"I'm completely unfit to be an organizer and activist"

This weekend is a monumental one for two different organizations in two different countries. In Vancouver, BC, Canada, the Philippine Women Centre of B.C. will be celebrating its 20th anniversary gala, "Onwards and Upwards!" at W2 Storyeum (please check out the facebook event and GO if you're in town). In Los Angeles, CA, the United States of America, the historical launch of AF3IRM: Association of Filipinas, Feminists, Fighting Imperialism, Re-feudalization, and Marginalization will take place. They're on the SAME day. Two garguantuan events organized and featuring the FIERCEST Filipinas in North America. On the SAME day. And yes, I will be at both events.

(Flying out Wednesday night, speaking in L.A. Saturday morning, tearing ass through L.A. traffic to make the 3:00pm flight to Vancouver, arriving at at YVR at 6:00pm, going through immigration, slipping into a wrinkle-free dress at the bathroom airport and hustling it to Gastown sometime after the 7pm start time)

I'm currently writing my presentation for the AF3IRM conference which is about the historical and current situation of second generation of Filipino-Canadian women within the context of transnational migration, re-feudalization and transnational feminization. I have feminist theory, political analysis, metaphors and literary allusions tearing my brain to a bloody mess demanding my attention. I have two friends who understand this state of mind (one is a writer, the other a PhD candidate)--for the most part, I've been able to keep this Jeckyll/Hyde complex away from the public, for society's safety and for my own.

But for the sake of levelling off and making sure we're all on the same page, I'm offering all of you a ditty from the enigmatic and brilliant Ninotchka Rosca from a rather private letter she wrote to me a decade ago. It's fitting for my current state of mind.

"At this moment, because I'm deep into my new novel, all my daemons are awake and roused. This means I'm anti-social, inclined to be curt and abrupt, and often very rude. I'm very tense and subject to fits, moods and all kinds of psychic disorders...In other words, I'm completely unfit to be an organizer and activist.


This is completely beyond the understanding of people who do not operate at this strange state of mind...if there are 20 characters in my novel, I feel every shred of emotion they go through with each and every scene...If there are 20 characters, then there are 20 processes I'm going through at the same instant.


...this explanation cannot give the full dimension of the artist's problem. It is a solitary one--which clashes with the very social nature of political work. There is no balance; one simply moves from one extreme to the other."

I can't articulate myself any other way.

I'll be back to myself by October 3.

Pinky swear.

Good Vibrations?

**This story was originally published last year in Black Heart Magazine; I had completely forgotten about it until a recent conversation with a close friend on the questionable awesomeness of dildos triggered its resurrection.  Enjoy!

Away from the clamour of Soho traffic, under the haze of jasmine incense and soft, amber lights, the coterie of zebra-striped dildos and octopus-shaped vibrators caused a shrieking, laughing ruckus. En route to a hip hop show, my friends and I were distracted by Babeland Sex Shop’s frenzied midnight sale; our shrieking amplified when my friend Joanne picked up a hot pink vibrator the size of her forearm. Unaware of its horse-powered motor, the sex appliance roared seismically and jerked her wrist to nearly dislocate. Despite the laughing and a sore wrist, we left the shop empty-handed, leaving the jumbo vibrator where it belonged: on display amongst the motley sex novelties too freaky to take seriously.


This is not an offensive against sex toys or an attempt to cover a supposed sex hang up. At the risk of appearing defensive, neither is true when sex toys are concerned. I’m a classics enthusiast: handcuffs and blindfolds, and when the opportunity arises with a willing partner, there’s nothing dirtier than the dirty fun squeezed from chocolate syrup squirt bottles and Cool Whip aerosol cans. But as far as dildos and vibrators go, they’re not my kind of kink.

I especially uphold this credo when dildos and vibrators play lead roles in one-person shows instead of being props to naughty role-playing gamers. The final outcome to an operatic climax seems lonely when your partner is a set of silicone-covered batteries. This is when contradictions smash big time because isn’t sex the opposite of lonely? Aren’t sex toys just diversions to cozy up people and create intimate possibilities? If you’re not feeling that, consider this: Ever play Twister by yourself? Or Double Dutch? Spin the Bottle has no game when you have no one to spin with.

I can understand the gratifying quick fix derived from a sex gadget. But still. How you share the gratification (and with whom) is just as important as how you achieve it. A few years ago, in the midst of our blundering, frisky haste, an ex-partner and I not only rolled off his futon (this was after he failed to slide me out of my pants—damn skinny jeans!), but we took the entire black metal frame down with us, crashing it to the ground (right before he gave up with my pants and tried to unhook my bra which he also failed to do). “Oh fuck,” we gulped, pausing to survey the mess. Were we embarrassed? Of course we were. Did we continue? Of course we did. Did we laugh about it afterwards? Like drunk sailors at a dock side pub! Broken furniture not-withstanding, I’ll take clumsy sex benders over the virtues of unresponsive dildos and vibrators.

When it comes to sex toys, it isn’t really about the equipment and sex isn’t a means in itself. It’s easy to forget this when we live in an over-sexed, commitment-phobic society pressuring us to stand in line for something better (because a better ass and sculpted biceps somehow means better sex) instead of standing on the line for each other. It’s easy to focus on the “getting off part” and overlook the after sex action: damp hair on dewy, flushed skin; panting whispers and weaving legs. Let’s not forget the spooning, the post-sex shower and that soft, almost shy little kiss halfway after orgasm right before the calm. Sex is a means to an end. It’s a long-term investment that should be valued along human terms and not glorified for its exchange rate.

I realize I’m mouthing sexual ignorance because I’ve limited myself to window shopping instead of mechanically getting off. Maybe I’m a die-hard puritan who’s missing out on some serious one-on-one action who should really loosen up and give a dildo a whirl. Be that as it may, I certainly don’t knock those who frolic alone with oscillating, zucchini-shaped prongs.

Because sometimes, it really is just about getting off.

