Thoughts While Bathing in the Sun

The best of the summer heat in Britain may be over but the sun is still out in the garden and there I was sat in the lounge chair with yesterday's copy of The Times while the other inhabitants of our house went out for Sunday lunch and a little male bonding.

There are a few things I've been doing in my adopted country that I have never done in my homeland and one of them had been to bathe in the glorious sun until my skin colour turns chocolate brown, just the way my British husband likes it (I know, that sounds so sleazy!). The reason is simple, in most Asian countries, the Philippines included, sporting my now deeply tanned skin would have been akin to inviting stones be thrown at myself.

Colorism, or 'prejudice against individuals with a dark skin tone, typically among people of the same racial group', is an ugly affair that has haunted me for most of my life. As a child I had been bullied and made inferior just because the colour of my skin was a few shades darker than everyone else's. As a teenager I drowned my fear of taunts by never wearing anything that would show off any body part, staying mostly indoors and making friends with my books instead of people. As an adult I was forced to smile when told I am a 'Black Beauty', even though I found the term deeply insulting that my sort of beauty was so second class it needed to have its own label. But it was something I just had to live with because in my culture whatever is different can be made into a butt of jokes.

That is why I find it a travesty whenever I see or hear of fellow Filipinos raising arms against perceived racism - over an American with Filipino genes losing out on a song contest, the Daily Mail demanding stricter measures in ensuring only qualified nurses should work for the NHS, a BBC comedian highlighting child labour in the Philippines or comments describing Manila as a picture of hell in the latest Dan Brown novel. But when prejudice happens domestically, no one bats an eyelid. In fact, celebrities are being defended over rape and gay jokes on primetime TV. And a television series was made front lining a dark-as-soot child with flat nose and unruly hair (remember Kirara?) that was sure to make any dark-skinned child's life as hell as it did mine.

No I'm not saying we shouldn't protest against any form of racism abroad, perceived or otherwise, because that is what living in democratic societies are all about. What I am against is the double standard, that we say it's not ok for other people to be prejudiced while we are in their home turf but we can be equally as prejudiced about them in our own country and we are perfectly within our rights to racially discriminate our own countrymen.

So yes, you could say I had a lucky escape when I first reluctantly became an overseas Filipino worker who was eventually sucked in by the Western way of life. In Britain, for all its reported prejudices (because I have never experienced it firsthand), it is illegal and unacceptable to make racist remarks or even an inference of it. Only in the last few years, have I learned to undo years of psychological damage to my self-esteem brought about by my unlucky draw at the genetic lottery of life that I have finally embraced this outermost layer of my being and not let it define my self-worth. I became plain beautiful, not chocolate or vanilla. I was finally 'normal'.

But where I came from, it is still a non-issue that holds back those few of us who are categorised this way from being able to see ourselves on the same level as everyone else. As a society unless we admit there is injustice, we cannot start the way to equality.

We cannot change what we cannot see. 

Converse Shoes and Happiness

When I was 13, a socially awkward and constantly miserable teenager, I had a girl crush on someone in my class. She was everything I was not – very pretty, tall and slim, and hugely popular amongst the more senior boys in the campus. While most of the girls in our class wore our uniforms – a white cotton long-sleeved polo top and a hideous fuchsia pink midi-skirt – with a pair of boring Mary Janes or unattractive leather loafers, she casually strode across the school halls in a pair of All Star Converse trainers, as though modelling on a catwalk. It was a fashion mismatch of course and very few would be able to pull it off, but in my young impressionable mind, it was those pair of shoes that gave her the air of confidence she carried around.

But even at such a tender age, I have never been deluded about what my family could and couldn’t afford, and a pair of Converse shoes, then worth a sack of rice that would have fed us for a couple of weeks, was not worth the squeeze on my mother’s modest budget. This early propensity for delayed gratification has served me well throughout the years and helped me align my material aspirations with the size of my bank account. So that goes without saying that my smart phones (older models instead of the latest versions) only get replaced every three years, I do not own a must-have iPad and my clothes, mostly bought at charity shops do not cost more than five quid. This did not mean I do not long for nice luxurious things that other people own, it's just that I have learned to wait for the right opportunity to come along.

