Deadly 2009 Philippine Flood Compared to 2005 Katrina

In the customary USA-bootlicking rhetoric that has become a signature of the corrupt Philippine government, President Gloria Arroyo defended the government's actions when it received harsh criticism of its slow efforts and rescue pace after a typhoon settled over the Philippines Saturday and dropped a record amount of rain in one day, saying more rain fell on Manila and surrounding areas in Saturday's deluge than on New Orleans when Hurricane Katrina hit there in 2005.

I've grown accustome to Philippine presidents, especially Arroyo, making comparative statements between the Philippines and the United States, as if trying to solidify a positive, allied relationship. After buying a stamp in the Philippines with the image of George W. Bush, I learned political leaders side with the US, identify with the US, and see no sacrifice as to large in striving to be the Robin to the US's Batman. So much so, the Philippine government pushes English in the schools and keeps Tagalog at home. It encourages and honors workers to leave their families, their country to work overseas and send home their paychecks to keep the economy "moving."

But if there is one similarity between the Philippines and the United States that reveals itself most clearly in times of natural disaster, both countries are ill-prepared, slow in response, and give preferential treatment to the rich.

What is the state of Katrina four years later? How has the city rebuilt itself? Have we forgotten already how many lost their lives, families, and homes?

And the Philippines shows similar characteristics - leaving the poor to fend for themselves as the skies drop a month's worth of rain in 9 hours and displacing millions as another storm moves in and is expected to arrive Friday.

As for recovery efforts, the US pitched in $100,000, a military helicopter, five rubber boats, and 20 service people.

With that kind of response to the worst typhoon the Philppines has seen in 40 years, the Philippine government needs to learn something about its relationship to the US which is eerily similar to the lesson it is teaching its own citizens: when disaster strikes, you're on your own.

Letter #10

Dear Isaiah,

I've known that you are a boy for several weeks now and I feel somewhat guilty that when I thought you were going to be a girl, I wrote you several letters. Now that I know you are going to be a boy, I think my fear of raising a son has put me in an even deeper, inward place of wondering one thing: what in the hell am I going to do with a son.

You are kicking up a storm. Most often, you kick when I am sitting down and leaning over my laptop or computer to write, you tumble a reminder that you are inside me, waiting to come out, slowing maturing into something independent.

Physically, I'm beginning to feel a bit off balance, like you're protruding forward in my belly makes me feel like I could fall forward if I'm not concentrating on keeping the small of my back tucked back in. There are funny things happening with my vision; small circles appear at the lower half of my right eye when I look away from my computer or suddenly get up. The doctor says it's probably normal. My legs look like two pillows squished into shoes and my hair is a wild mane of thick black gloss, swinging across my back, keeping me warm. My fingernails grow a mile a minute and my acne-free life has been interrupted by these small soldiers, bumping their way along my forehead. My skin is warm, always warm and my mind elsewhere. It's never with whoever is standing in front of me.

I'm starting to get out of breath and none of my clothes fit. Slowly, but surely, you are taking over my body and I'm beginning to understand both the overpowering love women feel toward their unborn child and I'm beginning to understand the frustration of feeling completely alien in my own skin. It's kind of a bipolar experience.

Have I mentioned to you how I am in mild denial that I have to go through labor? It's not the pain, it's the UNKNOWN about labor that puts heavy anxiety in my abdomen. I don't know anything -- how long you will take, what a contraction feels like, if something goes wrong, if I will tear, a c-section...? And there's no comparison. No metaphor that makes me feel better. The more others try to explain it, the smaller my ear canal becomes. I don't want to hear what it was like for OTHERS, I want to know what it will be like for you and me.

Eventually, inevitably, without a doubt, sooner or later -- I'll know.

In our morning talks, I try to tell you what the world might be like by the time you get here, but each week, the world changes a bit. Health care reform stays stagnant though. Celebrities take turns in the headlines. Feminist news is on recycle. The seasons change. It's now Autumn. World leaders continue their facades while citizens lobby their hearts out. In about 14 weeks, I don't know what the world will tell you when you breathe it in for the first time. I'm hoping, selfishly, maybe I can breathe it in and try to see the world for the first time again with you. Maybe I'll be full of curiosity, stubborn in my will to forge my own path, and open to all the possibilities of life.

But, maybe you'll need me to be me. I'm far from new. I'm not nearly a newborn. Nor am I an old-timer. The only expertise I have to offer is the observations from my own two eyes and the scrapbook of lessons, the journals of my discoveries to share with you. Maybe you won't need a partner to be curious with you, maybe you'll need a mom who still believes in her own dreams, full of art and creativity, stubborn in my own right, loving in every decision.

I hope that will be enough for you. And I hope you and I will be born with an understanding of each other that surpasses my fear of raising a son.

With love always,
Tremendously,
Mom

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Do you consider yourself a spiritual person?

I always have. Since I was a little girl. Well before I really understood "religion," I just had a feeling there was something unexplainable, something covering the world that was neither manipulative or parental. It was just a belief that there was something that extended before what I knew as the "beginning," and something that never knew an end.

It's interesting that people "work" on their spirituality. Like how they work out or something at a gym, or get their heart pumping for training, or sweat to burn calories. Spirituality is a relationship between self and the Unknown, something that demands time, thought, consideration. It requires exercise, yes, but not the kind that we associate with "work" or "working out." So often, in any self/relationship improvement, we consort to books and advice and media to tell how how to do it, how to survive it, "how to" everything. The "how to" literature section has exponentially grown in the past few decades. Rarely do we truly trust our own intuitive selves, the tools already inside of us. We seek EXTERNAL for what we know is internal.