The Prostitute's Children

Two fat women and a prostitute

The two women snicker. I sign out from hotmail and glance over at their direction. I didn't know Ronald and Graci were together, I say out loud. You mean his prostitute, Susanna cuts in. They cackle, chewing their baguettes coated with thick butter. Crumbs fall from their mouths onto the place mats. Rhiannon, the Irish, lights her breakfast cigarette. Susanna from Canada and Rhiannon are long-term guests at La Hacienda, the yellow house on the hill, the closest house to La Rancheta with wi-fi. Middle-aged and fat, they sip their coffees and fire up cigarettes wearing sarongs they knot over their freckled, sagging breasts. Is that what she is, I ask. Well, call her whatever you want, Susanna says between bites, grinning at Rhiannon. But of all the prostitutes in Las Galeras, he just had to choose the ugliest one.

Mosquito Bites

When I arrive at La Rancheta I meet my Danish neighbours, Sophie and Nicholas. Alba, their tubby, seven month old daughter rolls around on their patio floor. Across the path, Ronald prepares our dinner in the restaurant gazebo. We watch Alba flip from her back to her belly, pulling herself up with her arms and looks at the gecko crawling on the ceiling. Her head is dotted with mosquito bites, fresh wounds next to purple lesions.

At dinner, we devour Ronald's salmon bolognese with imported beer, red wine and tropical fruit flambe for dessert. Sophie, a communications student is Gwyneth Paltrow, only shorter and chubbier, smokes occasionally, and is scared to swim in the ocean. It's the sharks, she tells me. I know, I know, she quickly adds, the water is too shallow here, but still. You've seen Jaws, right? A dead ringer for Todd Louiso, Nicholas the pharmacist explains Denmark's state-sanctioned paternity leave benefits while bumming cigarettes from Ronald's shrinking pack of Marlboroughs. An hour later, Jan, the local Dutchman and proprietor of El Cabito joins us. Fifty-ish, pot-bellied and slightly attention whore-ic, he drinks and drinks Ronald's last stash of Duvel special Belgium beer, lighting cigarette after cigarette between gulps. I love the Dominican Republic, Jan exclaims. It's the last place in the world where a European can start a business without the locals bugging you.

Every once in a while I look over at Graci. I wait for her to join Ronald who sits with us: the Belgium, the Canadian, the Dutchman and the Danish couple at the largest dining table in the centre of the restaurant gazebo. But she stays behind the restaurant bar, scouring dirty pots, shooing flies away between scrubs.

Night Rituals

I head for bed a little after 10:30pm. I'm not sure what's weighing me down, my full stomach or the red wine swirling in my veins, making my head spin. Maybe it's the complimentary shots of rum Ronald served us after dessert. Or maybe it's the jet-lag and not having slept the last two nights. In my cabin I look at the fresh mosquito bite high on the left side of my back, just below the nape of my neck. A smooth, large, bright red bump. The first of many, the unforgiving sun will burn and flatten it to a dark scar by the end of the week. I crank up the fan, climb into bed and pull the white sheet over my head, hiding from the mosquitoes. The crickets that I never see holler all through the night, their piercing chirps hitting their peak at 7pm. A loud, dull thud hits the outside wall of my cabin waking me up. I find out a few nights later the crashing thuds are tree frogs hopping from shrubs and slamming themselves against my yellow-painted cabin. But on my first night, I walk to my door and peer through the wooden slats. Outside, I see nothing, but inside, I stomp on a cockroach creeping towards my bed. It becomes a nightly ritual, this stomping of the cockroaches. By morning, the bottom of my flip flops will hold the squishy remains of crunchy pests. Night rituals I never have to perform in Vancouver. I return to bed and hear, alongside the crickets, the moaning cats. That I hear in Vancouver often. Except in the Caribbean, the moaning is louder and goes on all night, desperate, yearning.

Morning Rituals

In the mornings, the crickets are silenced by the cock-a-doodle-doo of roosters and neighing horses. But it's the stench of horse shit that rouses my wake. With no watch and a cell phone that doesn't work in Las Galeras, I don't know how early it is on my first Dominican morning. Only Alba's crying next door hints it's about 7:30. Sophie and Nicholas warned and apologized for this racket the night before. They serve her breakfast around this time. I roll out from bed, my body attracted to the amber light, a hint of morning coolness seeping through the window slats of my cabin. My body never responds like this in Vancouver, its rainy, gray, mornings keep me in bed.

El desayuno, el almuerzo y la comida

Breakfast: Fresh pot-cooked rice, one egg, sunny-side up and pan fried sweet corn. Sweet corn from a can I buy for 40 pesos at the market in Las Galeras. I drink it down with Nescafe's Instant Coffee whose bitterness is made sweet with Carnation evaporated milk.

Lunch: Fried rice with sweet corn. Left over fried tuna and potatoes from dinner the night before, water to quench my thirst and two peach halves marinated in a light syrup preserved in a dusty can imported from St. Lucia.

Dinner: Fried rice with tuna and potatoes, sweet corn and red beans. Rancid cheap Italian red wine. Two more peach halves for dessert. The wick from the tea light is at the end of its slow burn. I feast on my pseudo Dominican-home cooked meal I make over a propane stove I fire up with a tank of gas and a red Bic lighter. The mosquitoes join me, gorging blood from my legs, my neck, my back, the soft underside of my arms.

(Note to self: Go with Ronald to the market tomorrow. I'm out of red beans.)

