Eight

Eight years ago today it was also Sunday. I normally don't notice little details like that. But eight years ago today on Sunday, I got a phone call that I knew I was going to get. I knew the night before when I lay down with tears in my eyes, that the hope against hope that different phone call would reach me simply wasn't going to happen. My Uncle Nofre would not survive the surgery to repair the dissecting aortic aneurysm. He died eight years ago today.

I remember waking up that morning, before the memories of the night before had flooded in. I relished those moments because my mind had forgotten -- only briefly remembered that there was something terrible I was worried about; something horrible that I was anticipating. Part of me knew but the other part wanted to savor the denial for a little bit longer.

It's been eight years and earlier this month, I was told by well meaning family members that I just "need to get over it." It's funny, isn't it? It's the family members that you share these thoughts with because they too felt the earth shattering loss, right? They're the ones who can commiserate because they know it too.

But maybe grief isn't something people want to be vulnerable to all the time.

So I'll get over it in the sense that I won't share these thoughts with them. (Heh, instead I'll share it with you, nameless, faceless internets.)

And today, I'll remember that on a Sunday like this one, my world changed. I still miss him. I still miss the weekly phone calls. I still miss how when he called I'd say, "Hi Uncle." And he'd say, "Hi, this is Uncle Nofre."

Eight years and I can still find that familiar knot in my chest. I guess that's just how it is. Love doesn't die just because the object of your affections had the poor manners to leave before you were ready.

For lovers, for dreamers, and me

Nice thing about Fall is that there are a lot of days of mixed weather. Sunshine and rain at the same time is not uncommon as the seasons shift to the shroud of clouds. Once that boom lowers over the Pacific Northwest, it's down for about 7 or 8 months. The benefit of this multiple personality disorder weather is the occasional rainbow.

I was boarding the ferry boat to Seattle around 5 in the afternoon. The sun was shining but a group of clouds was eyeing my freshly ironed hair. Jerks. The clouds started sprinkling and predictably a rainbow formed over the Sound framing the water and the ferry perfectly.

I took a moment and tried hard to drink it in; tried to revel in the sight because it was beautiful and glorious. It may be the last rainbow I get to see this season before the cloud shroud becomes the usual sky.

What was less than beautiful and glorious were the dozens of people taking pictures of that moment.

iPhones & Androids all up facing the sky. There must have been a flood of posts to Instagram, Snapchat, Tumblr, Facebook, Imgur, Reddit... Dang, I think I probably could go on.

It was sad, really. What happened to just letting the day happen and being present for that?

My cousin's daughter just got married over the weekend. My mother uploaded a bunch of pictures to her Facebook account and I was grateful for them. So good to see the family. So sad I wasn't able to attend. But it reminded me of my own wedding and the accidental lesson I got in being present.

There are a million tiny things to remember when you're putting on a wedding. I am my parents' only daughter. This would be the only wedding they'd be a part of where they were the parents of the bride. A wedding is a big glitzy production; especially when it is for the only daughter. Ultimately, we were a bunch of amateurs trying to pull off the equivalent of the Academy Awards. The morning of the wedding, which was on the Fourth of July, I realized that I had forgotten to purchase a battery for my camera. Usually this wasn't a big deal. It took lithium batteries which last a long time. I had tons of film; this was 20 years ago, folks. But I had the bad luck of having the battery wear out that very morning.

My mother was furious with me. She had been counting on snapping pictures all day with my camera. The stores around the venues were all closed because of the national holiday. People were deployed to find a battery before the ceremony but all came up empty handed. What's a girl to do?

In the words of the Imagineers at Disney, I simply, "Let it Go!"

What resulted was us being in the moment completely. My parents got to the spend the day really being there and not trying to get the perfect candid shot. My new husband and I were not distracted with trying to document every moment. We had a professional photographer to take those shots anyway. He did a much better job of it than we ever could.

So in our lives now, I've got a phone with over 2,000 images on it. So many of them are pictures of beautiful vistas and breathtaking sunsets. But the thing is, if I'm lucky, there will be another rainbow to relish, another beach to breathe upon, another mountain to stare at in awe.

Instead of taking a picture, I'll strive to take it in -- relish the moment and simply breathe.

