My Contribution to America by Jose Dalisay Jr.
Manileño for June 2007
THIS IS probably as familiar an experience as any for most readers of this magazine [the San Francisco-based Filipinas], but I never thought the time would come when our only child would come to live in the United States. It’s neither triumph nor tragedy, and I don’t mean to exult in nor to lament the fact. It’s just an objective condition that many Filipinos today are having to deal with—again, for all its supposed benefits and costs.
A couple of months ago, I found myself winging my way to San Diego, to attend the wedding of our only daughter Demi to a nice young man she’d met online—welcome to love in the 21st century, folks. He’d come across her blog and left a comment, starting a correspondence that blossomed quickly into a digital romance. Jerry himself was a Filipino born in Rhode Island, a US Navy brat who’d traveled with his family back to the Philippines then to Italy and to Norfolk, VA, wherever his dad’s fleet and postings went.
Demi’s mother Beng and I were, of course, happy for the outcome; in another odd twist, Beng and I actually met Jerry during an earlier visit to San Diego even before Demi did, during which the papa quickly sized up the prospective manugang as a man of much more than satisfactory character.
For all this love story’s quirks, I suspect that it’s more typical these days than we think. Filipinos and Filipino-Americans are getting together in ways their grandparents would never have imagined possible, back when a letter took two weeks to cross the Pacific and a three-minute long-distance phone call, if you could even get through, cost you a week’s pay. Today—with the Internet and all its blessings (and occasional curses) such as Yahoo Messenger, Skype, MySpace, Blogger, and Google Earth—contacts and friendships (and let’s add incipient then full-blown romances) are more easily made.
What struck me on the flight home was how easy it had been for me to reconcile myself to the fact that our unica hija was now going to spend the rest of her life far away from us—she’d kept a room in our house until she was 32—and how, after the processing of papers and the wait of a few years, she was going to become an American citizen.
Well, is that so bad? Uhm, no—I guess not. I know a lot of Filipino parents who would kill to be in my position, and who would’ve programmed someone like Demi—smart, pretty, well-mannered (that’s the dad talking)—to find and land herself an American husband.
But I come from a generation that turned its back on the promise of America—something our own parents, born in “peacetime” and coming of age during “Liberation”—had emphatically embraced. Even from a distance, we knew America at its worst, the USA of Vietnam, segregation, the military-industrial complex, meddling in Latin America, and, of course, of the military bases in the Philippines and the abuses that happened in them. We rallied against “US imperialism” and its support for the “US-Marcos fascist dictatorship.” Was I now turning my back again on all that, as the proud papa of a newly-minted American daughter?
Again, I guess not. Some things have changed: America itself, and our perception of it. It will take more than a few columns to track those changes (as well as the ways some of America’s leaders apparently haven’t learned much from, say, Vietnam, and the Philippines before it), but I feel among the American people a profoundly challenged and awakened sense of responsibility to (and maybe even for) the rest of the world.
Our view of America has also become as many-sided and as complex as American life and society itself has grown. As I observed in another essay, yet to be published, “To Filipino youth, America is that place where iPods, Big Macs, Oakley sunglasses, and Nike Air Jordan shoes come from. From being reviled in the 1970s as the great imperialist Satan, America is cool again to many Filipinos—although George Bush’s heavy-handed ‘war on terror’ could change that perception.”
To my new in-laws—proud members of a tradition of service in and to the American military—that war on terror is a real and noble mission; that much I understand and respect. Bred in the contrarian tradition of her parents and the University of the Philippines, Demi is going to have to make her own adjustments to her new family and society. Whether she’ll vote Democrat or Republican is going to be her own business.
The only advice I could and had to give her was the same thing I wrote in this column a few months ago, in answer to the question that some Filipino-American students posed to me (in, of all places, also San Diego): “What can Filipino-Americans best do for the Philippines?” And my answer to that was, “Be good Americans—whatever that means.” Be fully engaged in the political and social life of America, and contribute what you can to the growth and well-being of America, keeping the growth and the well-being of other countries and peoples in mind. Help America and its leadership use their vast wealth and power wisely and responsibly.
To that mission, I’m glad to be able to contribute one precious thing: my daughter Demi, and everything we raised her to be.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
Father of the Bride
Father of the Bride by Jose Dalisay Jr.
Penman for Monday, April 16, 2007 (Philippine Star)
AS YOU read this with your Monday morning coffee, I’ll be across the Pacific, giving our unica hija Demi’s hand away in marriage to a fine young man by the name of Jerry Ricario. They met online—she had a blog, which he responded to, and they were soon e-mailing and calling each other up; thus are romances born these days, with blips crossing the digital ether and recomposing themselves into something as close as you can get to a human emotion like wonder, like love.
It’s a day I’d been trying to imagine for a good many years now. Was I going to cry? (I’ve been weeping buckets, for the silliest reasons.) What was I going to wear? (Methinks a black suit and a silver tie.) What was I going to give the couple? (I’ll tell you soon enough.) Who was she going to marry? (Oddly enough, I’ve never worried about it—Demi’s a smart girl, and will choose wisely.)
Demi’s taken her sweet time to get here; she turned 32 last October—a sensible age, by current standards, to settle down. Kids these days, they put all kinds of carts before their horses—the job, the career, the car, the apartment, the MBA. I suppose you can’t blame them, either, because that’s what most parents look for: “Can he feed you? Where will you live?” Me, all I ever wanted for Demi was happiness, in whatever shape or form it took—and I’m glad she finally found it in Jerry, an avionics engineer with a passion for museums, books, and music.
Beng and I actually met Jerry even before Demi did, on a trip we made to San Diego sometime last year when I was a visiting professor in a Midwestern college. Within ten minutes he and I were talking about Chuck Yeager, the legendary test pilot for the X-15 (Jerry tests the guidance systems he designs in the Mojave Desert—a major score, in my boy’s book), and I knew we were going to get along.
Today I can’t help remembering that Demi’s mom and I got married when Beng was 23, and I was 20 (it was, in fact, my 20th birthday, and my mother had to sign a consent form before the judge could do what he was supposed to). It was all over in five minutes; one of my brothers ran to the restroom to take a leak and when he came back we were signing the papers. Then we repaired to a nearby restaurant for merienda cena; there was no honeymoon, except the one in our newly rented apartment, which we gave up after several months of playing house, realizing how much cheaper the parental dominion was.