I Spy

It's after 9:30am, somewhere between my second and fifth day at La Rancheta. On the teak varnished table on my patio, I've set up shop, ready for a writing marathon. My little netbook takes centre-stage. To its right, a fresh lined notepad. Medium size Papermate pen in blue ink, the only pens I write with. Across the netbook, a stack of books: Caramelo. The Lover. The Capitalist System. Passion for Narrative. Colloquial Spanish of Latin America. A glass of water, over a paper napkin to the right of the notepad. Forty minutes later I've written nothing, but have read the mechanics of writing a half scene, the purpose of literary flashbacks and the structural shapes of converging and vertical novels. All of which have failed to fuel my creativity. Instead, I spy. Graci serving beer to passing tourists. The hen and her chicks pecking through the garden. Ronald fixing a clogged pipe, his bifocals magnifying his blue eyes ten-fold. William the horse wrangler, pissing in the outhouse. Rayselle, in a pink sundress walking to the Danish couple's cabin with the roll of toilet paper they requested. She doesn't hand over the toilet paper to Sophie or Nicholas; she leaves it on the edge of their patio and runs away before they see her. By noon, I give up. Writer's Block succeeds. Again.

Spanish Lessons

Rayselle, my Spanish tutor comes everyday at 8am. She waits for me at the restaurant gazebo and eats her baguette smeared with chocolate Nutella. It's the same breakfast her mother prepares for her everyday. Her mother, Marilyn, is always with her and makes their breakfast at the gazebo. While Rayselle eats and waits, Marilyn keeps herself busy, making the beds and cleaning the rental cabins of La Rancheta.

She only talks to me in Spanish. Rayselle believes that total immersion is the best way to learn. She's seven years old, goes to school everyday from two until five and says math is her favourite subject. When she's bored of teaching me, she watches me type and smiles when she puts her little fingers on top of mine when I navigate the keyboard's mouse. When she gets bored with that, she helps Marilyn out, mopping the cabin patios or the gazebo, raking dead leaves or replacing old towels with fresh ones. Once, I tried to move out of her way to make things easier for her. No, no, Rayselle protests. Sit, sit, she insists, pulling my bum back down to the plastic seat. Just sit down and write your stories she advises me. I can mop around you.

La China

One o'clock. It's market time in Las Galeras. I hop in Ronald's truck for the bumpy ride into town. Rayselle and two other girls sit at the back of the truck with crates of empty beer bottles and Sobi, one the three dogs that lazily protect La Rancheta. I ask Ronald if the two other girls are Graci's nieces. Her daughters, he tells me. Rosalie the eldest sings all the time. Veronica the youngest agrees all the time. They stay in town with their uncle during the week because it's closer to their school. Graci visits them every afternoon to make their lunch and greets them when school lets out. La Rancheta is their weekend home where they vacation with Graci, Ronald, three dogs, a cat and the guests with bad Spanish, too much money and messy living habits.

Inside the market, I scan the aisle of canned fruit and vegetables. Mountains of rice in burlap sacks and half-opened boxes of feminine products teeter behind me. The ceiling fans whirl slowly, losing coolness against the midday heat. 85 pesos for a can of cream stye corn or the 40 peso can of generic sweet corn kernels? 90 pesos for red beans, 81 pesos for 3 pounds of rice and 185 pesos for can of mixed fruit cocktail. 130 pesos for a half litre of warm orange juice. I return the can of mixed fruit cocktail and the half litre carton of orange juice. A young Dominican enters the pinched aisle at the opposite end and walks towards me. Ola, I say. Perdon, as I try to squeeze past him.

A small commotion erupts at the checkout counter. This person says they were first in line while that one claims they were first. The situation comes to an impasse when a towering, white tourist cuts in line, commanding the market's attention. Armed in khaki from collar-bone to his sports sandals, he tames his shoulder length salt and pepper hair in place with flashy aviator sunglasses. Mr. Salt-and-Pepper. He smirks, greeting the plump checkout girl by cocking his chin forward and points to a pack of king size Marlboroughs behind the counter, next to the Duracell batteries. The Dominicans watch as he pulls out peso bills from his fat, black leather wallet. He counts the soft pesos carefully, scrutinizing each one before handing them over to the plump checkout girl. He cocks his chin once more, chau-chau. The commotion of who was first and who was really first in line heats up again as Mr. Salt-and-Pepper departs from the market.

La China.* Is what they call me. Not European, not Dominican. The young Dominican who approaches me at the market is no different. From Canada, I answer when asked. But I know what he's really asking. Mi padres son de las Pilipinas. Donde esta eso, he asks, shaking his head. In my poor Spanish, I explain, the Philippines is near China. My grandmother is half Chinese. Ay si, si! He understands, nodding his head like a pecking chicken. He smiles and points to my eyes, La China. Tu es muy bonita.

*Pronounced Chee-Nah

Leaving the market, I look across the street, to my left. Mr. Salt-and-Pepper roaring the engine of his purple sports car. It occupies the entire narrow dirt strip of the Las Galeras barrio; motorconchos and gua guas are forced to the side, waiting for him to pass. It's not a Ferrari or a fancy Lexus that Mr. Salt-and-Pepper drives. It's the type of sports car that could actually race in the Indy 500, the type of sports car my little brother played with in Hot Wheel miniatures: bullet-shaped hood, massive rear wing, globular tires. The seats are just a few inches off the ground. Next to him sits a young Dominican woman with long, straight hair parted down the middle. Her hair falls past her shoulders and covers what her tiny orange tank top cannot. She giggles each time Mr. Salt-and-Pepper rips the engine. The louder the roar, the juicier the giggle. Her firm black breasts bounce just a little bit higher after each giggle, against the rumble of the white man's engine.

The Danish Kitchen

The morning they leave, the Danish couple's patio kitchen is raided by flies. They buzz hungrily around a week's worth of food waste collected in a cooking pot on top of the stove. On the other side of the patio, the table is strewn with plastic water bottles, used napkins and a broken candle holder. Dirty plates, spoons covered with baby food and a frying pan with dried bits of scrambled eggs litter the wooden counter. A near empty jar of Nescafe Instant Coffee stands next to a small bottle of canola oil lying on its side; they decorate the shelf nailed above the sink and the stove. The mini fridge perched on two gray bricks under the sink is left unplugged. The door, slightly ajar, welcomes the pilgrimage of ants as they crawl towards the lukewarm icebox. A puddle of drinking water pools on the floor half way between the fridge and the foot of the blue column that supports the arching frame of the patio ceiling. Marilyn walks to the vacant cabin, broom, mop and bucket of soapy water in tow. She sets them down and removes her flip flops before politely stepping onto the patio. She runs water from the patio kitchen and I hear the clank of moving plates ready to be washed.