Siri vs. Iris

This morning my husband and I were lying in bed planning our day. Tonight we are catching a show at the Moore Theater in Seattle. We were trying to figure out what time we needed to leave to get some dinner and the show. We got out our phones to get directions to the theater. I have an Android -- Samsung Galaxy S4. It's not even the latest and greatest in the line. There have been at least two upgrades since this model. Nevertheless, I love this phone. I've no doubt the manufacturer will put in updates to mess with its functionality and twist my arm to upgrading, but for now, it's pretty great. My husband has the Apple iPhone 5.

I went first.

Me:  Where is the Moore Theater in Seattle?

Android:  Here is a map to the Moore Theater in Seattle.


He went second.

Him:  Where is the Moore Theater in Seattle?

Siri: I cannot find the Moore Theater in Seattle.

Him: Let's try again. Where is the Moore Theater in Seattle?

Siri:  There are no theaters in Seattle.

Him:  Siri, what the hell is wrong with you?

Siri: I apologize.


Me = smug.

Say what you really mean

I've been thinking about and talking about dress codes in middle school for a ridiculous amount of time now. I'm a little surprised at myself. Eh, sometimes I get obsessed about something and I just cannot let it drop.

It would be simplistic to say that it is only dress codes that are the problem. I think what dress regulations do is attempt to codify the social rules we already have in place. That is why they seem so scattered and condescending. That is why they're arbitrary. They are what you get when you try to define a thing by only saying what it is not.  As in, "You may not wear <insert arbitrarily deemed offensive article of clothing> at school."

But perhaps it better to really say what we mean as a society.

"We, as your elders, are made uncomfortable when we watch your budding sexuality as young women. If you dress in ways that celebrate your sexuality, we still want ways to punish and shame you for it under the guise of it being a dress code. We are telling ourselves that shaming you and punishing you are ways for us to protect you. We believe we are acting in your best interests by denying you instructional time, pointing out to the rest of your classmates that we think you are being slutty, and that you should be considered slutty by others; it is doing our part to label you and your reputation with your peers. We think we are protecting you by forcing modest clothing choices upon you. It is important for you to be indoctrinated with the belief that your clothing will protect you from unwanted sexual advances or attacks. By the word modest, we think you should not wear clothing that celebrates your female form, unless it is for an activity that promotes school spirit like cheerleading outfits or volleyball briefs. We choose to remain ignorant to the harm dress code infractions do to you and your schooling environment. The harms to you include lost instructional time, self doubt and shame, the simple physical discomfort of wearing other clothes over your outfit, and the ire your parents may feel towards you for having gotten dress coded. We would rather you avoid our gaze and think we as staff are doing nothing but judging your outfits. Because we are judging your outfits. We think it is more important to punish you than create and environment where you feel safe talking to us without our judging eyes upon you. Your education is not as important to us as is the education of the other students. And by other students, we mean the boys. Because you are distracting them with your bodies. We would never say that we resent you for being young and pretty, but it may have crossed our minds."

My peers, we have gotten too far away from being young and foolish; we have forgotten how stifling it was to live under arbitrary rules. My peers, please recognize that we are carrying some heavy baggage that steers us to foster rape culture. My peers, we need to rise above so that our daughters don't have their voices silenced and education stymied by something as trivial as a dress code.

Let them be.

Intermammary sulcus

My Girl Scout troop has been discussing women's issues almost exclusively over the past couple of years when we're not doing the regular scouting things like planning outings, encampments, raising money for field trips, etc. There has been no end to the bad news for our gender of late. From the Hobby Lobby case, the falling of the protective buffer around abortion clinics, the NFL scandals -- both the lack of remuneration for their cheerleaders and the light handling of domestic abuse by the organization, and on and on and on. But none of these issues really caught their hearts and passions. I think they thought it didn't pertain to them. They're not getting birth control, seeking abortions, in an abusive relationship with their pro-footballer or cheering for his team.

I've felt like our gender was under attack.

But then the incident from the other week happened to me and I actively participated in rape culture despite my long held belief that I was above it. I thought that I could rise above and place the blame exactly where it belonged, at my attacker's feet. Only he had responsibility for what he did to me -- kissed me and slapped my bottom without permission or welcome. But no, I realized that I hadn't risen above. I thought exactly those thoughts that our culture impresses upon us. I questioned what I was wearing, what I might have said to make him think that his treatment of me was welcome.

I hate myself for thinking those thoughts.

