, all inhibitions should be eliminated. All the four-letter words you know will aid you in making your attacker realize that you are not one to be messed with. The throat is one of the most sensitive areas of the body, as are the groin, and the eye (push your finger in, bend it, then yank it out). Biting, calling out for help – all the primal instincts we have are brought out once we experience fear.

It was interesting seeing WYA's fall interns, particularly the ones who are usually so poised, get out of their comfort zones.

I only hope they never have to use what they've learned.

Kicking Butt, with Dignity

2008-02-04T09:22:00.000-08:00

After a year of living on my own in New York City, I returned to what would be the turning point of my leaving academia: taekwondo. I was about 13 when I last trained. The worst thing that happened to me was falling in line in the back of some kid who looked about eight years old, who was pretending to be the Pink Power Ranger. He turned to me, shouted “Yaahhh!” -- and kicked me in the crotch, forcing me to my knees in unspeakable (!) pain. I imagine it would have been worse had I been a boy.

Fifteen months in taekwondo school and I now have something in common with Sarah Michelle Gellar: we both have brown belts. For me, it wasn’t so much the satisfaction of earning something I literally got my butt kicked for, nor the therapeutic shot of endorphins after yet another day of joyless drudgery at the lab – it was the fact that I finally proved to myself that despite my apparent ADD, I am no dilettante. I can stick to something for a long time without getting bored! I am not afraid of commitment! It’s not me, it’s science! Yay!

When I was in science, I was so depressed in ways I did not think possible that I thought an hour of kicking bags (or men) four times a week would be good for me. I never realized that this would impact my lifestyle more than I expected. Three of my teachers – Lee (a fourth-degree blackbelt), Fabiano (New York State champion 2007) and Calvin (has two black belts) -- influenced me a lot, which just goes to show you that I have to get beaten up before doing things like exercising and eating healthy. When the outside feels very toxic, you will want to cleanse yourself from the inside. It opened up a lot of my interests, too – who knew that I would love training with weapons and such?

Taekwondo is very useful, especially when doing non-profit work, where I sometimes have to travel late in the evening (or generally living in a big city). The knowledge that I am trained to crack someone’s skull makes me stand up straighter and go out into the world with confidence, sprawling in the back of buses when I want to get a good night’s sleep. I am hoping that good posture and self-assurance will somehow convey to a potential mugger: “Attack me, and I will kill you.”

I think martial arts in general make people good-natured and less competitive with other people. All those stereotypes I’ve seen in kung fu movies about being “one with the universe” – Good God, they’re all true, even in a school that’s smack in the middle of Manhattan’s snooty upper crust residences. When I train, it’s just me and the dojang (training space). The rest of the world is shut out, and all life’s issues are whittled down into kicks and punches – it’s just you. As a writer, I think it’s an excellent metaphor.

During my internship with WYA, I had to teach taekwondo to kids for the CityAdventure scavenger hunt, a cultural event which brings teams all over Manhattan to discover the city. Not only did I have to do it for the first time, but I had to do it four times in a row. Needless to say, everyone thought I would screw this up. But a class that had all the potential to go wrong ended up being so much fun, for me and my, ahem, disciples. I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret, that this little four-hour exercise did more good than doing experiments for hours.

This e-mail to my masters might encapsulate this better:

From: Catherine
To: Lee, Fabiano

Leeee! Fabianooooo! Ohmigod, you guys! I taught my first four taekwondo classes in a row yesterday. It was so much fun! It was for a scavenger hunt for the World Youth Alliance, and I was teaching a lot of high school kids. Some of them were a bit hyperactive, but they loved the class and were so behaved. During our team huddle, one of my students poked out my eye and took out my contact lens. We couldn't find it anymore, and I went home half-blind. Eek! I loved them and they loved it and I lost my voice and I totally understand why you guys do this!

Cate/Emily

Months ago, when I realized that my black belt meant more to me than my Ph.D., I knew I had a problem.

