Bronxite

I came across this word when I was watching the news. The impact of the word hit me and reminded me that yes, I live and work in The Bronx. It has been close to three years since I arrived from a small city in the Philippines. Throughout this time, I have dealt with culture shock, pleasant and unpleasant people. My parents were hesitant to help me financially to get here when they learned that I will be teaching in The Bronx. Images of gang wars, drug chases and an unsafe environment caused them to have irrational worries. However, I was able to persuade them that I will survive since I have to earn money or I will die poor. With two suitcases, I left the life I was used to and flew to New York, uncertain of things to come. The city has been nice to me from the moment I tripped in front of so many people in JFK to dealing with my first nasty boss. I wanted to give up but going back home is not an option. I spent too much money and my pride is too high to be a failure. For a time, I felt so scared to ride the subway or sit beside a very loud, obnoxious person, but as months went by, I realized I am a part of the rat race. The change in the way I speak was the first sign I was becoming a real Bronxite; the longer I stay here, the feistier I get. In my workplace, you can be the lamb or the wolf. I do not choose to be either one since I cannot be a total bitch or a doormat. I chose to have balance; I am nice to respectable people and always guarded against those who don't know any better. I know I have a long way to go before I become a true Bronxite then to a true New Yorker. When I talked to my grandmother on the phone, she mentioned the following observations that made me laugh until snoot came out of my nose.

Hazel: HELLO! GRANDMA! It's Hazel
Grandma: Putsa! I am not yet deaf! Lower your voice. Is a megaphone attached to your mouth?
Hazel: HOW are you? How is your therapy?
Grandma: Fine, I still got my nine ribs. How are you? Make sure you are always safe. I am always watching any news about New York.
Hazel: I am alright Grandma. Just tired from work. I do not even have time to go out after work except on weekends. Letse! I have to do my own laundry too plus ironing which sucks! PUTSA!
Grandma: Hmmm, you still have a potty mouth. Only worse! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Hazel:I will send you your allowance at the end of this month. Buy yourself a bikini. HAHAHAHAHAHA
Grandma: PUTANGINA mo! You know that my breasts are already reaching the floor! I miss you "anak" (child).
Hazel: I miss you too. Got to go Grandma. I will call again. Love you.
Grandma: Always be safe. Have safe sex but no marriage yet. HAHAHAHAHAHA

I truly think that my grandma with her 86 glorious years attached to her can be a Bronxite. She is a tough cookie and she is my inspiration to get out of my comfort zone to venture into this country. I thanked her everyday since I have fallen deeply in love with New York.

Addicted to Victoria's, Inc.