Back then, you didn’t plan for these things too much; thanks to martial law, our comrades were dying all around us with numbing regularity, so we figured that we would be lucky to reach 25, and that if there was anything else we felt like doing in life before being shredded by an Armalite, we had best do it soon.
Three months after getting together—and after I’d just been released from martial-law prison—Beng and I figured out our budget on a paper napkin and decided to get hitched as soon as I turned 20. After nine months, right on schedule, Demi arrived—and for a moment back there I nourished the thought that I’d become a grandfather at 40, if children did what their parents did, but of course they never do.
All I can think of right now, hours before enplaning for San Diego, is shining my shoes. In the mad rush to get everything together—my semester’s grades, everyone’s presents, a slideshow I’m going to surprise the couple with, and cans of sweet banana that Demi specifically requested—I’d forgotten to have my black pair resoled, so I’m going to have to make do with my dark brown loafers, which need a good waxing. Whatever else I do—fathers of brides always seem to manage to make fools of themselves in the movies—I won’t be charged with going to the wedding in scruffy shoes. Maybe that’s the Pinoy in me: look smart, from your toes up; always wear a watch; always change your underwear; don’t let them think you’re clueless, even if you are.
I shouldn’t be so nervous, because our new in-laws the Ricarios are Fil-Ams from Bicol, vagabond provincianos just like the Dalisays from Romblon and the Poticars from Iloilo. Just a week ago, our balae Gudy sent us a letter—by snail mail, in longhand—whose simple but heartfelt words spoke volumes about her family’s down-home values.
Maybe that’s what scares me—never having been a balae, could I live up to expectations, as a sometimes stubborn nonconformist? No, it isn’t like I’ll turn up at the wedding half-drunk in week-old jeans and swearing at the preacher like a bad Jack Nicholson; when it comes to fashion, my idea of nonconformity is to press my jeans, not rip them. It’s more like I, uhm, don’t care much for church weddings, especially big ones, and am immensely relieved that Demi and Jerry decided to get married on a rented yacht, with just a few people aboard. I’ve been told that there will be a proper ceremony in church next year in Manila (for which I suppose I’ll have to make a special confession, and a long one that will be)—but I’ll be a good sport, and be the Catholic schoolboy I once was, just for the kids.
I’d probably be breathing easier if Beng were coming with me, but she’s not; she’s packing my bags, but we couldn’t get her a tourist visa in time for the wedding. She’s being customarily quiet about folding my shirts and tucking the balled-up socks into little corners of my bag, but I know—even as she tells me it’s all right that I’ll be going to San Diego alone—that she’s writing her own piece in her heart and head, although it’ll never get published, unlike mine. Her baby’s getting married across the ocean, and she’ll be watering the plants and changing the curtains at home, as if she had nothing better to do.
If I cry today as I know I will, my excuse will be that I’m shedding them on behalf of the mother of the bride. We did something good and right together, Beng—and there she goes.
AND WHAT of our gifts? Surely someone else will provide the inevitable pots and pans, the immutable cutlery, the deathless fondue set. (Just for the record, we never minded receiving those; three decades later, we’re still in need of them.) I wish I could write the newlyweds a ticket to Europe, but I’ve never been to Europe except on someone else’s tab. For a lot less, I could give them a new Mac, but I can sense that this is already a marriage of two geeks, with Demi bringing her own iBook into the bargain to complement Jerry’s PC and his awesome networking skills.
Ours, at any rate, is a family of modest means; in this country, writers and artists make only so much. Unless you count my old pens and watches and Beng’s old bottles, there are no family jewels to speak of, no heirloom silverware.
Beng, however, has always had her present at hand: a 1973 drawing by her former mentor and later National Artist Jose Joya—the first of what we hope will be the couple’s own little trove of artworks by Filipino masters.
As for me, a month ago and purely by chance, I came across an unusual message in my inbox, advertising the sale of one of my Holy Grails: a first edition of Carlos Bulosan’s semi-autobiographical novel, America Is in the Heart, a moving, often gut-wrenching, account of a Filipino immigrant’s life in America in the 1930s. (I turned green with envy when I saw a near-mint copy of it, dust jacket and all, on the shelf of one of UC San Diego’s leading Fil-Am scholars, Dr. Jody Blanco, during my visit last year; someone had gifted him with the very book and edition I’d been chasing after for ages.)
I’m not a compulsive book collector in the same way I collect fountain pens, but I simply couldn’t pass this one up, and I made a bid for it; after a couple of weeks of polite negotiation by text and e-mail between myself and the seller, my bid prevailed, and he turned over the book to me at Jollibee Philcoa. My hands trembled as I accepted the book; I had written my undergraduate thesis on Bulosan, and as a Filipino writer in English myself and an occasional visitor to America, I felt that I understood Bulosan’s complex character.
I don’t have to report how much I paid for the book—you know how it is with these things, the price is always a little too much for the buyer and a little too little for the seller, although we were both pleased with the outcome.
The book itself was in only fair-to-good condition, as collectibles go; it had long lost its dust jacket, and some pages had been taped together. But it had something that even Jody’s copy didn’t—a personal inscription by Carlos Bulosan himself, to an equally famous Filipino, a former (then future) Chief Justice: “For Fred Castro: This story of my life will, I hope, bring me closer to you and our native land through our good friend, J. C. Dionisio, with my best wishes. Carlos Bulosan Los Angeles 3-6-46.” Fred Ruiz Castro received the book in Manila and signed it on the 4th of April.
I thought for a minute whether I would be defacing and devaluing the book by adding my own inscription to it, but given to whom and where it will now be going, I should think that its return to California, 61 years later, merits a few squiggles in my own pen-wielding hand. If Bulosan’s America was in the heart, for our dear daughter, the heart is in America.
Live long, live right, and every now and then look homeward.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
SO HOW did the wedding go?” Last week’s column on my daughter’s wedding in San Diego brought in a flood of congratulations and good wishes—many of them from perfect strangers—which my family and I are deeply grateful for.