I think the most important thing I learned was that martial arts made me aware of one’s innate dignity. In one of my hysterical e-mails to Lee after leaving the academe, I remember writing that when I was in the lab in such a horrible work environment, the one thing that kept running through my head was, “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me when I can kick your ass.” I now know that when this thought runs through my head, it’s time to go, man.

Entering the Creative World

2008-01-21T13:38:00.000-08:00

My internship with WYA was unexpectedly one of the more creative phases of the past few years. Suppressed creativity is like a dormant volcano; it will stew and explode when the time is right. I'm so happy that originality is a requirement for my job right now.

But to always think outside the box can be quite disconcerting. I do not understand how this:

WYA Christmas Card, front

WYA Christmas Card 2007, back

which took less than ten minutes, made the people here so happy. (Geez, I’ve had longer showers.) Doing THIS a hundred times, on the other hand:

Here, I'm holding a pair of forceps, dissecting an embryonic mouse brain to get its hippocampus. Don't ask.

took months (I’m not even sure if it’s done yet), yet didn’t do much. (I'm happy that it turned me vegetarian, though.)

FYI, this “Christmas Card Moment” has since leaked into other projects. I love the WYA logo. I walk into New York City and I can see it everywhere. I'm getting a little high on design; I bug everyone in the office here.

I am so confused. I used to avoid things that came too easily because I questioned the good that they do. But now, I’m thinking it's better to be extremely productive with something that comes naturally. At least everyone’s happy, and my sanity is in check. Plus I’m sleeping better. Whatever path I will embark on, it has to be based on actual talent and instead of relying primarily on the work of other people.

I’m also a bit terrified of this new artsy path. No one wants to be a starving artist, you guys. There are times when I am tempted to go to the subway or Central Park and juggle for a couple of hours for a few bucks. (I actually would, but it’s freezing, and my tropical butt cannot take it. Perhaps in the spring. I’ll announce the dates.) I also dread being among Depressed Artistes -- artists who can only see the world for its ugliness. But neither do I want to return to the land of smart geeks who may or may not care about other people, although I miss my pipettes.

I feel like I'm intellectually gay -- someone who's in between.

On the bright side, the satisfaction of having a written article or a T-shirt design at the end of the day is incomparable. You do it; it’s done. You might have to edit, but the original output remains. The work is irrefutable because I printed it out. And after years of having to listen to people’s blithering drivel all the time, having to memorize gigabytes of information that anyone can find in a book, making sure your competitors do not get ahead of your data, and being around obnoxious pseudo-intelligentsia with bloated egos, I’ve come to a disturbing realization:

Dude, I just really want to make stuff.

Holiday Forgiveness

2007-12-29T09:04:00.000-08:00

I was unexpectedly forgiven twice this Christmas.

Among the list of people I thought I could never face, the one that tops the list would be college mentor. This woman put up with all my failed experiments in college, my pleas for recommendation letters, and several drafts of my thesis since I was around 19 years old. I was supposed to do cancer research, you guys, not go on this odyssey of, ugh, “soul-searching.” (I hate this term.)

The despair of letting a mentor down is just incomparable. Parents will forgive their children because they only passed on their genes, but mentors, I believe, transmit their ideology and beliefs. The thought of showing my face at her doorstep with a black belt in taekwondo instead of a Ph.D. in neuroscience was turning into an ugly (although potentially hilarious) scene in my head.

You can imagine the confusion in my head when, instead of a note of disappointment, I got this e-mail from her in my inbox:

“I'm soooooo happy for you because you finally did it. I'm equally proud of you for having the guts to do it …and do exactly what you like. That's my girl!!!!!”

…

“That’s my girl?” Wait a second. You’re OK with this? Wow. Yet another thing I didn’t see coming at all.

On a lighter note, I finally discovered why the Mexican delivery boys at my favorite restaurant in New York, Gobo, have been snubbing me for months. I hang out with their waiters, chat with their cashiers, high-five the chefs, and learn Polish from their manager, but this group of Latinos, alas!, I’ve never gotten close to, which is strange because I usually get along with Hispanics. I was always under the impression that they thought my Spanish was bad, but hey, I’ve only gotten through Spanish 2. I think it’s safe to say that I speak the language like a four-year-old, but I curse like a native without meaning to.