So why is the relationship with spirituality difficult to sustain? Because its ambiguous and directionless nature taps into our quivering questions that leave us anxious? Or is it because it asks us to be brave soldiers and live deeper lives? If spirituality is an engaging relationship between our very own Selves and this constantly accessible, ubiquitous and nameless THING, why is it so hard to engage, to believe?

I looked out the window and saw a violet bird. A violet bird. I've never seen a violet bird, but there it sad, about 4 feet from my window and it brought me a feeling of unexpected realization that I am not alone. My partner is gone for the day. My phone is quiet. No emails or messages to return. And discounting the wondrous being growing inside me who cannot yet verbalize his presence, I felt like I was going to be very alone today, trapped into a day of little to no interaction and conversation.

And then the violet bird appeared. This flash of beauty that, with one glance, reminded me that there are living things, breathing and carrying on, all around me. The world is taking one giant breath with me today and I am far from alone. I remember as a little girl how I used to exist in that knowledge. As I've lived more years, acquired more physical and tangible relationships with others, somehow that knowledge dissipated.

Spirituality came to be a connection to others instead of self to Unknown, self to Trust. It morphed into how stimulating a thought was, how connected I felt to another, how accepted I was to a community. These are all important, beautiful things, but...

I forgot how simple glances at the world around us, alone, in the depth of our own consciousness gives way, gives space to something other than ourselves, even our choice of company.

How often do we make room for that to happen? How open do you think you really are to gift of fleeting peace and contentment without trying to make it last?

September 11

Remembering.

The Collision of Sobriety and Humor

Pregnancy has stripped my cells of all traces of caffeine and alcohol. But instead of sobriety, this scatterbrain syndrome of pregnancy has set in.

You know that horrible feeling when you see a patch of fog when you’re driving and realize that at ANY MOMENT YOU CAN VEER OFF THE ROAD because you can’t see one inch in front of you? That’s the state my brain has been in since I have been pregnant.

“Lisa - can you mail these letters on your way to work?”

Of course.

Five days later, the envelopes are still sitting on the table and I’m wondering, “Mhm, what are these?”

I was hoping the sobriety of my life would lead me to a higher clarity, like, I would wake up in the morning KNOWING something profound and rare. Hidden gems of knowledge. The exact location of over the rainbow. The formula for the sticky glue of post-it notes. Who really assassinated Kennedy.

No. None of that.

Pregnancy has dropped these really mundane rolls of weight gain and Babies R Us visitations in my lap and I have realized a few things about me. One of the disturbing truths is

I am not as badass as I thought.

With this new clarity, one thing I DO see is how ridiculously UNbadass I am. Sure, I have the audacity to ask unnerving questions to just about anyone and try to keep my guts in every decision I make. I kickbox. And then get choked up during the bridge of Gloria Estefan’s “Here We Are.”

Or jam to Bananarama.

Pregnancy hormones can cloud your mind, but the detox of caffeine, alcohol, and any stimulants can really move your pupils inward.

Two Questions during Pregnancy

As pregnancy progresses, my writing is becoming foggy, my paintings more torrid, my age more prominent.

The two questions that remain unanswered and pumped with adrenaline are these:

What kind of mother will I be?

and

What kind of writer will I become?

The Complicated Life as a Regular Person

My blog is doing it's own ecdysis and I'm not sure how to respond.

I am watching it, observing it. Similar to how I am with my stomach.

My stomach is this ever expanding universe of placenta, amniotic fluid, uterus, blood, fat, and baby. Inch my inch, it makes itself more elastic-friendly.

And as my belly grows, my blog is shrinking. Or becoming shy.

Who am I now? Three years ago, I was this bold, feminist writer, searching for meaning, community, and blasting mainstream feminism for its uncaring blind spots and US-centric mannerisms.

And now?

Now I am morphing into my own authentic writing style.

My desire to write has grown day by day and my time to devote to it is decreasing day by day as my energy levels deplete and whatever hormone is responsible for making my brain so scattered increases, I am wondering

Where is my writing going?

I'll tell you where it's going -- it's going to a place that I've never taken it before. Or, at least, I'm going to TRY and take it to a place it's never been before: intertwined with my life.

Unbeknownst to most followers of this blog, I have a tiny blog for friends and family to read about my daily life. Unbeknownst to my other blog, I have this blog to write longer, free writes about life, feminism, injustice, irony, and love.

Symbolically, I am ready to merge the two together. I feel this NEED to make things as simple as possible and that means to stop separating my writing audiences. It means to be scared and let people in my circles of life KNOW my writing and try to have some faith in them. I have more faith in putting my words to strangers and faceless commenters than I do people I have to face in life.

It will mean careful writing, truthful writing, brave writing.

THAT means more time, more deliberation.

One of the things that most excites me about this step is my bravery to write like the memoirist that I am. I am not so much a blogger as I am a writer. I am funny. I also like to write about injustice. I am just a regular woman with an extraordinary desire to create and express the usually forgettable details of life. I am excited to return to MY kind of writing. I am excited, in a way, to use humor again. To be me.

And with that, my friends, my plan is to push this blog into a full website in the near future. I'm working on this (among many things), but it's in the works. I ask for your support, your thoughts about a feminist memoirist website, and overall patience in getting this thing up and running.

My goal is to have it up before my son arrives.

With new life, comes a new beginning.

This is my ecdysis.