I have a confession to make. It may sound irrelevant but since I have no serious topic to write about, I chose to write about my panties. I am addicted to Victoria's Secret panties. Yes, my panties will be the meal of the site today. Since I came from the "Pearl of the Orient", I have been buying panties from Victoria's Secret on a regular basis. To estimate the number I have, I own at least 160. My boyfriend gasped in horror as I revealed the number. He looked at me like I committed one of the deadly sins like gluttony but I firmly believe that a woman should never be seen with a underwear that is hole infested or worst rag like. He further accused me of being a Victoria's Secret parasite and threatened to hide my VS Angel Card. However, there is no intervention that will cure me of my addiction. I have varieties such as the boy cut, low rise, high rise, bikini and the thong. I stopped buying the thongs since I felt uncomfortable with just a string and a ribbon on my butt. To add to the matter, it gives a sensual rubbing when things get too tight. Perhaps this is the reason many women wear thongs. I gave up on them since I felt bare and I don't want anyone staring at me squirming on my subway seat. I counted them while I was doing my holiday cleaning. I was surprised but I know there are others who own more than I do. However,the topic of women's panties to men may be ridiculous (except for those who have a fetish for it), I realize that "not having enough underwear" for a woman is a fact and it is important. It defines us from men who pride themselves of having at least 5 boxers or briefs. Almost all of them do not care if they have worn it twice. On the other hand, women feel empowered by these panties. Call me absurd but I know that wearing one even if you are as fat a blue whale or as thin as a pole, you somehow feel sexy everytime. You may wear a frumpy get up but underneath is a satin underwear with lace and ribbon trimmings. Feels like a Christmas tree and a vixen, right? For me, my reason is more sentimental. When I first came to Gotham City, I did not have enough money to buy anything from Victoria's Secret. All I can afford was the dollar panties from the Lot Store which unfortunately are slightly irregular. Wearing them was hell since it would bunch up on the other side and grip like an Anaconda. It was one of the signs that I was struggling like the Israelites during the Exodus. Add this to my having only $19 to survive for three weeks, a room fit for Stuart Little and worrying about the skyrocketing interest of my loan. When things got better for me, I paid off all my debts and I got paychecks in a steady stream, I started buying panties. What started with 5 for $25 VS panties turned into an empire, well sort of. Seventy percent of them are in red since I love the color and I have at least 20 VS brassiere. Yesterday as with all Sundays, my boyfriend and I were strolling in 86th street. We bought DVDs on sale from Circuit City and Best Buy as if we still have space for more. We were heading back home when I noticed the Pink Sign on  the VS store. Semi- Annual Sale! Hordes of women flocked. My feet were itching to cross the street but my boyfriend said "Stay!" He would not let me go and defended that he was just "saving" me from further expense. Well, I lost the battle but I have time to retaliate. Maybe on Friday, I will sneak an attack and buy a few underwear, I will try to so desperately.

Seven years after Y2K

Seven years ago,  everyone was on their toes waiting for the year 1999 to be 2000. The new millennium brought excitement, skepticism and irrational fears brought about by media or from the man who smokes marijuana at the corner of the street. At that time, I still did not have a stable job, just part time mediocre ones since no company was interested to hire a newly graduate much less a Psychology major. "Oh, you;re a psychology graduate, we do not have openings in the HR department and we don't need counselor." I was saying bullshit to Freud, Jung and Fromm for all their theories which I thought will get me somewhere. I kept on forgetting that my country's rate of unemployment is as high as Empire State building. My classmates said that I should be thankful since my parents still feed me and lets me drive my car with matching gas allowance. It was darn frustrating but I found ways to keep me afloat doing research jobs for professors who are doing their thesis for graduate school. However, the easiest way to avoid being desperate was to go partying with my fellow unemployed friends and together we became strong to embrace the inevitable truth, real life sucks and college was heaven. As Y2K approaches, people panicked withdrawing all their money and hoarding supplies from the grocery. I asked my father who is a banker if the world's computer system would really crash and if a virus would really reverse everything to zero. I even suggested that he can give me some of his money just in  case. He laughed at me and said "No, sweetheart, the world is not going to crash, people are just being hyped. They think it is going to be doomsday but I assure you, I had a meeting with my bosses and we know it's not going to happen. with your suggestion, I don't think so but nice try though." My mother on the hand stacked up on candles, bought sacks of rice and filled our cupboards with canned corned beef. It is extremely difficult to live with two people who have totally opposing ideas. Everytime I walked down session road, I hear people talking, I call it concocting crazy ideas about Y2K. I waned to laugh  but I was too pissed to mind them. Blame it on my unstable job status, my relationship of 3 years going down the drain and my impatience to earn money, I considered the coming year as an omen of more bad things to come. At 11:59 pm, I was with my grandmother in the living room. She was holding on to her wallet with thick wads of money and I well, was feeling 25 centavos in the pocket of my shorts. I held my breath until Y2K appeared on the clock. There was silence and for a second, I thought all the elevators in the world crashed. Everything was alright and there was no proof of the supposedly deadly virus. I turned on the TV and I saw Times Square on cable, people were welcoming 2000 with a blast. Call it premonition but I told my grandmother, "Someday, I will be in New York partying with those Nyorkers." My grandmother chuckled and answered "Putsa! Don't you have enough parties to attend here?"