But it really made me really consider how deeply entrenched this thought process is in me. Where the hell did it come from and what can I do to exorcise it? The power of Gloria Steinem compels you!  The power of Gloria Steinem compels you! 

How lucky for me that the case of the yoga pants has made national headlines. Across the country, well meaning school administrators have been banning yoga pants. These are comfortable pants that cover a person's body on their bottom half. Sometimes they can be formfitting and give evidence that a person has a body. The argument is that they're distracting and... I've just sat here for the past five minutes trying to finish that previous sentence. I don't have a handle on why yoga pants would be considered bad.

In Illinois, there are some middle school aged girls protesting the yoga pants ban by wearing them and holding signs, "Are my pants lowering your test scores?" In Billings, MT, there is a similar ban being instituted by a public high school. In an opinion piece by Ashley Crtalic, she  dissects a very common experience for young girls, the shame of being "dress coded," and how it affects their schooling. This is the moment in which girls are told that their bodies are dangerous and need to be covered, and that boys are incapable of controlling themselves around girls. It also gives girls the ridiculous belief that violence can be prevented by their style of dress. As if a lower hemline could ever induce a person bent on rape to stop.

At this point I decided to look at my girls' dress code for the 7th & 8th grades. The very first word is in bold and it is "Cleavage."

Cleavage.

That's the thing about words, I love them. Because you can say one word and come up with nuances that are implied.

Cleavage.

It is a word that describes the area between the breasts. But more than that it implies sexual maturity because a young girl who has not yet gone through puberty will not have cleavage.

Cleavage.

Of all the words they could have chosen to describe the chest, they chose the one that is only for young women. We all have chests -- part of being humans.   As humans, we all have breasts -- part of being mammals. Why not use the gender neutral term chest? Why not use the term that could apply to boys, girls who are in the throes of puberty, and those girls who have not gotten there yet?

Cleavage.

On this point, I think the administration and I agree. "Cleavage," does not belong in the middle school. Especially not in the handbook for all of the kids.

So, the dress code at the middle school is finally the women's issue that the girls are on fire about. Not only because it affects them directly, but also because it is the first volley; the first seed of institutionalized rape culture in our society. It is the start of the self doubting, slut shaming, and victim blaming that occurs. It is the start of believing men have no control over themselves; they must be protected from womanly wiles. It is the audacious belief that women's breasts can exonerate men of responsibility for their own actions.

Enough.

Karaoke gone bad

Last week I was mildly sexually assaulted.

That's a strange sentence to write.

I'm not exaggerating nor am I equivocating on the word, "assault," by saying that it was mild. It was. I'm not bruised or beaten. I did not suffer from a violent rape. But I was sexually assaulted.

I love to sing karaoke. I have a decent voice. People who have heard me sing have told me that I have the voice of an angel; that I should be singing professionally.

Drunk people are people.

A few Fridays of the month (who am I kidding, most Fridays) I'll go to the local cantina and sing. It's been getting weirder just because it feels like the populace that shows up there are more likely to be young kids in their early twenties. There are regulars -- guys who show up for heavy handed pours and the pool table. These guys look more like my age -- in their 40's or 50's.

One of those guys is named Conner. He proclaims himself my best fan. When I show up and sing, he showers me with compliments. Sometimes he likes to sing with me. No big deal. Karaoke is a crowd sourced entertainment.

This last Friday, after singing with me -- getting a little too close while we were sharing a mic, he came over to my friends and my table and chatted with us. Told me that he was going off on a trip. Told him to enjoy himself. He said he'd be gone for a long time. At some point he wandered away.

I went up to sing a song with a guy friend. While I was actively singing, my eyes looking up at the screen for the lyrics, Connor came up to me grabbed me around the waist and aggressively kissed me on the cheek. I had fleetingly thought he was getting in close to share the mic. I was turning my face to look at him when he kissed me. He caught a bit of my lips because I had moved. Ewww. I didn't even see it coming. As if that weren't bad enough, he quickly let go of me, walked around me, and slapped me on the butt.

No joke.

I was flabbergasted. He practically ran out the back door. It took me a moment to process. I think the look on my face was utter shock because the guy I was singing with looked at me and asked what had just happened.

When our song was over, I answered, "I think I was just sexually assaulted."

What comes next shows how wrong and terribly ingrained our cultural beliefs around assault are.