Short shorts

Write. Write. Write, I tell myself, but it's no use. My writing is worse than my swimming at this point. A panic begins. All the effort of saving, working overtime at numerous jobs, budgeting, rolling pennies for the last year and half will be for nothing if I don't complete the stories I committed myself to write in the Caribbean. They're the reason I'm here. Sigh. The next six weeks might just have to be a tropical vacation. What a fucking waste. I take a break, walk around the garden, taking pictures. I sit back down and work on writing exercises that's sure to warm my brain. Write the first thing that pops in your head. Stream of consciousness writing. Write what I see, what I hear: all the shades of green and yellow in the garden. The sleeping dogs, the motorconchos that drive by. The burping pipes and the rustle of falling dead leaves. The same Spanish ballads the girls play over and over again. Marilyn cleaning after the Danish couple. Marilyn's pink shirt and flip flops. Marilyn's skinny jeans. How skinny Marilyn is. How skinny Graci is. How women in Las Galeras, except for the plump checkout girl at the market, are all skinny. By 5pm, I've written nearly a 1000 words of crap. Frustrated, I pack things up before the mosquitoes begin their evening swarm.

Hello! Ola! I look over my shoulder at the cobble-stoned path and see Susanna, her graying hair in a bun held together with a chopstick. A beige fanny-pack disturbs her solid black attire. Ola! I say. She's come by to exchange contact information with the Irish couple. They'll be back shortly, I tell her. They went into town for dinner. We catch up a bit, talking about nothing. Graci appears and enters the restaurant gazebo. Ola, she quietly greets us, nodding her head. Susanna rolls her eyes at me. How can she not be prostitute? Susanna tsks, tsks under her breath. Just look at those shorts and her top, she hisses. I glance at my short shorts, at my baby-doll shirt that doesn't close in the back. I wonder if she notices.

The Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ

“Rosaliiieee! Veronicaaaaa!” I look up from my computer and watch the girls walk towards the bungalow from the restaurant gazebo. The Irish couple, both six feet tall and pasty, checked out half an hour earlier. “Rosalie, Veronica, andale,” Graci cries. Through the trees and shrubbery, I see Rosalie carrying a crate of empty beer and wine bottles. Veronica, follows, a garbage bag in each hand. It continues, this traffic of garbage and empty bottles from the bungalow to the wooden gates of La Rancheta; Rosalie, the keeper of bottles, Veronica, the mistress of garbage. Graci remains inside, sweeping, mopping, dusting. Finally, she emerges and carries with her a mop, a broom, a bucket and a bundle of soiled sheets.

That evening, I ask Ronald if I can borrow the can opener from the restaurant. He shakes his head. The can opener is broken, he explains. Just ask for Graci for help. She pauses from the dinner she's cooking for Ronald and her daughters and from the dish rack, pulls out a knife. Smoother than a serrated butter knife, bigger than a steak knife, narrower than a butcher's. Eyes on the target, holding steady the sharp side of the blade between her bony thumb, index and middle fingers, Graci punctures the cans of tuna, sweet corn and red beans with a baby machete, chopping through the tins with measured, smooth slices. Tiny, tubular veins pump her sinewy arms, propelling rhythmic, even cuts. Whoah. I glance at Ronald. He beams and winks at me, smiling proudly at Graci, Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ. The prostitute of La Rancheta. Every year, for years and years, Ronald would bring back state of the art can openers from Belgium. As Graci tears open the final can, a watery paste from the red beans spits at me. But all the time they break. I don't know what it is about the construction of these things. Graci, he says, is more better than any European can opener.

Fruit

The tourists are Tammy Faye Baker loyalists: one tube of black mascara per eye, thick rings of fuchsia lipliner under a layer of gooey lip gloss. Old belly rolls and cellulite. Frosted hair streaks and more bling on one hand than Lil Jon has grills in his mouth. Pink manicured nails enough to make Bollywood starlets perform musical epics of envy. Sun-baked skin charred to the colour of papaya flesh glisten with the sheen of coconut oil; or blister under the sharp heat to a deep, raw pink like the snug kernels of a ripe pomegranate. Grandfathers parade their hairless, peacock chests, flat asses counterweight fat bellies. Tiny black speedos lift, lift, lift and cushion the mushy leftover fruit of their youth. Pasty young men with crooked postures and baseball hats worn backwards pull the waistbands of their swimming trunks higher, higher, hiding the lower back hair that escape from their shorts. The Dominican beach is salted with French, German, Italian and English gibberish. I am the only China at the beach. The only China in all of Las Galeras.

I've been at the beach everyday. I'm not working on my tan, I'm working on my swimming: back stroke, front crawl, doggy paddle, treading water (or trying to) for two minutes straight. Kicking, attempting to exhale and inhale properly, holding my breath under water for as long as I can. I practice paddling my arms the way Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze do in Point Break. I'm doing this for surf camp next week—it's not the surfing. It's the drowning. For the first time in my life I'm petrified of water, the possibility of sinking to the bottom of the warm, clear-blue salty body of the Caribbean...is probably going to happen. I've convinced myself to use those floatation devices little kids wear around their arms when they're learning how to swim. At surf camp. I'm less scared of looking stupid in front of pro surfers than I am of dying.