That was seven years ago and here I am welcoming my third New Year in the Big Apple. I spent half of the waiting time for New Year at my Filipino friend's house eating her lechon and singing for two hours on her videoke. I was practically alone, croaking until I drove all the mice out. I called up my boyfriend to spend the last hour of 2006 with his family. We were watching the ball drop in Times Square on the laptop which is more convenient than being squashed alive. "Happy New Year!" with kisses and hugs to one another. Actually Li, his nephew was the most enthusiastic. As I was having my second round of pina colada with added rum, I thanked a being I know is powerful than me, friends I still have and I look forward to a year with less "viruses" and more happy memories.

 
Chapter 3
Strawberries and Chair

Chapter Two

Duplicates

Mula kahapon hanggang ngayong gabi, ang tanging ginawa ko ay pumunta sa bahay bahay upang makikain. Ayoko nang magkunwari na sabihin na nakikipasko ako. Tanging layunin ko ang kumain ng pansit, BBQ, dinuguan at fruit salad. At bago ko makalimutan ang take home ko pa na macaroni salad na matamis at may raisins. Mag- isa ako ngayong pasko. Pinili ko kase na ipadala na lamang ang pamasahe ko sa Pilipinas sa halip na pumunta ng Florida kung saan doon nakatira ang aking mga kapatid. Siyempre, ang manunulat na ito ay dakilang OFW rin. Nakakainis kase hindi ko naman utang pero parang naging middle name ko na ang loan. Balik tayo sa paksa- ang aking paglamon sa hapag kainan ng aking mga "pamilya" dito sa Bronx. Mula umaga ay walang mintis ang text na "pumunta ka dito, dito ka kumain ng paborito mong BBQ. Isama mo ang bf mo na latino, huwag kalimutan." Hindi ko alam kung ako ang gusto nilang makita ay si Marcello na mas maganda pa sa akin o ako. Sa kabusugan ko sa fruit salad, naalala ko ang mga nagdaang pasko noong andyan pa ako sa Pilipinas. Isang panghihinayang ang dumapo dahil ang huling pasko ko sa bayan ni Aga at Charlene ay Disyembre, 2003. Kasalukuyang tinatapos ko ang aking thesis. Ang mga magulang at kamag anak ko ay nasa terrace at sinisigaw ang aking pangalan. "Lumabas ka na diyan! Maki- party ka naman." Ang sagot ko na tunog ungol ay "Sandali na lang, matatapos ko na itong pages 200- 250. Putsa naman eh! Kayo kaya mabigyan ng deadline." Best friend ko noon si Red Bull, Nestle Frapuccino at ang bawal na yosi, Pagkatapos ng 3 taon na pagiging quitter, bumalik ako dahil ang paniniwala ko ang sigarilyo ay tumutulong na mag- isip ako nang mas mabilis (Mga bata, huwag gayahin ang manunulat na ito, bad example as in bad!). Yun pala, ginagawa akong bangag kasama ni red bull. Pero natapos din ang thesis ko at goodbye kay Marlboro Lights (Gold ha). Kung maibabalik ko lang, sana ay lumabas ako at nakisalo sa aking pamilya, buhay pa ang aking lola at hindi lang isang beer ang ininom ko na inabot ng aking tatay sabay sabi ng "Ito ang anak kong magiging NYorker!" Andito na ako at sa ganitong okasyon, naiisip ko "malungkot rin talaga, may mga kaibigan ka pero iba pa rin ang kadugo," Kahit si Beauty (ang aming Dalmatian na nagkukunwaring German Sheperd) ay nami- miss ko. Gusto kong bumalik sa oras na iyon at hahagkan ko at yayakapin nang mas matagal ang aking mga magulang (kahit medyo not in good terms kami ngayon) at magmamano ako sa aking lola. (RIP lola, bantayan mo na lang ako at makigimik sa mga anghel).