So no, I never forgot about my longing to own a pair of Converse trainers that would cement my place amongst the ‘cool’ crowd despite my husband’s insistence that at thirty, I am now too old to wear one. It became one of those luxuries we agreed to buy when we can finally afford to splash cash around which doesn’t look likely to happen anytime soon. But for the last four years every time we pass by a shoe store with a window display of these beautiful canvas shoes, I would gently remind him of this yearning. A couple of times, he has in fact told me to just get on with it and pick up a pair but the problem with a shared bank account is that £45 for a pair of shoes can be quite a drain in our limited resources. And the practical side of me always win in the end.

That was until last Sunday, when that perfect chance finally came knocking and I went home with a nearly new pair of classic white Converse All Stars bought for £4 (this is where I hear the cymbals and drumbeats!). I had been doing my weekly rounds at the car boot sale at Hillsborough Arena on our way to the leisure centre for a swim when I found the shoes. Without showing the excitement that was bubbling inside me, I inquired for the price. Five pounds. But because I was already a bit confident in the tricks of this pop up market, I bargained to knock a couple of pounds off and eventually sealed the deal at £4.

A few days later, I'm still beaming. I don’t think I would be wearing these pair of shoes with as much satisfaction had I paid the full price for it. But there you go, true to the philosophy of deferred gratification, a pleasure delayed is indeed a pleasure enhanced!

So now on to the classic question: would you eat a chocolate now or would you hold out for two later?

The Comforts of Saturdays

John has a recurring nightmare, one with an effect so disturbing it comes to him while he has his eyes wide open. It involves an unlikely situation that we might find ourselves one day contentedly lounging inside an English conservatory in a quiet suburban neighbourhood with its perfectly trimmed hedges, hosting dinner parties for the same set of friends over the years and heading off to the same holiday destination annually. This is not inverted snobbery, there is nothing wrong with this kind of life of course. At the end of the day, we all seek to find our own comfortable place in this world and the sense of security that comes with it. But his unfounded horrors stem from his fears that we might get too cosy with the happy conventions of middle class Britain and its affluent predictability that we might forget our dreams of the more romantic lifestyle of less wealthy Southern Europe where one day is different from the next, or so it's supposed to be.

Occasionally though I remind him that there is something joyful about the rituals that we impose upon ourselves. Even the simple habit of sipping a cup of tea brewed from the same brand of dried black leaves first thing every morning, taking time to rouse ourselves from an evening's rest, can set the course of the day. Not unlike the way we look forward to our weekends, spent in the easy company of the people we so dearly love, doing the same hardly exciting and yet comforting things that gives us immeasurable pleasure.

Our Saturdays are sacred, whiled away in a pattern that is close to being called a tradition. Having a baby meant we have to some extent become creatures of habit in our attempt to help the little one slowly understand this world that we have borne him into. Not that he was ever allowed to dictate his terms, no it is our fundamental duty as parents to teach our children the right way to do things. Starting for example with the importance of having a good night's sleep, which as adults we require at least eight hours of and for children should not be less than ten hours at night. This is a lesson we have successfully imparted in the last few months although occasionally it does require reinforcement. So our human alarm clock, brought up in customised controlled crying, knows that any time before six o'clock is not a good time to break the silence of the night and that during weekends it is better to let his parents have a lie in for an hour longer.

The early part of the morning is my 'me-time', spent sweating in the treadmill at the nearby Hillsborough Leisure Centre, my mere attempt at maintaining fitness. Two hours later, I emerge from the double sliding doors with a healthier glow on my cheeks, ready to meet my boys at the park just across the double carriageway. I usually find them by the lake, with the little one happily squealing at the sight of his feathered friends, the team of ducks and the flock of geese which were racing each other for the feast of crumbs that his dad is throwing in the water.