I've fallen asleep only to wake up, suddenly. It's after 2pm and the sun has fried the watery peninsula into a searing hotland. Eurotrash techno music from the volleyball court a few feet away pound against my waking ears. Blanched teenagers serve and slam the ball, each victory or defeat met with French or German cheers. A redhead attempts to serve the next round, but misses her footing, catapulting the ball offside, towards the water. It sails over spit-roasting tourists, their eyes, shielded by the tint of Raybans and Oakleys, follow the trail of the rogue ball. It begins its quick descent, aiming at a young Dominican wearing a palm leaf hat, oblivious to the impending crash. He rakes and combs the white sand clean from marooning black seaweed brought in by the swells. The ball bounces against the wheelbarrow of seaweed and the Dominican, startled, drops his rake, falls to his knees and holds on to his palm leaf hat. His tattered blue golf shirt and wet jeans he rolled to his knees are covered with a sheet of sand, whiter than the wrinkled, sunburnt faces that laugh and laugh and laugh.

Walking back to La Rancheta, I see a Dominican teenager sitting under a palm tree near the edge of the beach. Where the sand ends and the dirt path begins. I smile at her. Ola. She looks up at me, surprised, and nods with a slow uncertainty. Ola, she whispers back, cowering closer to the palm tree, merging with its deep brown trunk.

The Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ 2

I walk around the grounds of La Rancheta looking for the Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ. Donde esta su madre, I ask Rosalie. At the market, she answers. Buying stuff for dinner. Veronica agrees, si, si. At the market. I ask about the busted can opener that Ronald keeps at the bar. It's broken, but I did manage to use it once. Rosalie eyes the cans of tuna and red beans in my hands and says she'll do it. She'll open them. Si? I hesitate. Her yellow sundress and chocolate-smeared mouth makes me doubt her motor skills with a knife. A big knife. Si, she answers taking the cans. She sets them on the counter and pulls out the same baby machete Graci used a few nights earlier. Just like Graci, she holds the sharp side of the blade steady with her tiny thumb, index and middle finger and prepares to punch a hole through the can. I don't have the words in Spanish, so I cry out in English, Be careful! Don't cut your fingers! She stops. Que? She looks at me, baby machete in one hand, the can of red beans in the other. I look right back at her. Rosalie ignores me and like her mother, slices through the tin can, quickly, evenly, with the smooth coolness of a Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ.

Sense and Servitude

I'm restless from another winning afternoon of not writing. I gather up my stuff and head to the beach hoping to clear my head, relax my shoulders and shake the panic that won't go away. Past the dirt path, right before the spread of white sand, I see a large Dominican family sitting by a palm tree. In the water to my right, two little Dominican children swim the shallow waters. There's very little sand in this part of the water, just sharp bodies of rock and seaweed. Further along the path, I see the same Dominican teenager a few days earlier sitting under a different palm tree. It's branches are lower, hanging closer to the ground, offering more shade. Except it's early evening, a breeze blankets the coast. The sun has begun yawning, preparing its retreat. There's no need for shade. As before, she sticks close to the trunk of the palm tree, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. I keep walking. Finally, I look up and read a sign nailed to a tree that I missed all the times I went to the beach:

NO PASE. PROPIEDAD PRIVIDA.

It's after 7pm. The bright Dominican sky has softened to a sleepy sunset. Reggaeton and Latin music play from the cd player in the restaurant gazebo. Ronald is cooking dinner for a Dominican-American couple who've made reservations for La Rancheta's popular European and Dominican cuisine. Graci sets the table: place mat under service platter (but not intended for use!), fish fork and salad fork to the left. Fish knife and salad knife to the right. Red wine glass and water goblet. Finger bowl on hand if needed. Red hibiscus and yellow allamanda flowers colour the dinner setting. European sensibilities provided by Dominican servitude. Across the cobble-stoned path, through the tired branches of the giant ficus, sitting behind my laptop, I watch Ronald take Graci by the hand and dance with her under the dry palm leaves of the gazebo hut. They cha-cha and laugh to the sizzle of frying fish, against the flicker of red Christmas lights that vine the drift wood and teak beams. The white glow of tea lights flirt with fire-flies and crickets that only come out at night.

Abrazame or Gracias, Denada

Abrazame ahora, quiero hacerte el amor, quiero que me lleves en tu corazon, abrazame amor, abrazame...La Rancheta has been taken over by women: Graci, Rosaline and Veronica; Rayselle and Marilyn; and Karin, Ronald's business partner who drops by and checks on things. Ronald is in Santo Domingo stocking up on beer, napkins, napkin holders, glassware, toothpicks, stock items not available in Las Galeras. Then off to Puerto Plata to pick up Belgium tourists at the airport. The crickets are drowned out by Rosalie's powerhouse vocals to Luis Miguel Del Amargue's popular bachata track, “Abrazame”. Graci is busily preparing dinner, her aggressive chopping and dicing contradicts her frame, so tiny you can hardly see the top of her head behind the bar. Veronica sings back up as she and Rosalie set the table, Rosalie stopping intermittently to cha-cha, samba, rumba. Ay, abrazme, que el tiempo, corre lentamente cuando tu no estas. Ay, besame, que quiero, en tu despedida amarte una vez mas...

I'm in my kitchen preparing my boring but affordable dinner of fried rice, tuna and potatoes. I look up from my peeling and wave at Graci walking up the path. In her hands, a plate of yautia fritters, which she extends outwardly. Para usted. Oh wow, I say, stunned. I take the plate from her as if I were holding someone else's baby, carefully with awe. I smile big, and want to hug this woman. Seriously bear hug her. Break her ribs, I'll hug her so hard. But I don't. Instead, a Mucho gracias. Denada Graci says, before walking back to the gazebo. I take a bite of the yautia fritters. Ho.lee.Fuck. Eso fue delicioso! I cry, running to the gazebo. Perfecto! Usted es un gran cocinero! Mucho gracias! I don't have enough Spanish words for praise, so I repeat: Eso fue delicioso! Perfecto! Usted es un gran cocinero! Mucho gracias! Graci laughs, Denada, denada. We smile awkwardly, our only medium of communication these last two days. Gracias. Denada. Ay, ahora no se porque, Te vas a marchar si te amo, Ay, quedate, conmigo, sabes que tu amo desde nino...