Bukod pa rito, may mga bagay pa na namiss ko bigla:

1. Puto Bumbong (Lola ko naman na kabilang banger ang laging bumibili nito.)

2. Carolling ng mga bata na dala ang lata ng Nido bilang drum at siyempre ang sagot ko na "Sa bagong taon na lang"

3. Pabalik balik na mga bata na nagka- carolling

4. Ninong at Ninang (dami niyo utang ha!)

5. Mga inaanak ko (di ko na mabilang, trumiple nang napunta ako dito)

6. Barkada ko sa Bakakeng, Baguio lalo na sila Jon, Joemark, Mark at si........secret

7. Chistmas lights na kahit antena ng TV meron ang mga bahay.

8. PAROL!

9. Noche Buena at Simbang Gabi, guilty ako dito dahil noche buena lang ang natutupad ko

10. Exchange gifts ng face towel at sabon.

11. Reunions na may lechon (kasing liit ng hamster, ekonomiya ng Pinas kase eh)

12. Pagbili sa Divisoria or Baclaran ng regalo kase mura.

13. Pagbalot hanggang 3 ng umaga (Tita Liz, miss mo ako malamang dahil ako ang may job nito)

14. Ngiti ng mga bata na nakatanggap ng regalo. LALO na pag AGUINALDO!

15. Christmas cards galing sa states na nakadisplay sa sala.

16. Merry Christmas na greeting (dito kase careful kami kaya Happy Holidays ang aming sagot)

17. SANTA KLAWS na peke sa SM.

18. Pangarap na makita ang snow ng aking lola.... (okey siya Nanay pero hirap mag- shovel)

19. Shopping sa Megamall, palengke, grocery, sari sari store na background music ay "Dreaming of a White Christmas"

20. Pag -alala na sabihin ng "Happy Birthday JC! Enjoy your day, Hesus!"

  Apartment 102 

Chapter One
            Sarah walked through the rustling crowds of holiday shoppers. She was carrying two suitcases and her precious typewriter. A voice boomed from the corner of the street. Sarah stopped to look at the commotion.

"Ho ho ho! Give a penny to the homeless!" A man announced in a Santa suit which he does not do justice to. He was too emaciated to pretend like one.            

Sarah drowned in her thoughts as she always does. In just a month, she lost her job at the advertising firm, her affair with Sam, the married supervisor ended when his wife slapped her in front of a Starbucks kiosk and now she has the serious case of writer's block thus leading to bankruptcy. Her parents are of no help either.

"You are living in sin! How could you do this to us? For Christ's sake, don't you go to church anymore?"

She gave up her apartment in Brooklyn and decided to move to Bronx where apartments are cheaper. She saw the ad on the paper. Reasonable price in the meantime but she needs to share the flat with three other persons. Sarah felt pathetic as she dragged her load. Broke unemployed, major role in a scandal and worst, it is the holidays.  

Mat paced back and forth in front of the building. He carried a knapsack and a brown bag of fresh strawberries. He watched as people enter and exit the main door.

"I cannot touch that door, too many germs, will get sick, will get sick."

"I want to eat my strawberries right now, they are fresh, yes they are."

"I will call the landlord. No! He will be busy to talk to me, too busy, yeah, Mat stupid Mat!"

"I like the strawberries fresh, I need to wash them ten times, yeah, ten times. Then I need to wash my hands, don't like germs." 

"Are you entering the building dude?" Mat stared at the guy with a red shirt.

"You look like a strawberry, do you like strawberry?"  "Fuck off man!" 

 Mat felt the lowliest creature. His legs grow weary with the weight but the thought of germs o the stairs scares him. He covers his face in frustration.
"I need to wash hands." Mat kept wringing his hands as strangers passed by with odd looks.              

Yui looked at the address again. She stares at the at the subway pole. She felt the thick wad of cash in her right pocket. The crisp feel of bills thrills her. She needed to find the apartment soon and get back at the club. She has a solo act tonight and it means bigger money. She practiced her moves inside her head.