Christmas day, the answer finally came to me. Looking at my account when I paid, there, in my account, was the reason for my scarlet letter:

Catherine Young
Delivery Notes: horrible tipper

Oh God. The cashier was mortified, and so was I, but frankly I was relieved that it all became clear. To be honest, this is the only place in the US where I’ve had food delivered, and I remember some medical student telling me that tipping for delivery is “only a dollar.” I knew the 15% rule applied to all services, but I thought that I could, as a poor grad student, can get away with this if people usually did it. Or so I thought.

Suffice it to say that they’re talking to me again. In espanol. It’s good to start 2008 clean.

Coming Out to My Parents

2007-12-29T08:59:00.000-08:00

Telling my parents I’m not a scientist anymore was like coming out of the closet. Like a gay guy, it took a while to tell the truth. I started with a common intro: “Are you sitting down?” My mother felt like it was coming, since she knew how unhappy I was. Manipulative words were coming out of my mouth before I could stop them: “I came out of your uterus and I’m the fruit of your loins! You have to love me!”

There were extraneous apologies, too: “I’m sorry that I disappointed you and that I’m still single.”

I remember this commercial of a phone company I saw in Manila about this student in medical school who called his father to tell him he wanted to go into fine art instead. I can totally feel this guy’s pain. The ending was similar, but it’s not the fairy tale you guys think. There was acceptance, but I didn’t get it in one go.

My biracial upbringing also became obvious in this situation; initially, the Filipinos and the Chinese were polarized, with the former being cool with it and the latter feeling that this rocked their world. When my Filipino uncle picked up the phone as I was calling my Chinese aunt, I shrieked, "Oh God, I am so glad it's you because the Chinese are not ok with this." They were upset I didn’t tell them sooner. “I didn’t want you freaking out when I was freaking out,” I said.

Argh. This is not the Joy Luck Club.

The profound joy I feel working for WYA is very telling. When you are stuck in a horrible situation for a year, all that repressed creativity and happiness is suddenly oozing out of your pores like a bad breakout. I discovered graphic design skills I never knew I had. I love the intellectual independence I have now, when I can just do my thing instead of having to see what other people are doing all the time. More importantly, I realized that the environment is just as important as what I’m doing; I just can’t work with boring miserable and/or obnoxious people all the time. It was sucking the life out of me.

Kurt Vonnegut once wrote: "If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to turn homosexual, at least go into the arts." It’s not too late for me to turn lesbian.

It could be worse. I could have left my Ph.D. program to work for non-profit.

La Vida, en Espanol

2007-12-26T19:05:00.000-08:00

I’ve finally found the answer to the question: What do people do when they’re in a big life transition?

The answer is this: They learn a new language.

So in my breakup with academia and my pre-WYA days, a full month of not knowing what life had in store for me, I made myself useful by learning Spanish and French (which I dropped after three classes because I felt that the former was more useful in New York City). In both classes, the most commonly uttered sentences were, hands down: “Je ne travaille pas” and “Yo soy des empleado.” I do not have a job.

When a group of people feel alone and uprooted, they will bond. During breaks, I would put together my journalism and photography portfolio, have a meltdown in front of my classmates, or write and doodle frenetically in my journal and sketchbook. It was at the Instituto Cervantes, which was a lovely place with a historic landmark (Amster Yard), so hear hear! for questioning the meaning of life with a pretty backdrop. Plus, conjugating Spanish verbs over and over again was very calming.

Being Filipino, Spanish was relatively easier to learn. A few months’ worth of Spanish classes was more effective than 13 years of studying Mandarin. The alphabet was essentially the same as Filipino, as was the pronunciation. A lot of words were similar. Some words, however, mean things that are completely different, and there are words that I don't think I can say anymore because apparently they mean something bad in espanol.