After dinner, theirs at the gazebo, mine on my patio, I watch Rosalie sing and teach Veronica how to cha-cha. Holding her hands, Rosalie instructs: grapevine left, grapevine right, step back, step front, now clap! Graci sits down with her legs raised on the table, dish-cloth over her shoulder. Resting her head on her left hand, cigarette in the other, she exhales slowly, smiling sleepily at her daughters. Abrazame ahora, quiero hacerte el amor, quiero que me lleves en tu corazon, abrazame amor, abrazame...

Street Sense

Muchos hombres en la calle, I tell Confiser, the taxi driver from El Catey Airport. He agrees, chuckling, si, si. Men are everywhere, on motorconchos, sitting on rickety benches, eating at local cantinas, flagging down gua guas. Gathering in groups of four or five, the hombres banter, sporting chucks, pressed jeans and faux designer sunglasses. Standing outside of their metal corrugated roof-top casas along unpaved dusty roads, they watch the traffic, staring at tourists who snap pictures of Dominican landscape and wildlife.

Donde estan las mujeres, I ask Confiser. We drive deeper into Samana, closer to Las Terranas. After Las Terranas, Las Galeras. In Las Galeras, La Rancheta. I see no women anywhere along the bumpy drive to La Rancheta. Las mujeres estan en las casas. Making babies, taking care of babies. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes. The usual things. Confiser tells me this, laughing. I don't say anything. Women can't do those things on the street, he reminds me.

Odysseus Returns to Ithica

We've entered Las Galeras. I've made it. I'm here. The half-finished, half-started, scrappy bits and tattered short stories who've been demanding my attention the last three years will finally have it. I fall against the gray head rest inside Confiser's air-conditioned taxi, and look dreamily at the fan-like palm leaves, turquoise beaches and loose, wild horses running against the traffic. The bachata music booming from Confiser's stereo is like a hero's welcome song. I'm Odysseus returning to Ithaca. It feels like home. Home being the space where, for six weeks, I can call myself a writer—or at least pretend to be one and not feel stupid. Or fraudulent. Or guilty for wanting to be someone I've been told I can't be. In the Caribbean, I am who I want to be. Me. I'm home.

The Yellow Casa

La Rancheta is located 2.5 km's (20 minute walk) from the crossroads in Las Galeras. Close enough to walk to the village but far away from the disco and traffic noise.

Confiser drives through the main road of Las Galeras, my bum jumping from the potholes that scar the semi-paved strip. I read the directions I printed from the La Rancheta website and look for signs, landmarks. Tourist-friendly, but largely pescado con coco: election posters wave from poles, deafening motoconchos ferrying three, sometimes four passengers dust the street, food vendors parked next to cantinas, Dominicanas gossiping, braiding each other's hair. Children playing on the middle of the road, barefoot with backpacks. Las Galeras, the farthest village closest to the ocean in the Samana Peninsula. Las Galeras, located at the end of the earth, is how it is often described. The end of the earth being mountains, white sandy beaches and warm turquoise water.

...take a right at the crossroads in Las Galeras where the “Tourist Services” building is located. (if you miss the turn and end up on the beach, turn around and take your first left)

We turn right at the crossroads and spot a sign indicating that Grand Paradise aka Casa Marine Inclusive Resort is just down the road. Confiser parks in front of the resort and I explain that I'm going to La Rancheta, past Casa Marine. Por favor, mas derecho. La Rancheta es a lado de Casa Marine. I point at the pictures from the printout, Casa Marine, no. La Rancheta, si. We continue driving, the smooth black path of the resort turning gray, loose rocks filling jagged potholes, the dirt road crumbling at the edges. A horse wrangler in a banana leaf hat armed with a machete bursts from the forest, leading a herd of semi-tamed horses. My eyes widen, holy shit. Confiser drives straight ahead, blind to the madness of it all.

After you pass the entrance to the all inclusive resort (Grand Paradise) the pavement ends and La Rancheta is located just a short distance down this dirt road on the right hand side-there is a sign out front.

There! Over there! I point to the La Rancheta sign just as the directions says, on the right-hand side of the road. Aqui, aqui, I cry excitedly as Confiser pull up in front of the green double-door gate. To the left of the gate, on a stone wall, a red and yellow sign advertises La Rancheta's breakfast, bistro, bedrooms and special Belgium beer. Ola! Hello! From behind the gate a middle-aged man with blond shoulder length dreadlocks greets me. His unbuttoned blue Hawaiian shirt displaying a slight paunch that hangs over his beige cargo pants he rolled to his knees. He drops his cigarette, grinding it with his flip flops before shaking my hand. Are you Ronald? I ask. He nods, welcoming me to La Rancheta. Taking my backpack and carry-on suitcase, he holds open the green fence and points to it. At the end of cobble-stoned path, lined by tropical plants, blushing with hibiscus flowers, guarded by a large, sleepy ficus, she stood, waiting. My yellow casa.

You will be happy you made the effort.

Graciela

Ronald introduces me to Graciela. Graci for short. Ola, she nods, smiling shyly. Her fingers cradle a half-lit cigarette. I return a clumsy Ola, my poor Spanish turning shy, Graci's tongue resisting English. Ronald, carrying my backpack and carry-on suitcase, walks me to my cabin. Trailing behind him, I turn back to look at Graci: her flat-ironed hair is pulled in a droopy ponytail, her bangs a blunt, straight curtain against her forehead. Skin black as a moonlit sky, wide-set eyes and clean, tight, cheekbones. An island smile glowing laugh lines. Sinewy arms and broomstick legs. Childish breasts and slender hips betray her age and those of her pubescent daughters. I smile at her again, the only language I can offer in the absence of Espagnol. Graci, I repeat. Si, she answers, puffing her cigarette. Graci. Graciela. From the Spanish, Gracias.

Thank you.

I'm Okay. Please and Thank you.