The wedding went swimmingly well, thank you very much. “Swimmingly” might not be the most appropriate of terms, since we were on a boat—a small yacht named the Renown, rented for the occasion. Demi and Jerry were wed on deck by the youngish captain while the boat cruised around the harbor in a lovely sunset. There were only about 30 guests, just enough for the Renown to keep afloat, and the reception followed the ten-minute ceremony right after, with great food and an open bar.
I managed to keep my poise during the wedding, having no other role than to lead the bride to the bow of the boat and busying myself with my camera thereafter. But after the vows and the snapshots, I took Demi to the stern to call her Nanay Beng, who had been left behind in Diliman and who was hosting a lunch for her parents and closest friends to celebrate the event from 7,000 miles away. That’s when we both lost it, and we could’ve sunk the ship right there if our tears didn’t fall overboard.
My crying binge actually began on the plane coming over. I thought I was having a good time listening to the inflight music—I always try to enjoy myself on plane rides, taking everything from the hot towels to the peanuts like it was my first and last time to fly—when a familiar song wafted into my ears and everything I had been holding back burst forth like my heart was a cheap plastic bag.
The song was the “My Boy Bill” soliloquy from the musical Carousel; strangely, serendipitously, it had been playing on the PA system in the hospital the moment Demi was born in 1974. If you know anything about Carousel and about that song, you’ll know that no-good hero Bill sings it in anticipation of having a son, only to realize that his namesake-to-be could very well be something else: “But what if he is a girl?” Then he goes into that chorus which wrings me dry every time I hear it, as I heard it as Demi was coming into the world: “My little girl, pink and white as peaches and cream is she….”
It was bad enough in 1974; it was worse in 2007, when I was about to give my girl, no longer so little, away. Did the airline music programmer or the captain know what the passenger in Seat 24-J was going through?
So I wept again on the Renown, and Demi wept with me, and Beng was crying on the phone, and a good cry was had by all, but a day later, after I’d emailed her the wedding pictures, Beng was able to tell me that “My baby is beautiful, and I’m at peace.” And so we are.
Penman for Monday, April 16, 2007 (Philippine Star)
AS YOU read this with your Monday morning coffee, I’ll be across the Pacific, giving our unica hija Demi’s hand away in marriage to a fine young man by the name of Jerry Ricario. They met online—she had a blog, which he responded to, and they were soon e-mailing and calling each other up; thus are romances born these days, with blips crossing the digital ether and recomposing themselves into something as close as you can get to a human emotion like wonder, like love.
It’s a day I’d been trying to imagine for a good many years now. Was I going to cry? (I’ve been weeping buckets, for the silliest reasons.) What was I going to wear? (Methinks a black suit and a silver tie.) What was I going to give the couple? (I’ll tell you soon enough.) Who was she going to marry? (Oddly enough, I’ve never worried about it—Demi’s a smart girl, and will choose wisely.)
Demi’s taken her sweet time to get here; she turned 32 last October—a sensible age, by current standards, to settle down. Kids these days, they put all kinds of carts before their horses—the job, the career, the car, the apartment, the MBA. I suppose you can’t blame them, either, because that’s what most parents look for: “Can he feed you? Where will you live?” Me, all I ever wanted for Demi was happiness, in whatever shape or form it took—and I’m glad she finally found it in Jerry, an avionics engineer with a passion for museums, books, and music.
Beng and I actually met Jerry even before Demi did, on a trip we made to San Diego sometime last year when I was a visiting professor in a Midwestern college. Within ten minutes he and I were talking about Chuck Yeager, the legendary test pilot for the X-15 (Jerry tests the guidance systems he designs in the Mojave Desert—a major score, in my boy’s book), and I knew we were going to get along.
Today I can’t help remembering that Demi’s mom and I got married when Beng was 23, and I was 20 (it was, in fact, my 20th birthday, and my mother had to sign a consent form before the judge could do what he was supposed to). It was all over in five minutes; one of my brothers ran to the restroom to take a leak and when he came back we were signing the papers. Then we repaired to a nearby restaurant for merienda cena; there was no honeymoon, except the one in our newly rented apartment, which we gave up after several months of playing house, realizing how much cheaper the parental dominion was.
Back then, you didn’t plan for these things too much; thanks to martial law, our comrades were dying all around us with numbing regularity, so we figured that we would be lucky to reach 25, and that if there was anything else we felt like doing in life before being shredded by an Armalite, we had best do it soon.
Three months after getting together—and after I’d just been released from martial-law prison—Beng and I figured out our budget on a paper napkin and decided to get hitched as soon as I turned 20. After nine months, right on schedule, Demi arrived—and for a moment back there I nourished the thought that I’d become a grandfather at 40, if children did what their parents did, but of course they never do.
All I can think of right now, hours before enplaning for San Diego, is shining my shoes. In the mad rush to get everything together—my semester’s grades, everyone’s presents, a slideshow I’m going to surprise the couple with, and cans of sweet banana that Demi specifically requested—I’d forgotten to have my black pair resoled, so I’m going to have to make do with my dark brown loafers, which need a good waxing. Whatever else I do—fathers of brides always seem to manage to make fools of themselves in the movies—I won’t be charged with going to the wedding in scruffy shoes. Maybe that’s the Pinoy in me: look smart, from your toes up; always wear a watch; always change your underwear; don’t let them think you’re clueless, even if you are.
I shouldn’t be so nervous, because our new in-laws the Ricarios are Fil-Ams from Bicol, vagabond provincianos just like the Dalisays from Romblon and the Poticars from Iloilo. Just a week ago, our balae Gudy sent us a letter—by snail mail, in longhand—whose simple but heartfelt words spoke volumes about her family’s down-home values.
Maybe that’s what scares me—never having been a balae, could I live up to expectations, as a sometimes stubborn nonconformist? No, it isn’t like I’ll turn up at the wedding half-drunk in week-old jeans and swearing at the preacher like a bad Jack Nicholson; when it comes to fashion, my idea of nonconformity is to press my jeans, not rip them. It’s more like I, uhm, don’t care much for church weddings, especially big ones, and am immensely relieved that Demi and Jerry decided to get married on a rented yacht, with just a few people aboard. I’ve been told that there will be a proper ceremony in church next year in Manila (for which I suppose I’ll have to make a special confession, and a long one that will be)—but I’ll be a good sport, and be the Catholic schoolboy I once was, just for the kids.