When life changes so drastically, some days are better than others. I can go from being inexplicably happy to listless and depressed. I knew that it was for the best, but I was in an awkward stage I didn’t want to be into. I cried myself to sleep when my Spanish professor told me I had “the profile of an artist.” I was using pipettes instead of paintbrushes, decapitating rodents instead of writing stories. I nearly burst into tears in front of the cashier at a downtown art supply store when buying calligraphy pens. (This has been happening a lot. I call it my Shots of Artistic Epiphany.) Why didn’t I see this coming?

I’ve always envied the artistic life. In many ways, artists are unique in their detached independence from the rest of the world. It’s like science, only you don’t have to read other people’s papers all the time to “keep up with the field.” You can get inspired anytime, anywhere. It’s perfect for me, who shuts out the world most of the time.

A part of me reveled in being in this limbo phase. I had absolutely no responsibilities to anyone, leaving me free to do as I please without thinking of the consequences. I could learn anything I pleased and be anywhere I wanted to be. It was a strange mix of existential inertia and endless freefall. The future, because it was blank, looked brilliant. My life was very linear before; the plan was:

Get a Ph.D. --> Do a postdoc --> Head my lab --> Die

Now, the possibilities seem endless. The hyperactive Gemini in me with the really short attention span is loving this new nomadic life.

Three Scenarios I Can Think of Ten Years from Now
1. I join the circus where my flexible yoga-fied ass will be paired with my juggling skills, and I live happily ever after with a Spanish-speaking trapeze artist who caters to my vegetarian dietary needs.

2. I live in a Shaolin monastery where, in exchange for martial arts training and rent, I bake vegan cupcakes to feed the bald monks.

3. I write novels and cartoons in the quiet European countryside and moonlight as a teacher of taekwondo to juvenile delinquents. Occasionally I may cross paths with Peter Mayle and Carolina Herrera while shopping for organic food, and we high five each other for choosing the creative life.

Dios mio. If this is denial, then I hope it lasts forever because it feels so damn good.

Altogether now: It's ok to make mistakes. As long as you come out of them wiser and thinner.

Vegan Cupcake Domination!

2007-12-26T10:33:00.000-08:00

Like the movie, Waitress, where Keri Russell plays a woman who goes through her emotional crises by baking pies and christening them with different names, I went through my WYA internship by stuffing my fellow interns and staff with my now-notorious vegan cupcakes. Recipes are all straight from Isa Chandra Moskowitz’s Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World.

The kitchen is one of my favorite things about the WYA house. I can fit two cupcake pans in the oven. They have nutmeg, cinnamon, and apple cider vinegar! They have a dishwasher! Whee! I am so happy! Therapy sessions have never been so well-equipped. What was supposed to be a one-time thing (I wanted to welcome my fellow interns, who came from all over the world), became a weekly, and sometimes twice-weekly affair. Maria, who is our Director of Development and has excellent taste, tried all of these first as a means of Quality Control.

Being Filipino, I naturally took pictures of everything I've baked before handing them to people:

Vegan Organic World Youth Alliance Smore's Cupcakes
The lettering alone took two hours since I had nothing else but a teaspoon to use. I wanted to do the logo as well, and after three attempts, I got so frustrated that I ate them. This explains why there are only 21 here.

Organic Semi-Vegan Pistachio Rosewater Birthday Cupcakes for Theo

From this fall internship of eight people, 43% were Sagittarians and I had to whip up a batch for every celebrant, and the unwritten rule was that it had to match the person's tastes and personality. This batch was for Theo, a lit major from Canada. I thought that it was a very poetic and romantic recipe, and I never realized that rosewater could be used for baking before. It was also at this point where I realized that margarine really is bad for you, hence the term 'semi-vegan,' because I switched to butter.

Organic Semi-Vegan Coconut Lime Foiled Kidnapping Cupcakes for Andreas

This was the most painful of all cupcake recipes, since I had to squeeze out the lime juice by hand, and I just had a manicure the night before. (Geez, that's a sentence I never thought I'd write.) These were the prettiest cupcakes from the book, which I thought were perfect for a guy who was the gourmet chef in the house. I say "foiled kidnapping' because we were supposed to kidnap the guy on his way back to the WYA house, but we chickened out at the last minute.