This hearty commune with nature is followed by a leisurely stroll in the park, sharing smiles with the now familiar faces of dog walkers, pram pushers, cyclists and runners, turning towards the direction of the shops along Middlewood Road already busy with weekend shoppers who keep the local traders and charity shops in business.

We pick up a copy of the Saturday Times from the news agents and sit ourselves comfortably by the fireplace inside Rawson Springs, a Wetherspoons pub housed inside a Neo-baroque stone building built in 1926 that was once known as Walkley and Hillsborough District Baths. This is a popular retreat amongst the locals, it is always packed and the high roof and wide open space meant that the frustrated whimpering of a child would hardly be noticed. We always order two cups of bean-to-cup Lavazza (100% Rainforest-Alliance-certified) coffee and a plate of toast with preserves to share, all for £2.89, less than what we would normally pay for a small latte in the Costa cafe right across the road.

With my weekly dose of Caitlin Moran satisfied over a warm cup of coffee, we are ready to tackle our weekly shopping which includes a trip to the green grocer's who greets us 'Kumusta ka?' or 'Magandang umaga' (the owner having worked with Filipinos 20 odd years ago in the Middle East), the butchers whose faces light up at the sight of us and the Polish bakers who happily tell us about a new artisan loaf that we should try out, along with piece of delectable cake for our afternoon tea.

By midday we are back home, left to spend the rest of the afternoon on more leisurely endeavours. So yes, sometimes the things that bring us exuberant happiness do not have to be grand or exciting, but they are still enough to make us feel blessed nonetheless. 

Because Tomorrow I Turn Thirty

When paying for a bottle of wine at Morrisons over the weekend, I was asked for an ID. Although it is legal in the UK for anyone over 18 to purchase alcohol, many retailers follow the Challenge 25 protocol which requires anyone who looks under 25 to show proof of age. I thought the cashier was having a laugh but her face said otherwise so I brought out my driving licence and commented that I will be 30 in a few days. Not that I felt like it, or what I thought I was supposed to feel like. But given that Isaac's great grandmother who will be 90 this year still drives a car and lives on her own, age is but a number.

Still, it is always good to take stock of your life occasionally and the last day in your twenties seem to be a good chance to celebrate what you have managed to achieve in what could be a third of your lifetime (if you are lucky). I could not boast of what most of my 'Facebook friends' have already accomplished in three decades when it was their time to publicly count their (material) blessings (yes, I have seen this posted in my news feed!): a four-wheel drive, a home ownership and a high-flying career, standards by which my old culture measure success by, for I have none of them. But my substandard existence, as defined by social media, is filled with a lot of ordinary and unexceptional things to cherish.

Like pushing a second hand smart trike in the park on a warm Friday morning when the sun is out and watching the glee in my little boy's face as we approached the glittering pond where a noisy congregation of birds are waiting for our crumbs. Did I imagine, as a 20-year-old University student in a busy fishing town in the southern tip of the Philippines, that ten years later I would be in this other side of the world, trapped in an intoxicating state of domestic bliss?

It's not always bright and cheerful of course, for this simple way of life comes with a price. When I was younger and quite idealistic with an inflated sense of importance (err...purpose), I actually thought I was meant to do great things that would make a big difference to a lot of lives. I have prepared well - with Latin honours and Leadership awards at university, an accountancy qualification and a job at a Big Four audit firm - it looked like I was primed for a successful career in the financial industry. But somewhere along the way, while most of my peers have carried on the path that I too was meant to take, I took a U-turn and could no longer find my way back. This meant that I would have to start from scratch, in a job I have very little experience and in a country suffering badly from the damaging effects of government bailouts and overspending.

But when life gives you lemons, you must learn to make a lemon drizzle cake. They taste sweet and refreshing and smells lovely when freshly taken out of the oven. Without business meetings to prepare for or late hours to meet deadlines, I was able to spend a lot of time doing things that give me childlike pleasure. Cooking up something new and delightful everyday. Taking up photography. Writing blogs. Learning a new language. Things that wouldn't take me far in life but that which makes my everyday existence a rich experience.