I’d probably be breathing easier if Beng were coming with me, but she’s not; she’s packing my bags, but we couldn’t get her a tourist visa in time for the wedding. She’s being customarily quiet about folding my shirts and tucking the balled-up socks into little corners of my bag, but I know—even as she tells me it’s all right that I’ll be going to San Diego alone—that she’s writing her own piece in her heart and head, although it’ll never get published, unlike mine. Her baby’s getting married across the ocean, and she’ll be watering the plants and changing the curtains at home, as if she had nothing better to do.
If I cry today as I know I will, my excuse will be that I’m shedding them on behalf of the mother of the bride. We did something good and right together, Beng—and there she goes.
AND WHAT of our gifts? Surely someone else will provide the inevitable pots and pans, the immutable cutlery, the deathless fondue set. (Just for the record, we never minded receiving those; three decades later, we’re still in need of them.) I wish I could write the newlyweds a ticket to Europe, but I’ve never been to Europe except on someone else’s tab. For a lot less, I could give them a new Mac, but I can sense that this is already a marriage of two geeks, with Demi bringing her own iBook into the bargain to complement Jerry’s PC and his awesome networking skills.
Ours, at any rate, is a family of modest means; in this country, writers and artists make only so much. Unless you count my old pens and watches and Beng’s old bottles, there are no family jewels to speak of, no heirloom silverware.
Beng, however, has always had her present at hand: a 1973 drawing by her former mentor and later National Artist Jose Joya—the first of what we hope will be the couple’s own little trove of artworks by Filipino masters.
As for me, a month ago and purely by chance, I came across an unusual message in my inbox, advertising the sale of one of my Holy Grails: a first edition of Carlos Bulosan’s semi-autobiographical novel, America Is in the Heart, a moving, often gut-wrenching, account of a Filipino immigrant’s life in America in the 1930s. (I turned green with envy when I saw a near-mint copy of it, dust jacket and all, on the shelf of one of UC San Diego’s leading Fil-Am scholars, Dr. Jody Blanco, during my visit last year; someone had gifted him with the very book and edition I’d been chasing after for ages.)
I’m not a compulsive book collector in the same way I collect fountain pens, but I simply couldn’t pass this one up, and I made a bid for it; after a couple of weeks of polite negotiation by text and e-mail between myself and the seller, my bid prevailed, and he turned over the book to me at Jollibee Philcoa. My hands trembled as I accepted the book; I had written my undergraduate thesis on Bulosan, and as a Filipino writer in English myself and an occasional visitor to America, I felt that I understood Bulosan’s complex character.
I don’t have to report how much I paid for the book—you know how it is with these things, the price is always a little too much for the buyer and a little too little for the seller, although we were both pleased with the outcome.
The book itself was in only fair-to-good condition, as collectibles go; it had long lost its dust jacket, and some pages had been taped together. But it had something that even Jody’s copy didn’t—a personal inscription by Carlos Bulosan himself, to an equally famous Filipino, a former (then future) Chief Justice: “For Fred Castro: This story of my life will, I hope, bring me closer to you and our native land through our good friend, J. C. Dionisio, with my best wishes. Carlos Bulosan Los Angeles 3-6-46.” Fred Ruiz Castro received the book in Manila and signed it on the 4th of April.
I thought for a minute whether I would be defacing and devaluing the book by adding my own inscription to it, but given to whom and where it will now be going, I should think that its return to California, 61 years later, merits a few squiggles in my own pen-wielding hand. If Bulosan’s America was in the heart, for our dear daughter, the heart is in America.
Live long, live right, and every now and then look homeward.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
SO HOW did the wedding go?” Last week’s column on my daughter’s wedding in San Diego brought in a flood of congratulations and good wishes—many of them from perfect strangers—which my family and I are deeply grateful for.
The wedding went swimmingly well, thank you very much. “Swimmingly” might not be the most appropriate of terms, since we were on a boat—a small yacht named the Renown, rented for the occasion. Demi and Jerry were wed on deck by the youngish captain while the boat cruised around the harbor in a lovely sunset. There were only about 30 guests, just enough for the Renown to keep afloat, and the reception followed the ten-minute ceremony right after, with great food and an open bar.
I managed to keep my poise during the wedding, having no other role than to lead the bride to the bow of the boat and busying myself with my camera thereafter. But after the vows and the snapshots, I took Demi to the stern to call her Nanay Beng, who had been left behind in Diliman and who was hosting a lunch for her parents and closest friends to celebrate the event from 7,000 miles away. That’s when we both lost it, and we could’ve sunk the ship right there if our tears didn’t fall overboard.
My crying binge actually began on the plane coming over. I thought I was having a good time listening to the inflight music—I always try to enjoy myself on plane rides, taking everything from the hot towels to the peanuts like it was my first and last time to fly—when a familiar song wafted into my ears and everything I had been holding back burst forth like my heart was a cheap plastic bag.
The song was the “My Boy Bill” soliloquy from the musical Carousel; strangely, serendipitously, it had been playing on the PA system in the hospital the moment Demi was born in 1974. If you know anything about Carousel and about that song, you’ll know that no-good hero Bill sings it in anticipation of having a son, only to realize that his namesake-to-be could very well be something else: “But what if he is a girl?” Then he goes into that chorus which wrings me dry every time I hear it, as I heard it as Demi was coming into the world: “My little girl, pink and white as peaches and cream is she….”
It was bad enough in 1974; it was worse in 2007, when I was about to give my girl, no longer so little, away. Did the airline music programmer or the captain know what the passenger in Seat 24-J was going through?
So I wept again on the Renown, and Demi wept with me, and Beng was crying on the phone, and a good cry was had by all, but a day later, after I’d emailed her the wedding pictures, Beng was able to tell me that “My baby is beautiful, and I’m at peace.” And so we are.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Space invaders
Every person carries his or her own set of rules. Whether it’s about running their life, running their household, handling their relationship, guarding their property and guarding their personal space, to name a few.