Organic Semi-Vegan Banana Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Cupcakes with Color-Coordinated M&Ms for Patrick
These are hands-down the happiest cupcakes I've ever made. I was mercilessly mocked for arranging the M&Ms in my naturally obsessive-compulsive fashion. Altogether now: Blue, Orange, Yellow, Green, Red, Brown. Blue, Orange, Yellow, Green, Red, Brown. I made them for Pat because like him, they're crazy, happy, maybe a little bad for you, but they're so damn good that they're worth every calorie.

***

Ten weeks later, I wanted to mark the end of the internship by another batch of cupcakes. To demonstrate democracy, I held a Cupcake Elections to hear the voice of the masses. Man, what an indecisive bunch! Three elections, later, it was a tie between Coconut Lime and Banana Peanut Butter.

Let us try a new literary device. Below are some e-mails we send out when we're not covering UN Commissions, arranging conferences, and doing research on stem cells and HIV:

To: WYA New York Office
From: catherine@wya.net

Dear WYA Interns and International Staff:

It is with great pleasure that I announce the first Cupcake Floor Debate! Due to the unprecedented impasse brought about by yesterday's Cupcake Elections (and Re-elections), I am allowing the following representatives to submit, in writing, why I should bake the said cupcake:

The Honorable Andreas Pergher, representing the Great State of Indiana, "a shining jewel in the Union," will represent those in favor of the Banana Peanut Butter Chocolate Organic Vegan Cupcakes with Color-Coordinated M&Ms

and

The Honorable Philip Hunt, representing the great Mother England, will represent those in favor of the Organic Semi-Vegan Coconut Lime Foiled Kidnapping Cupcakes

No more than 100 words please, and submit them to me before Thursday's wine-tasting party. After the party, we will have an oral debate between the two representatives, to be presided by myself and mediated by my colleague, Carlos David Aguilar, our Ad-Hoc Adjudicator.

Don't kill each other.

Cupcake Power! Bring It On!

Catherine Sarah Young
Chairman
Cupcake Caucus of the WYA Senate*

*I just got promoted! Yay!

P.S. Please don't rip my cupcake cookbook apart.

From: Andreas
To: catherine@wya.net
On behalf of the great state of Indiana, crossroads of a nation, and land of amber grains, let me express my deep gratitude for the privilege of addressing such a distinguished body on the hotly contested topic of cupcake reform. It saddens me greatly that the Honorable representative of England would risk both the well-being and treasure of his fellow colleagues in a shortsighted attempt to achieve meager tropical gains. I urge my fellow coworkers to vote NO to the proposed "Limey" Amendment. Let us strive to create a more perfect union at the World Youth Alliance, one that embraces the culinary harmony of both peanut butter and banana.

From: Philip
To: catherine@wya.net
My esteemed colleagues, cupcake lovers, and fellow housemates, it is with great urgency and a profound sadness that I write to you today. For many years World Youth Alliance has been a peaceful coconut lime foiled cupcake loving community, however there are some among us who would forsake our proud tradition of cupcake sophistication for gaudy, banana-flavored, color-coordinated imitations. Let us not bow to their demands, let us not abandon our heritage, we will stand proud and firm, and we will not rest until this scourge has be purged from our society. Long live World Youth Alliance!

***

The debate never happened, because they settled for something completely new:

Organic Semi-Vegan Maple Cupcakes with Creamy Maple Frosting and Sugared Walnuts

I missed taekwondo class to bake these. It must be love. Yay! I love these wonderful happy people who don't want to kill each other for tenure!

Fall Internship 2007 (L-R): Me, Desiree (Philippines), Philip (UK), Andreas (US), Patrick (US), Shannon (Canada), Carlos (Mexico), Theo (Canada), Kris (US)

***

You have no idea how happy I am to not be decapitating rats at 8:00 in the morning anymore, then get my dignity stomped on 16 hours later.