A month ago, an ex-lover whom I call the Back-Straightener e-mailed, demanding an explanation as to why I deleted him as a Facebook friend. The terse message contained 38 words in all, not one of them was a please or thank you. It ended with, “Your hair looks great.”*

A (s)mash up of feelings ruptured, from indignation to indifference. The left side of my brain wanted to rip out, “Because you're a spineless, cheating, self-centred wanker. Get over yourself. Pronto.” The right side of my brain zeroed-in on his fragile male ego and coolly ignored the Back-Straightener's Christian Bale-esque petulance. He needed a timeout. Permanently.

I didn't listen to my instincts and heed to right brain's advice: delete, delete, delete, right now.  Do not, my right brain warned, entertain him. But I didn't give in to left brain's irrational battle-cry for vengeance either. The message sat in my inbox as I navigated through my reactionary states, dissecting the Back-Straightener's ulterior motive (if he had one), trying to extract the banality of his request. At the end of the day, the banality wasn't that he wanted an explanation one year after the scandalous unfriending--it was that he felt entitled to one.

When I eliminated the Back-Straightener over a year ago, I ended a relationship wherein the bad memories eclipsed the good ones. The ultimate lover of leaving, the Back-Straightener expected me to be present when it was convenient for him and called me out on my female coldness when I (uneasily) stood my ground. When he stood me up (numerous times), he'd bug me to forgive him, pointing at (again) my female coldness if I didn't. Our Facebook connection only enabled him to launch narcissistic banter and condescending advice, further enriching the bad memory bank. At that point in my life, I had paid off all my debts, I was beginning to wean away from a destructive alcohol binge AND smoking habit, trying to understand my depression triggers and working towards my creative goals; my life was treading on loose ground, but it was taking shape in the right direction. The Back-Straightener was repulsed to hear that my life had tanked (“This is not the Charlene I want to know”) and reproached any progress I achieved under my terms.

So I cut the bastard out.

Albeit, the Back-Straightener's recent email wasn't necessarily Ground Zero, but the emotional undercurrents attached were kicking my anchors. Because it wasn't so much the Back-Straightener the person that disgusted me, it was his invasive privilege and what he represented—inauthenticity and dishonesty--that provoked a motley crew of emotions I thought I had processed and packed away. Talk about a rude awakening. My super-humane friend, David, who was visiting Vancouver during the holidays reminded me that heavy issues are often best resolved when life is coasting smoothly, not at the aftermath of disaster. My life is not perfect, but I am content. 2009 has my best year since I started my recovery from depression in 2007. The Back-Straightener's demand for answers to his issues only served to motivate me to work on another important task: building more honest and authentic relationships.

Authentic and honest relationships have never been easy for me to form and maintain. I don't cheat, lie or bamboozle people or those I'm closest to. The only person I've ever cheated, lied or bamboozled is myself in exchange for acceptance, affection and for the sake of good public relations. In my previous post, I shared that it was easier to auto-smile and front the yes-girl act rather than disturb other people's comfort or expectations of me. I wore the make up, sewed the costumes, handed out programs, did the song and dance. The painful irony of it all is the people I believed in and laboured to please walked out before the end of the first act.

The last few weeks has been a challenge of sorts as my impatience towards inauthentic relationships has grown rapidly in concert with the growth of my new goals and commitments. I want to clean up house so to speak, and shut the door for a while. Fresh emotions have bubbled as I reflect on my personal attachments and contemplate the relationships I value beyond measure, the relationships I need to put on hold (for now) and the relationships I need to bury in a time capsule.

I'm in that process right now, one I know will be lengthy as relationships shifts when situations change. Whatever happens, I'm grounded in knowing what authenticity means to me: To be able to have my guard down and admit defeat without being scrutinized for being weak or irresponsible; To be able to share my accomplishments and goals without self-censorship. Most of all, I want to be able to share all the great and horrible stuff I've gone through without guilt, or worrying that I'm bothering everybody with “my stuff”.

All of this involves creating boundaries, yet another new task. Being a recovering yes-girl, I didn't have a model to follow** or the affirmation (not that I need anyone's approval but I wasn't aware of that back then) that it's completely normal to say no once in a while. In understanding this, I recall a moment when an ex-boyfriend, early on in our relationship commented that he worried about me sometimes because I was always “okay with everything”. My response? Yup, I smiled. I'm okay, I told him, dishing out the two words I knew would avoid conflict. But I didn't know who I reassuring, him or myself.

Creating boundaries to safe-guard authenticity--the dialectic is constant. As for now, I have close friends I've pulled closer and protected who can raid my fridge, eat the last slice of pizza and make long-distance phone calls on my land line ANYTIME. For everybody else, they can visit, but they gotta knock first and mind their manners.*** These are my boundaries for now folks. I'm entitled to them.

The most stubborn and judgemental person I have to contend with is myself. Eradicating doubts, understanding my limitations whether they are temporary or here for the long haul is messy, especially for someone with cold anger (I'm working on this!), with the tendency to be very black and white on certain issues and with certain relationships. Letting go and accepting that I'm completely powerless (and not responsible) over other people's actions and situations are Middle Earth customs I need to get a better handle on.

I'm working on it.

As for the Back-Straightener? I replied, after a week. I have nothing to explain, I wrote and hoped that he had everything he's ever wanted in his life. It was the most authentic answer I could offer him, as I really do hope the Back-Straightener has everything he wants in his life. He's hurt too many people along the way to fulfil his wants.

15 words was all the message contained.

Not one of them was a please or thank you.


 *I'm assuming he thought this shallow compliment was enough to nullify his lack of decorum and compensate his low EQ.

**Aside from the divine, NYC-based Ms. Ninotchka Rosca, I really had no local models to emulate.

***Which includes not talking smack about my red walls or the number of chairs I have.

Under Construction, Subject to Change

A few years ago, after a gnarly break up, I pierced my nose, stock-piled the tattoos, axed my near-waist length hair to messy bed-head perfection and threw myself into activism, auto-pilot style. The aesthetic re-invention was in reaction to my ex-boyfriend's belly-aching about how I looked when we were together--he wanted my hair long because he said women with long hair were sexier. He objected to a nose piercing because I might look too butch--for him. He thought two tattoos were enough on me and more would be distasteful. I followed his direction, gave up on the hair, the piercing, the tattoos, kept quiet on issues that were bugging me and apologized for everything, even for his own failures I had no power over. I manipulated myself to fit his needs--and he still left me. The auto-pilot activism was a reaction to the complicated, ghetto feelings I couldn't break up with (I tried, it doesn't work). Like a hurtful partner, I learned to reject my feelings over and over again.