When it comes to personal space, there are those who are lenient and patient. But there are also those who are particularly sensitive and expect the outside world to adhere to their own standards. Bad? No, after all it IS their personal space.
There are a lot situations where in we tend to disregard or disrespect other people’s personal space. This may be caused by our lack of knowledge on etiquette, lack of breeding or lack of respect for others. Now, when you’re an adult, you have no excuse not to make certain adjustments to blissfully co-exist with other human beings. Nope, nope, nope.
You may realize that there are certain things you weren’t taught as a kid. You can put the blame on the folks who raised you or the environment you grew up in. But now that you are an adult, you’re expected to know better. If you want to have friends and keep them, if you want other people to respect you, you have to respect them in return. And one way to do that is by respecting their personal space.
It’s not easy. It takes a high level of sensitivity, especially if you’re a houseguest. But overall, just plain common sense, politeness and courtesy can help you get through.
My top three lack-of-personal-space situations are as follows:
1. People breathing down your neck when falling in line, especially at the ATM Machine.
-> My thought balloon: Chill, dude, you’ll get your turn soon. Don’t get too excited. They didn’t call it PERSONAL Identification Number for nothing. Is it my perfume? My shampoo? My account balance? Do I even know you? Stay away.
2. People who talk loudly while watching a movie.
-> My thought balloon: Hey, we paid too! We paid for the movie, not to listen to your chitter-chatter! Ever heard of the term decibel? Keep it low or step out.
3. People who don’t turn their mobile phones off in places where they’re supposed to especially in church. (Now, that’s God’s personal space we’re talkin’ about).
-> My thought balloon: Oh is it a new phone? Is that ringtone your favorite song? Did you know that your phone has a silent/vibrate mode? Do you like the attention? Aaaaw, you poor thing =(
A couple of months ago, I read an article from Real Simple magazine (www.realsimple.com) which gives more examples of “space invading” situations and how we should handle them. Read on.
PROTECTING YOUR PERSONAL SPACE
The most effective ways to deal with people who are too close for (your) comfort
By Megan Kaplan
1. The Invasion: An acquaintance greets you with an unwelcome bear hug or a slobbery kiss.
The Defense: Head off advances with your body language. “You should put out your hand long before the person gets to you, so he knows you prefer to only shake hands,” says Hector Garcia, a bodyguard with Valle Security International. Or take a cue from the way people deal with uncomfortable closeness on subways and buses, says Robert Sommer, professor emeritus of psychology at the University of California at Davis and the author of Personal Space (Bosko Books, $20, www.amazon.com): They treat other passengers like trees. “Go rigid, avoid eye contact, look away, and act busy,” he says. If it’s too late to stop an affection attack, use humor to make your feelings known. “Draw back in mock horror and say, ‘You know, I’ve given up kissing temporarily, at least until after I’ve had my flu shot,’” says Letitia Baldrige, author of New Manners for New Times (Scribner, $35, www.amazon.com). “You are obviously joking, but he’ll get the message.”
Most important, express yourself early on, advises Ceri Marsh, coauthor of The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Grace Under Pressure: Extreme Etiquette for the Stickiest, Trickiest, Most Outrageous Situations of Your Life (Broadway Books, $15, www.amazon.com). “It’s tough to break habits that have already been established,” says Marsh. “Once you’ve agreed, even tacitly, to the kiss-kiss hello, it’s very tricky to move to the handshake.” Her suggestion: “Try standing slightly farther away from this person when you greet him next,” and angle your body so you’re not meeting him head-on.
2. The Invasion: An office mate is constantly in your cubicle, reading over your shoulder or picking up papers from your desk.
The Defense: You’re there to work; that’s the only excuse you need. And while offices aren’t exactly homes, they should be treated with the same kind of respect, says Lois Frankel, an executive coach and the author of Nice Girls Don’t Get the Corner Office (Warner Business Books, $20, www.amazon.com). “You wouldn’t think of going into someone’s home uninvited, picking up their mail, and reading it,” says Frankel. “And the same courtesy should be extended in the workplace.” She suggests posting a lighthearted sign to indicate when people are welcome to come in or to designate desk items as off-limits. “Something to the effect of ‘Unless you plan on cleaning this desk, don’t pick anything up!’” says Frankel. “If the culprits still don’t get it, try saying, ‘Can I help you?’ or ‘Those papers are private.’”
Of course, in a cubicle, you’re a sitting duck. Sommer suggests personalizing your work area, whether it’s with a few family photographs or a distinctive plant. Establishing it as your private space can subtly reinforce boundaries and help fend off overfriendly office mates.
3. The Invasion: You catch a dinner guest poking through your bedroom or perusing your medicine cabinet.
The Defense: Even the nosiest person will be embarrassed to be caught in the act, says etiquette writer Ceri Marsh. You can let the person save face by saying, “I’m sorry. You must need something. Can I help you?” Then the guest has an easy out — he can respond that he was looking for an aspirin or some other common item. As he or she follows you to find the item, you might gently close the door behind you.
4. The Invasion: A neighbor regularly shows up on your doorstep for coffee, unannounced.
The Defense: Play it straight. “Say, ‘I’m sorry — this isn’t a good time, but thanks for thinking of me,’ without inviting the neighbor into the house,” says Jane Adams, Ph.D., a psychologist and the author of Boundary Issues (Wiley, $25, www.amazon.com). You could also plainly admit that you prefer scheduled coffee dates to impromptu visits. If you work from home, you have a built-in excuse for turning away any company: “Listen, Mary, I have this deadline, and I have to work on it. Maybe we can get together later next week.” Your neighbor doesn’t need to know what is occupying your time (if you’re simply relaxing on the couch, then so be it). She only needs to know that you are not available.
5. The Invasion: The cleaner, the dog walker, or the sitter moves things around in areas of the house he or she has no business being in.