Home Alone

2007-12-24T15:25:00.000-08:00

December 19, 2007

It is 10 pm and I am in the WYA house alone. Phil, our International Director of Operations, was the last to go and here I am, having to face the consequences of my actions after the last taekwondo class before the holidays. This is my second, and hopefully last, Christmas alone.

When you leave me alone in a big house, I will clean it. I will also write in it, do art projects in it, practice my taekwondo poomsae -- all while listening to the Spice Girls. And since I am finally alone, it gives me plenty of time to Think About What I Have Gotten Myself Into.

So in a nutshell:

I came to WYA late last August, in despair and looking for a job. Being out of a Ph.D. program leaves one quite discombobulated and demoralized, as I experienced. What the heck should I do now? Studying to be a neuroscientist ended in a spectacular disaster. The WYA Headquarters was a block away from where I (used to) live, and as the result of a series of cinematic events instigated by WYA President Mary Halpine, here I am, their new Director of Communications, unofficial bodyguard and resident cupcake baker.

What exactly did the Alliance get when they hired me? The shelves beside my desk, which I have colonized with the permission of the staff, will probably give anyone a vague idea. The top shelf has all my molecular biology textbooks from university, and going down, I have my art portfolios and supplies. Further down I have stored the books that would not fit in my room: my vegan and vegetarian cookbooks, back issues of Poetry magazines, and my books on reading Egyptian hieroglyphics. A little box decorated with art from Exupery’s The Little Prince contains my juggling balls and a yo-yo. My weapons, which I had to declare before I signed my WYA contracts, sit innocuously in my bedroom with taekwondo DVDs.

They all think I'm psychotic here. Whee! I don't have to pretend! I see the coming year as one of the most independent and creative phases of my life, a chance to “let it all out” before I do graduate school again. Despite my disillusionments in the past year, I still love science. I believe that science is for everyone, not just for people who need tenure (man, especially those!), or for companies that produce drugs and reagents, or for people competing on who gets their paper out first. I want little kids to appreciate the beauty of DNA replication as much as video games, and the most jaded of people to find awe in things like string theory. Maybe I’ll end up doing science writing, or journalism, or be back on the bench if the trauma subsides, but at this point, I have to take advantage of my youth while it’s still there.

I will probably carry a certain level of guilt for a while, but I still have faith that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Right now, I feel shaken, guilty, light, free, focused, and terrified all at the same time.

But I am finally happy now!

Sending Everyone a Hug in One Go!

2007-12-24T15:23:00.000-08:00

To: Everyone I know

From: catherine@wya.net

I'm sending this now before I lose my nerve...

To the WYA Staff, thank you for adopting me during this really traumatic time and for allowing me to be a part of this wonderful family. No More Evil People! Ever! You guys are so nice, I pinch myself every day to make sure I’m awake. I am looking forward to working with you, baking you cupcakes, and giving you as many hugs as possible.

To my fellow WYA interns, it was jolly good fun baking for you every week, learning Spanish (my second mother tongue! Ole!), going off to the UN and having all these crazy adventures. I’m like a comatose patient who recently came back to life, learning to walk again and assimilating into society. Thanks for putting up with me. You guys make me so happy.

To my dear friends, I’m so sorry this cancer research thing didn’t work out. I did not see this coming at all. I am really happy to be working with these people, and for the first time in two years, I feel like I finally belong somewhere. Help us! Sign the Charter! Help me do my job by volunteering to teach your craft at my workshop series. Or volunteer to teach me everything you know over (decaffeinated) coffee and vegan cupcakes. I need artistic training now. Lend me your couch! My nomadic life begins! Please be nice to them – we do really good work for humanity and I love them to pieces. Please don’t make me resort to emotional blackmail. I love you!

Much love (and a lot of hugs!)
Cathy/Cat/Cate/Catherine/Emily/Erin

P.S. This hysterical public service announcement is officially chapter 1 of my WYA-sanctioned blog: http://www.the-trailblazer.blogspot.com/, where you can learn about WYA activities and adventures and see links to other WYA blogs. Suggestions, sPeLling and gRammAr corrections, etc. are welcome. See you there!