I may not be flying the banner for feminism but I am living my life with as much passion and purpose as I could. It didn't take me long to realise that most of us are not likely to do anything remarkable in our lifetime, that we are destined to live a life on a relatively modest scale. But we should not resent the apparent smallness of our lives because they are, in their way, as great and as exciting as the lives of those caught up in great events.

Yet there are times when I have wondered whether this carefree wantoning is good enough, moments when I am gripped with jealousy about the "exciting" lives everyone else seems to be living, especially when I look at Facebook. It would have been nice to visit families living abroad, to afford to buy our own home or to live in a place of seemingly perpetual sunshine. But there are things you couldn't have that you learn to live without and only then will you learn to be grateful for what you have. If not having a bulky bank balance meant I could kiss my child goodnight instead of blowing him kisses in Skype or Facetime, I would choose that any time. Happiness does not have to cost a lot and keeping my family intact mean more to me than the luxuries we couldn't afford.

So by worldly terms, I have not really amounted to much and it would certainly seem like I have nothing tangible to show for my efforts. I have always found the interview question: "Where do you see yourself in 5 years?" a tough one to answer and something you couldn't be perfectly honest about. Five years ago, I was single and working as an accountant in Gibraltar who, aside from the country where I grew up in and where I then lived, have never been anywhere else in the world. Five years later, I have married, set up home in another country, travelled widely, took up a new occupation, obtained a new nationality and started a family in that order. If my life has changed that much in five years, who knows where I will find myself in the next thirty?

Metro Manila: A Bite of Reality

Last Sunday, we took our little boy to his first trip to the cinema to watch Metro Manila, an award-winning film that was a marriage between his own ethnic origins with a British director and Filipino actors. He slept through the whole thing of course, save for ten minutes of breastfeeding, and for nearly two hours at least, I was able to once again experience the sights and sounds of the country where I come from. 

It was an age-old Filipino tale of survival in the country's capital. A rice-farming young family was in the verge of destitution after their crop failed and decided to leave their tranquil life in the province to relocate and seek employment in the bustling Metro Manila region. Once there, they immediately fell prey to local fraudsters, losing what little money they have saved and were forced to squat in the slum where they slowly slide into the poverty trap.  

The tide started to turn when the husband Oscar found himself not only a job in a security-van company but a friend in his senior Ong. But this friendship came with a cost and we found out about the life-changing contents of a missing safety deposit box and what it would take to open it. 

The story may be typically Filipino but the bittersweet ending was admittedly very British, one that shocked my mother who came to watch it with us. But how should it have ended otherwise? 

I was briefly reminded of a Facebook post denouncing moral relativism. When you have a roof over your head and eat three meals a day, it would be easy to distinguish black from white. But when your family is clinging on the cliff's edge, different rules apply. 

This movie will not be a commercial success in the Philippines with its lack of well-known actors and only its critical international acclaim to advertise it. The Metro Manila here depicts the gritty reality of urban life with seedy alleys, empty lots, dark bars and rundown houses. The people are desperately holding on to their faith and principles amidst the struggles and hardships of life in a capital of nearly 12 million inhabitants. No, this is not a movie that will help you escape your own sad reality but to confront and disturb, to jolt you out of your comfort zone and horrify you enough to understand that unless we have a fairer society, we cannot expect the same set of moral values to govern everyone. 

Metro Manila is now showing in the UK and will be released in the Philippines on October 9. 

More than a Passport

When we came to Britain three years ago, my husband gave up his lifelong dream of a life under the sun along with our well-paid jobs and good friends in Gibraltar. All for the sake of a British citizenship, the importance of which was only made more evident when on a holiday in Central Europe, we lost our passports in what became an immigration nightmare that involved dealing with three different embassies and was only sorted with the help of a Sheffield MP. 

At tough times we have often contemplated whether we have made the right decision to come here and for awhile we were very adamant that three years and that would be it. We have had enough of this country that doesn't seem to make up its mind about the weather. 