I immediately thought, "What did I do to encourage that?" I share the mic with tons of people, men and women alike. I'm not terribly discriminating about that because I love to sing. I love karaoke. I don't think it is a bad thing for me to do. And since there are only 2 mics, sometimes I do get in close to the other person. There isn't anything sexually implied by that.

Next, I did an inventory of what I was wearing. For the curious, I was wearing a mom uniform -- denim capris, a green wrap around shirt, my Seahawks hoodie, and brown wedge sandals. It was Blue Friday after all. For make up, I had powdered my face, put on some eyeliner, and nude colored lipstick. Also, not particularly suggestive.

Lastly, I wondered if the violation I felt was worthy of being classified as an assault. I never welcomed this kind of touching. He kissed me and touched my ass without my permission. But we were fully clothed. We were surrounded by people. What had happened was witnessed by a bunch of folks. What did they think just happened? Was it assault?

Take it from me, I'm angry with myself. Not because I put myself in that situation. (Eff that.) Not because I was dressed suggestively. (I wasn't.) Not because I wasn't fast enough to clock this guy as he deserved. (Okay, maybe a little bit on that one.)

I'm angry with myself because of the three things I immediately considered when I was assaulted. What did I do to encourage that? What was I wearing; what did I say? Does this rise to the word assault?

That crap has got to change.

At least, I know that it exists.

Pop quiz

My mom usually visits me twice a year. Sometimes it is once. If I've been to visit her house, she doesn't come.

I really like that. I like that she makes these trips. She's not just a tinny voice on the phone to my kids. She's the fun grandma who visits and showers them with presents. She's also got the clout to nag them into submission in a way that I just don't have. They'll give me a hard time, but my mother's well honed evil eye is far too biting.

This last time she visited though, she insisted that I cook. A lot. Cook the things that are her signature dishes. And much of it, unassisted by her.

In the past, she's made us stuff. Now it is as if she wants the food but she doesn't want to cook it herself. I get it. That's why we go out to eat in general, isn't it? Who wants to cook all that food? We just want to have it made for us.

So she had me make pancit, lumpia, pinakbet, guinitaan, and atcharra. The lumpia and the guinitaan are her signature dishes. People will ask her to make these for their gatherings. I imagine, I'm going to be called upon to make these.

When I was a little girl, lumpia was always cooked on Sundays. Mom would get up early in the morning and prepare the vegetable filling. She has a couple of rules on the filling -- raisins have no business being in lumpia. It's disgusting. I agree. Potatoes are only put in the filling by people who have no class. Such an obvious filler. (On this, I've had to give some because my haole husband loves potato in lumpia. It's been a source of great conflict.) Get good sized shrimp because the cocktail ones don't taste as good. She'd have the filling sit in colanders on the kitchen counter so that it would drain completely and cool so we could handle it without burning our hands. After mass, we'd be rolling them. If we were lucky and this wasn't for a party, we'd get fresh lumpia with that slightly spicy brown sauce and crispy lettuce leaves. Ah man, now I wanna make some.

The guinitaan is more of a recent signature dish for my mother. Her friends and my Aunty Junette love my mother's version of the coconut pudding filled with sweet potatoes and fragrant jackfruit. For me, this hot dessert was only served at novenas for the elders we had lost. There would be nine nights of prayers and rosaries for those who had passed. The big payoff was a banquet of Filipino pastries and desserts. On the ninth night, there would be a feast. Some people would hold a novena every year for the dearly departed. A full novena -- proving that their grief and love never truly faded. More typical would be one day of rosaries and prayers on the anniversary. But even still, there would be kankanen and this wonderful soupy pudding. When I was little, it was my grandmother's sister who would cook it, Apo Merced. She was arguably the prettiest of the sisters, though they all looked very much the same. Beautiful women, my Grandma and her sisters.

So on this last visit, my mother put in her orders. Told me we were going to Asian market and getting all the ingredients for everything.  She only stayed with us two weeks this time, so time was short. This time, though she did some of the cooking, much of the prep and cooking she left to me. Checking over my shoulder from time to time. Sitting at my kitchen table, close enough to give me direction but not hovering. It was good.

I kind of think it might have been a kind of quiz. Making sure that this kitchen knowledge was passed on. That my mother's lumpia and guinitaan would make it to the next generation and in turn become my signature dishes. That my brothers, if missing my mother when she's gone, can come to my house and have her cooking again.