I'm sharing this because I'm taking this blog to a different direction, a decision that fits the new approach and commitment in my life. By new, I don't mean a shallow re-invention, such as the overhaul of my physical identity years and years ago; and by commitment I don't mean a relationship--except for one with myself. I hope to use my blog as a way to communicate to those where my words have failed and my want for dialogues have fallen into deaf ears, to be able to be more open and authentic about who I am. And, as my blog title suggests, I live under a construct and within that construct, I am constantly subject to change.


Building a more honest relationship with myself means not censoring or hiding the sum of my parts, practices that became sensory-numbing habits over the years. In retrospect, being a yes girl and auto-smiling all the time was easier than having to explain and clean up everyone's shattered ideals of who I was and what I should be. But this charade eventually resulted in minor spells of depression—the lonely, crying benders I'd have every couple of months since I was 19 came to the end of its slow burn in the Fall of 2005 and finally imploded in the Summer of 2006.


Recovering from depression is not just admitting there are problems, but large part of the process is sharing about it and not feeling ashamed. Recovery is an erratic and lucid dialectic and this year has been the most stable one yet: I got out of debt, quit smoking, I'm drinking more responsibly, and since the Summer, have begun work on personal creative projects I was incapable of pursuing as I convinced myself they were impossible, irresponsible and just plain selfish. This stage where I'm at right now is a lovely juncture but there's still plenty to unravel.


As I continue to unravel and embroider my patchwork life, I'm learning how to create boundaries, re-connect with my feelings and define who I am without guilt or compromising my worth for the benefit of others. I'm also learning the delicate course of letting go and accepting defeat—and knowing I am no less of a person for having to do so. Most importantly, I'm learning not to hide, least of all, from myself.

NaNoWriMo: The Writing Diet

Since November 1, 2009, I've been unofficially participating in the NaNoWriMo Diet.

You can eat whatever you want (seriously); there are no weekly weigh ins and check-ins and there are no beefy, spray-on tanned-trainers dragging you out of bed at the crack of dawn, screaming at you to squeeze those buns. There are no pills, no laxatives, no fasting, no expensive gym membership, no counting calories, and no obsessing about drinking X amount of water a day to keep your weight balanced. You don't have to cut back on your favourite comfort food AND exercise is absolutely not required (but highly recommended for general health purposes).

Dream diet? Not exactly.

See, NaNoWriMo is not about losing—it's about adding.

50,000 words to be exact.

Since 1999, writers of all levels, of all genres, from all over the world, united in procrastination gather every November to sweat, toil, cry, lose sleep, panic (did I mention cry?) in the attempt to write a 175-page novel in 30 days.

The prize? Well, there is none.

There's no cash to be won, no publishing deal to gain, no possible meeting with a literary agent, no movie deals.

The only reward is knowing that by the end of November, you've a written a novel—albeit, a very crappy one, but a novel nonetheless.

Which is why I've decided to unofficially participate in what I call the NaNoWriMo Diet. Unofficially because I didn't register and create my avatar, which means I'm not checking in day to day with fellow NaNoWrimers or reading forums etc...I'm too busy writing to do that.

I call it a diet because it's strict, regimented, demanding. And like any diet, it's a day to day challenge, where motivation is key because at any moment, you can fall off the wagon and yo-yo back to your original weight.

So how am I doing?

Well, it's day 10 and I'm blogging instead of writing the novel so that should tell you something.

My word count is just under 10, 000 words (9393 to be clear) at 26 pages. I'm not in the red yet, but considering the word goals I set myself per week, I'm 8000 words behind.

But I'm not panicking, because NaNoWriMo is not about writing your Magnum Opus or seducing the Pulitzer committee in awarding you the grand prix for literature. It's about writing quantity, not quality. There's no time to edit, re-write, psychologically analyze your characters, or create the perfect subtext. There will be holes in the plot, and in some novels, there is no plot.

And the golden rule of creative writing? The one about showing as opposed to telling? Forget about it, at least for November.

It's about getting the first draft of that novel that's been kicking around your head for a while (in my case, three years) down and done. Because although, 50,000 words and 175 pages in one month is a test of endurance and stamina, the real work is after, when writers re-read their manuscript and realize there is so much more to be written or in some cases, so many pages that must be thrown out. The laborious process of completing the second, third, fourth, fifth draft for the next 10* years is the real test of endurance and stamina for any writer.

And since I know this, I'm cool with the pressure. I'm also cool with the reality that by the end of November, 40,000 of the 50,000 words of my “novel” will be discarded entirely or put away for another project. If I can salvage 10,000 words into something amusing, I'll be happy. After all, you can't edit a blank page, and at least I'll be 10,000 words ahead than where I was last November.

And let's face it, Vancouver in November in cold, gloomy and just pissing with rain all around. The perfect weather for NaNoWriming.

    *Ninotchka Rosca wrote Sate of War in 7 years. She wrote what she thought was the final draft within 5 years, only to realize that she had “written out” a character in the 5th chapter for no reason. She just forgot about him. Apparently Ms. Rosca had a 6-week breakdown and pulled a J.D. Salinger. She recovered from the bell jar, re-wrote the novel from chapter 5, weaving the MIA character back into the novel and completed the final, final draft 2 years later.
    Sandra Cisneros, my literary whet dream wrote her monumental and magical work, Caramelo in 10 years and poured the loss of her father entirely into the novel. The work is perfection which proves once again that good work cannot be rushed.

International Guerilla Anthem by Bambu