But after three years of living in Sheffield, I have slowly come to appreciate this country and its people - its proud heritage, its respect for different cultures and faiths and its ability to accept its faults and failures. I have made friends with people from different ethnic backgrounds who have made their homes here and who were all equally welcomed, including their traditions and beliefs. I have found a job that allowed me so much flexibility and opportunities for growth. I have made a home that is warm and cozy, with family members living just around the corner in a neighbourhood where everyone looks out for each other. I have enjoyed the fruits of my tax contributions with free medical services, accessible libraries, social benefits and safe and clean streets amongst others. 

No, this island nation in Europe is definitely not perfect and could learn a few lessons from its more advanced Scandinavian neighbours. Its a country full of moaners, ruthless benefit frauds, complicated immigration rules and exaggerated health and safety rules brought about by a culture of compensation. But it certainly means that democracy and social justice is being appropriately practiced here, regardless of the colour of your skin or the contents of your bank account. 

When I pledged allegiance to the Queen today, along with tens of others from 16 different countries, it didn't feel like I was only gaining a passport that would allow me ease of travel around the world. I have been accepted to an inclusive club that is, as the Home Secretary has described in her letter, "united by shared values, our respect for education and learning, and our willingness to listen to different points of view but also together seek the common good." But just like the country of my birth is just an aspect of my identity, my British citizenship will never be the only thing that would define me. 

The Vexation of Others: A Curious Thought

“It is hard, she thought, it is hard for us to think of people who dislike us because none of us, in our hearts, believes that we deserve the hatred of others.”

~ AMS, The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party

 

It is rather embarrassing to admit that I scour the homepage of Facebook on a daily basis when I could be doing something else more productive. But we humans are naturally nosey and what better way to know about the business of others than by going online. After all, if they did not mean for us to pry, why publicly share it?

You can find some rather interesting goings on in Facebook and equally the most mundane. To be able to share in others’ happiness is a blessing; to be subjected to another’s excessive self-absorption is an unlucky downside albeit one that should be taken with gracious tolerance, if one is able.

Recently though, a number of incidents have proven that the bubble that is tolerance might be bursting. Among such was a series of malicious and deliberately wispy shout-outs thrown to no one in particular and yet to anyone who could be paranoid enough to be upset about it.

The business of disliking others is rather baffling if not tiresome. To disagree with someone whose views are not aligned with one’s own is a noble thing; it shows passion rather than apathy. We are after all gifted with free will to make up our own minds. But to dislike someone for expressing their thoughts which happened to be different from one’s own is somewhat ungracious. It should be avoided if we are to live in a truly civilised world.

But it is a natural human emotion after all. Who amongst us have not had such guilty pleasure of harbouring an instinctive feeling of aversion towards someone? What you do about it defines your level of maturity. When you are young and the world seemingly revolves around you, it is easy to mistake unkindness as a source of kick. But as you grow older, you learn the art of cheerful acceptance over the vexing quirks of others.

To use the social media as a medium of voicing disdain then is a lowly act of cowardice. For wouldn’t it be easier to confront the subject concerned than blindly attack it? If it was just a spur of a moment reaction, then surely there was no need for the rest of the world to be involved. But if someone else agreed with the spite, does it mean the reaction was founded after all? Would it make the person who've instigated it feel better about himself/herself? It is a rather curious thought.

Then again, if posting a hateful remark in Facebook a mere vexing quirk of another and a simple act of self-expression, would the criticism of such act be unmerited? Would the whole subject of this writing be a mere contradiction of itself? Again, a curious thought.

If someone happens to be paranoid enough to believe that they are the subject of such insult but with no other proof than Google statistics (which could prove unreliable), how would they be able to confront the issue? Surely one can’t just go to the person involved for it would be easy to deny the offense and be accused of something else. It is rather difficult. But perhaps one need not do anything about it. If their happiness causes vexation to another, maybe that same happiness could eventually rub off.