 "Shake those titties more and spread your legs!" Manny her manager scolded her. "Fuck that virgin stuff, when they stick something, you better fucking take it! Keep in mind, I have your papers. One wrong move and you're back  to your dirt country, bitch!"            

Yui opened her eyes. It has been three years already. Life has been better. She only got two beatings from Manny because of trying to hide twenty bucks in her crotch. She never tried again when he put a pistol inside her mouth. She sleeps with him too three times a week alongside with Jane or Penney. There goes the virginity thing.            

"Yui, you made it. Mama will be proud. I work in a restaurant washing dishes and now I am promoted as a waitress." She looks again at the subway pole and imagined a garden of lilies.              

Anthony looked at his watch. Three trains have passed by but still he cannot bring himself to get off the bench. He looks at a paper.

"I want a divorce from you, Anthony. It is not working out"

"But I love you so much Michelle, I will do anything, just don't leave me"

"I have not been faithful to you Anthony, while you are away. You just don't satisfy me. You know this but you are just too stupid to admit. Your fairy tale is over, I want you out of my life! You are pathetic and a loser, spineless jerk."

"I will find a third job, please Michelle. Do not do this to us."              

Anthony's eyes welled up as he put away the paper in his bag. He loved Michelle like a goddess. She met a guy in Barnes and Noble and she said he meets her needs. That was the end like all tragic love stories.            

"Anthony, you are a loser. Your wife just cheated on you yet you still yearn for her. She left you because you are pathetic." The 6 train stopped and Anthony got in and rested his head on the cold steel door.

Pot of Harry

News came out that J.K Rowling has finished the seventh book of her Harry Potter Series. I like most the Goblet of Fire and I finished reading it in just two days.  Many of my readers and friends emailed me when they learned that my book was denied of publication. Under this circumstance,  I truly felt the overwhelming support I get from my readers. My friend Shin mentioned that Rowling was turned down so many times and her work was considered trash by book companies until Oprah mentioned it on her show. Yes, the power of media really helped. I do not exactly aspire to be featured in Oprah's show much less be like Jame Frey of "A Million Little Pieces." I am still promoting the book and after the holidays, I will get an answer from the third publisher. My communication with them is not vague so I think there is still hope for "Ang New York ay Isang Isla." Perhaps, some people think that my book is just for humor but I truly believe that it somehow informed Filipinos to be smarter and more aware of how an OFW really lives and survives in a foreign land.

A friend of mine, Mary Jo has been inspired to write again and she is a talented writer too. Check out her blogs on  http://360.yahoo.com/my_bea.

It makes me feel good that inspite of my bipolar personality and macabre stained writings, I get to push people to realize the power of the pen. Just like a penis :) to a man and a brain to a woman, it is a mighty power that can persuade, encourage and intrigue humans.

Socially Irrelevant

I received two emails from two prospective publishers. My book was denied and the editors thought that it did not meet their criteria. Sad as I am, I am still hoping that the other two companies will think otherwise. However, what pisses me off "Putang Ina!" are their comment/ reasons my book was rejected. First editor said, "Your book is a good read to entertain people but it lacks in substantial information. As of now, it does not fit our criteria of social relevance. Also you used both English and Filipino in the text which makes it appear to be an informal writing. However, thank you for showing interest in acquiring our services." The second editor said, "I personally like your book, it is refreshing and it keeps the readers wanting more. Unfortunately, your book did not make the cut off of our books to be published next year. The chief editors commented that you need to make your book more formal." As I was reading the email, I found myself laughing and weirdly not disappointed. I am not sour graping but I think it is best that they do not represent my book since they do not share in the vision on why I wrote it. Mainly, it is for ALL FILIPINO especially the OFWs and soon to be OFWs to have relevant information on how to work in a foreign land. So I say to the editors, "Socially irrelevant my Ass" (I think they rejected my book since it has profanities that is not expected from a demure Filipina like me (thunder rolling!). I stand by my ground that it is relevant and the emails, messages and comments are proofs that somehow the book does help readers. I say to the second editor, each writer has a distinct style. No one can censor or dictate what is formal and informal writing. I may write like a pirate because I speak the brutal truth of how a worker like me lives and struggles in another country. It is not a story of failure but of an ongoing survival. I wanted to share these experiences in the light that others will avoid some of the pitfalls I have mentioned. As a professional pirate, I mean writer; I still replied and thanked them for their literary criticism.