The Defense: “Absolutely address the situation,” says Debra Johnson, the training manager for Merry Maids, a national home-cleaning service. After all, you’re paying for the job, and communication is the key to getting what you want. Guy Maddalone, the CEO and founder of GTM Household Employment Experts and the author of How to Hire and Retain Your Household Help (gtm. com, $20, www.amazon.com), says, “Whether it’s a nanny, a dog walker, or a house cleaner, that person wants to be successful in their role, so you need to explain the policies in the beginning to set them up for success.” Schedule an orientation meeting with the employee at the start and explain your rules, including the places and things that are off-limits. You might even take this a step further by creating your own employee handbook. That way, you’ll both have a clear, tangible reference to consult in the future.
6. The Invasion: Your spouse regularly opens the bathroom door and saunters in when you’re going about your business.
The Defense: “Simply close the door with a ‘Let’s maintain the mystery, shall we, darling?’” says Marsh. Indeed, whether you are showering, are in mud-pack mode, or just want a few minutes to yourself, shutting the door will make a clear statement and may mean you don’t even have to say anything, agrees Peter Post, author of Essential Manners for Couples (Collins, $22, www.amazon.com).
But what if it’s a girlfriend who enjoys spending quality time in the bathroom, chatting between stalls or tagging along with you on trips to a teensy ladies’ room? You risk bruising her feelings if you flat-out ignore her. So if you must say something, again, try a joke. Molly Erdman, a comedian with the Second City troupe, in Chicago, suggests “I require full concentration for the task at hand.” Your friend will recognize that sometimes two is a crowd.
7. The Invasion: Your spouse and kids leave their things (toys! socks!) in your spaces.
The Defense: Think of the old dorm-room dirty-dishes trick: Plonking the offending plates on your roommate’s bed prompted a quick change in those housework-avoiding habits. The same technique can be used at home today — setting the sweat sock you found in your lingerie drawer back on top of your husband’s dresser, or removing your children’s colony of Incredibles figures from under your desk and resettling it elsewhere. The key, says Robert Sommer, professor emeritus of psychology at the University of California at Davis, is to make it obvious that you have deliberately moved the items from a place where they didn’t belong and weren’t welcome.
Prevent recurring clutter creep by making a clear and specific place for everything — a bowl for house keys, a separate bureau for your husband, a toy chest for the children — and label these areas if necessary, suggests Barry Izsak, the president of the National Association of Professional Organizers. Ultimately, though, says Erdman, it’s best to maintain some perspective. “While I don’t prefer that my husband keep his socks in my drawer,” she says, “I can calmly put them back where they belong knowing it would be much worse if he stashed them in the silverware drawer.”
8. The Invasion: A dinner companion casually eats from your plate uninvited.
The Defense: Head her off at the pass. Before you dig in, “an elegant approach is to place a small sample of your dish on your bread plate and pass it to your dinner companion,” says Markus Draxler, the maître d’hôtel at the acclaimed French restaurant Daniel, in New York City. He also suggests asking your waiter to have a portion split for you in the kitchen before the meal is served.
If the portions are small, however, or you don’t feel like sharing even one bite, a comment like “I’m so starved — I can’t wait to eat every single thing on my plate!” can discourage a scavenger from focusing her crosshairs on your pork tenderloin. And when the waiter takes your dessert order and asks how many forks you’d like, saying “One, please” will give your dining companions the signal to keep their tines in their own tiramisus.
9. The Invasion: You are on a group vacation but crave some alone time.
The Defense: Whether you’re traveling with friends or in a tour group, sometimes you need a vacation from your traveling companions. “I’ve had this happen on numerous occasions and find that it’s best to be honest,” says Stacy Small, a Florida-based luxury-travel consultant and the president of Elite Travel by Stacy. Prearrange a few activities just for you, like a spa treatment or a golf lesson, and simply explain to the others that you set up some appointments ahead of time. Or, suggests Molly Erdman, a comedian with the Second City troupe, in Chicago, pick an activity obscure enough to turn off the rest of the group (“Hey, I’m going to the sawdust museum tomorrow! Who’s with me?”) and then savor your freedom once the group has set off in search of more traditional sights.
Another strategy is to be the earliest riser and get a start on the day before your friends are even out of bed. Or, says Kim Izzo, coauthor of The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Grace Under Pressure, let the group members make their plans for the day, then politely bow out before they depart with “I’m going to hang alone by the pool today.” “Your friends may be glad you’ve introduced the concept of spending some alone time and take advantage of it themselves,” Izzo says.
10. The Invasion: A perfect stranger pats your pregnant belly in public.
The Defense: “Some expectant moms don’t mind the touching — and, in fact, some enjoy it,” says Heidi Murkoff, author of What to Expect When You’re Expecting (Workman, $24, www.amazon.com). “But if it does rub you the wrong way, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t speak up. A playful ‘No touching, please — the baby’s sleeping!’ can discourage those uninvited advances. Or make your statement without saying a word: Cross your arms protectively over your belly, or even try rubbing the person right back. Patting someone’s potbelly might make him think twice before reaching for yours again.” For a subtler tactic, psychologist Jane Adams, Ph.D., suggests, “just move away from the person, or take their hand and gently deposit it somewhere else.” That should make it clear that your stomach, however tempting it may be to touch, is not up for grabs.
11. The Invasion: The cruise-ship couple you just met wants to hang out from breakfast buffet until bedtime.
The Defense: There are two ways to rid yourself of human barnacles. Option A — the polite ditch. “One approach would be to tell the couple, ‘We devote so much time at home to our friends and family, so one of the things we love most about a cruise is that it gives us the chance to get away from everyone and spend some quiet time alone, just the two of us,’” says Michael Thomas, the director of entertainment and programs for Celebrity Cruises.
Option B? Hide! “Book yourselves a romantic dinner for two at the intimate, reservations-only restaurant that most ships have,” suggests Heidi Sarna, a coauthor of Cruise Vacations for Dummies (For Dummies, $22, www.amazon.com). Better still, she says, “order room service and hunker down on your cabin balcony, the most private of spaces on a cruise ship.”
When it comes to personal space, there are those who are lenient and patient. But there are also those who are particularly sensitive and expect the outside world to adhere to their own standards. Bad? No, after all it IS their personal space.
There are a lot situations where in we tend to disregard or disrespect other people’s personal space. This may be caused by our lack of knowledge on etiquette, lack of breeding or lack of respect for others. Now, when you’re an adult, you have no excuse not to make certain adjustments to blissfully co-exist with other human beings. Nope, nope, nope.
You may realize that there are certain things you weren’t taught as a kid. You can put the blame on the folks who raised you or the environment you grew up in. But now that you are an adult, you’re expected to know better. If you want to have friends and keep them, if you want other people to respect you, you have to respect them in return. And one way to do that is by respecting their personal space.
It’s not easy. It takes a high level of sensitivity, especially if you’re a houseguest. But overall, just plain common sense, politeness and courtesy can help you get through.
My top three lack-of-personal-space situations are as follows:
1. People breathing down your neck when falling in line, especially at the ATM Machine.
-> My thought balloon: Chill, dude, you’ll get your turn soon. Don’t get too excited. They didn’t call it PERSONAL Identification Number for nothing. Is it my perfume? My shampoo? My account balance? Do I even know you? Stay away.
2. People who talk loudly while watching a movie.
-> My thought balloon: Hey, we paid too! We paid for the movie, not to listen to your chitter-chatter! Ever heard of the term decibel? Keep it low or step out.
3. People who don’t turn their mobile phones off in places where they’re supposed to especially in church. (Now, that’s God’s personal space we’re talkin’ about).
-> My thought balloon: Oh is it a new phone? Is that ringtone your favorite song? Did you know that your phone has a silent/vibrate mode? Do you like the attention? Aaaaw, you poor thing =(
A couple of months ago, I read an article from Real Simple magazine (www.realsimple.com) which gives more examples of “space invading” situations and how we should handle them. Read on.
PROTECTING YOUR PERSONAL SPACE
The most effective ways to deal with people who are too close for (your) comfort
By Megan Kaplan
1. The Invasion: An acquaintance greets you with an unwelcome bear hug or a slobbery kiss.
The Defense: Head off advances with your body language. “You should put out your hand long before the person gets to you, so he knows you prefer to only shake hands,” says Hector Garcia, a bodyguard with Valle Security International. Or take a cue from the way people deal with uncomfortable closeness on subways and buses, says Robert Sommer, professor emeritus of psychology at the University of California at Davis and the author of Personal Space (Bosko Books, $20, www.amazon.com): They treat other passengers like trees. “Go rigid, avoid eye contact, look away, and act busy,” he says. If it’s too late to stop an affection attack, use humor to make your feelings known. “Draw back in mock horror and say, ‘You know, I’ve given up kissing temporarily, at least until after I’ve had my flu shot,’” says Letitia Baldrige, author of New Manners for New Times (Scribner, $35, www.amazon.com). “You are obviously joking, but he’ll get the message.”
Most important, express yourself early on, advises Ceri Marsh, coauthor of The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Grace Under Pressure: Extreme Etiquette for the Stickiest, Trickiest, Most Outrageous Situations of Your Life (Broadway Books, $15, www.amazon.com). “It’s tough to break habits that have already been established,” says Marsh. “Once you’ve agreed, even tacitly, to the kiss-kiss hello, it’s very tricky to move to the handshake.” Her suggestion: “Try standing slightly farther away from this person when you greet him next,” and angle your body so you’re not meeting him head-on.
2. The Invasion: An office mate is constantly in your cubicle, reading over your shoulder or picking up papers from your desk.
The Defense: You’re there to work; that’s the only excuse you need. And while offices aren’t exactly homes, they should be treated with the same kind of respect, says Lois Frankel, an executive coach and the author of Nice Girls Don’t Get the Corner Office (Warner Business Books, $20, www.amazon.com). “You wouldn’t think of going into someone’s home uninvited, picking up their mail, and reading it,” says Frankel. “And the same courtesy should be extended in the workplace.” She suggests posting a lighthearted sign to indicate when people are welcome to come in or to designate desk items as off-limits. “Something to the effect of ‘Unless you plan on cleaning this desk, don’t pick anything up!’” says Frankel. “If the culprits still don’t get it, try saying, ‘Can I help you?’ or ‘Those papers are private.’”
Of course, in a cubicle, you’re a sitting duck. Sommer suggests personalizing your work area, whether it’s with a few family photographs or a distinctive plant. Establishing it as your private space can subtly reinforce boundaries and help fend off overfriendly office mates.
3. The Invasion: You catch a dinner guest poking through your bedroom or perusing your medicine cabinet.
The Defense: Even the nosiest person will be embarrassed to be caught in the act, says etiquette writer Ceri Marsh. You can let the person save face by saying, “I’m sorry. You must need something. Can I help you?” Then the guest has an easy out — he can respond that he was looking for an aspirin or some other common item. As he or she follows you to find the item, you might gently close the door behind you.
4. The Invasion: A neighbor regularly shows up on your doorstep for coffee, unannounced.
The Defense: Play it straight. “Say, ‘I’m sorry — this isn’t a good time, but thanks for thinking of me,’ without inviting the neighbor into the house,” says Jane Adams, Ph.D., a psychologist and the author of Boundary Issues (Wiley, $25, www.amazon.com). You could also plainly admit that you prefer scheduled coffee dates to impromptu visits. If you work from home, you have a built-in excuse for turning away any company: “Listen, Mary, I have this deadline, and I have to work on it. Maybe we can get together later next week.” Your neighbor doesn’t need to know what is occupying your time (if you’re simply relaxing on the couch, then so be it). She only needs to know that you are not available.
5. The Invasion: The cleaner, the dog walker, or the sitter moves things around in areas of the house he or she has no business being in.
The Defense: “Absolutely address the situation,” says Debra Johnson, the training manager for Merry Maids, a national home-cleaning service. After all, you’re paying for the job, and communication is the key to getting what you want. Guy Maddalone, the CEO and founder of GTM Household Employment Experts and the author of How to Hire and Retain Your Household Help (gtm. com, $20, www.amazon.com), says, “Whether it’s a nanny, a dog walker, or a house cleaner, that person wants to be successful in their role, so you need to explain the policies in the beginning to set them up for success.” Schedule an orientation meeting with the employee at the start and explain your rules, including the places and things that are off-limits. You might even take this a step further by creating your own employee handbook. That way, you’ll both have a clear, tangible reference to consult in the future.