Right now, I can listen more to you, my readers rather than 5 persons in a board room who has never met an OFW. Plan D, if all else fails, I will opt for self publication.

Happy Holidays!

In two straight days, I have broken two watches. Both are of high importance and value to me. They were both given by my boyfriend and I have relied on them through countless times. One is a Betty Boop watch and the other is Sigmund Freud. Just having these watches show how bipolar my personality is. I love Betty Boop same as I like the Care Bears and I love Freud as I am a believer of his psychoanalytic approach to explain human behavior. I firmly believe that we are still controlled by our Id but life, beautiful as it appears has been plagued by Ego. It is commonly known as everyday shit and we act according to what is required and expected of us. However, the lost of both watches continues to devastate me. They are not completely broken but the thing is (absurd as it may seem to you), I have formed a connection, a relationship with them. Call me a little off the handle but I am proud that I value what is given to me by others and I have the habit of baptizing my things like they are newborn babies. My boyfriend said it will be alright to ask for an exchange with Freud. I agree with him but it is not the same Freud I had. He was the only reliable "person" I counted on during these two weeks of endless poop from work. He gave me time, made it faster and guided me as I swim in the oceans of piranhas from Monday to Friday. What is the relevance of my broken watches to this piece? I am not sure yet I still continue to type for writing. Many will say, writing is therapeutic especially when one is going through a crisis. Wait a minute, my life has been made from crisis. Some resolved, others impending and most inevitable. Then writing is my drug, my crack or my "Lucy in the Sky." I judge that this piece is my most confusing to date. The author's mind is filled with endless thoughts plus the past fourteen days have been full of shit like I feel that I am constantly working in an ass community. Everyone tries to poop on you, and you try to avoid the stink but in the end, you realize that all that you believed and fought for is just pure shit. I teach because I want to make a difference alongside with having a decent pay to cover my rent and Gap expenses. I do not love children, I care with all I can offer in a day. There is a big difference. Love connotes acceptance no matter what. Caring is a step further since not all children are cute and behaved. Most in my field are snot filled vases, bruised and beaten plus hungry and behave like dogs on the street. If it is just simple love, I would have said "I love you" a million times and that child has been miraculously taught. However, caring for a child that even their parents dislike them takes more courage, effort and valuable time. I cared for my students for eight fucking years (excuse my language) and everyone of them who spent a year or two have realized that they have worth. Inspite of what they lack, they excel on what they can do. I do not accept failure and no excuses. Maybe this is the reason why I feel so bad when the institution you work for, whom you thought shared the same vision for your class is the biggest shithole. I am honestly disheartened and utterly exhausted. It is only four months that I have started another journey with 12 children (count the 4 who are illegaly in my room which total to 16 childen, sometimes 18 and usually 21 on a really bad day). I feel that I am losing a battle which I am not even supposed to be in. Somehow, I still find a flicker of hope (?) , bravery (?) and bitchiness (!) to still report for work. I guess the only thing I can do is close the door and try to fulfill the role of an educator. It may "stink" so bad outside of room 102 but I try to transport these children in a flower fragrant laced place. They just learn to their hearts' content without any unsolicitated shit from the main control room. It is enough that their beloved Ms. T will be dumped with tons of b*shit but at least she still smells like a Macy's Catalog.

What is the connection of Alanis here? Again, I have no clue. It just so happens I have her album on the player and the song, "You live, you learn" is put on continous play unconsciously by the author.