6. The Invasion: Your spouse regularly opens the bathroom door and saunters in when you’re going about your business.
The Defense: “Simply close the door with a ‘Let’s maintain the mystery, shall we, darling?’” says Marsh. Indeed, whether you are showering, are in mud-pack mode, or just want a few minutes to yourself, shutting the door will make a clear statement and may mean you don’t even have to say anything, agrees Peter Post, author of Essential Manners for Couples (Collins, $22, www.amazon.com).
But what if it’s a girlfriend who enjoys spending quality time in the bathroom, chatting between stalls or tagging along with you on trips to a teensy ladies’ room? You risk bruising her feelings if you flat-out ignore her. So if you must say something, again, try a joke. Molly Erdman, a comedian with the Second City troupe, in Chicago, suggests “I require full concentration for the task at hand.” Your friend will recognize that sometimes two is a crowd.
7. The Invasion: Your spouse and kids leave their things (toys! socks!) in your spaces.
The Defense: Think of the old dorm-room dirty-dishes trick: Plonking the offending plates on your roommate’s bed prompted a quick change in those housework-avoiding habits. The same technique can be used at home today — setting the sweat sock you found in your lingerie drawer back on top of your husband’s dresser, or removing your children’s colony of Incredibles figures from under your desk and resettling it elsewhere. The key, says Robert Sommer, professor emeritus of psychology at the University of California at Davis, is to make it obvious that you have deliberately moved the items from a place where they didn’t belong and weren’t welcome.
Prevent recurring clutter creep by making a clear and specific place for everything — a bowl for house keys, a separate bureau for your husband, a toy chest for the children — and label these areas if necessary, suggests Barry Izsak, the president of the National Association of Professional Organizers. Ultimately, though, says Erdman, it’s best to maintain some perspective. “While I don’t prefer that my husband keep his socks in my drawer,” she says, “I can calmly put them back where they belong knowing it would be much worse if he stashed them in the silverware drawer.”
8. The Invasion: A dinner companion casually eats from your plate uninvited.
The Defense: Head her off at the pass. Before you dig in, “an elegant approach is to place a small sample of your dish on your bread plate and pass it to your dinner companion,” says Markus Draxler, the maître d’hôtel at the acclaimed French restaurant Daniel, in New York City. He also suggests asking your waiter to have a portion split for you in the kitchen before the meal is served.
If the portions are small, however, or you don’t feel like sharing even one bite, a comment like “I’m so starved — I can’t wait to eat every single thing on my plate!” can discourage a scavenger from focusing her crosshairs on your pork tenderloin. And when the waiter takes your dessert order and asks how many forks you’d like, saying “One, please” will give your dining companions the signal to keep their tines in their own tiramisus.
9. The Invasion: You are on a group vacation but crave some alone time.
The Defense: Whether you’re traveling with friends or in a tour group, sometimes you need a vacation from your traveling companions. “I’ve had this happen on numerous occasions and find that it’s best to be honest,” says Stacy Small, a Florida-based luxury-travel consultant and the president of Elite Travel by Stacy. Prearrange a few activities just for you, like a spa treatment or a golf lesson, and simply explain to the others that you set up some appointments ahead of time. Or, suggests Molly Erdman, a comedian with the Second City troupe, in Chicago, pick an activity obscure enough to turn off the rest of the group (“Hey, I’m going to the sawdust museum tomorrow! Who’s with me?”) and then savor your freedom once the group has set off in search of more traditional sights.
Another strategy is to be the earliest riser and get a start on the day before your friends are even out of bed. Or, says Kim Izzo, coauthor of The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Grace Under Pressure, let the group members make their plans for the day, then politely bow out before they depart with “I’m going to hang alone by the pool today.” “Your friends may be glad you’ve introduced the concept of spending some alone time and take advantage of it themselves,” Izzo says.
10. The Invasion: A perfect stranger pats your pregnant belly in public.
The Defense: “Some expectant moms don’t mind the touching — and, in fact, some enjoy it,” says Heidi Murkoff, author of What to Expect When You’re Expecting (Workman, $24, www.amazon.com). “But if it does rub you the wrong way, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t speak up. A playful ‘No touching, please — the baby’s sleeping!’ can discourage those uninvited advances. Or make your statement without saying a word: Cross your arms protectively over your belly, or even try rubbing the person right back. Patting someone’s potbelly might make him think twice before reaching for yours again.” For a subtler tactic, psychologist Jane Adams, Ph.D., suggests, “just move away from the person, or take their hand and gently deposit it somewhere else.” That should make it clear that your stomach, however tempting it may be to touch, is not up for grabs.
11. The Invasion: The cruise-ship couple you just met wants to hang out from breakfast buffet until bedtime.
The Defense: There are two ways to rid yourself of human barnacles. Option A — the polite ditch. “One approach would be to tell the couple, ‘We devote so much time at home to our friends and family, so one of the things we love most about a cruise is that it gives us the chance to get away from everyone and spend some quiet time alone, just the two of us,’” says Michael Thomas, the director of entertainment and programs for Celebrity Cruises.
Option B? Hide! “Book yourselves a romantic dinner for two at the intimate, reservations-only restaurant that most ships have,” suggests Heidi Sarna, a coauthor of Cruise Vacations for Dummies (For Dummies, $22, www.amazon.com). Better still, she says, “order room service and hunker down on your cabin balcony, the most private of spaces on a cruise ship.”
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Labels
The Bully who always picked on you.
The Know-it-all who thinks he’s/she’s always right and infallible.
The Parasite who feeds on you and your possessions.
The Critic who always has something bad to say about anything and everything.
The Self-absorbed who’s always me, me, me!
The Copycat who, perhaps because of his/her lack of ideas, copies everything that you do.
The Jerk who two-timed you.
The Bitch who stole your man.
The Player who never commits and is just into you because of the benefits.
The Brat who gets everything, always wanting his/her way.
The Snooty who looks down on everyone.
Ah, these are classic examples of people we hate and the labels we’ve given them (or they’ve earned?), classified according to their most undesirable trait that they carry out consistently and ever so seamlessly. Unfortunately, these labels may be applicable to some of our friends, some family, some even us. Yes us.
Labels – it’s inescapable, it’s inevitable, it’s universal, either based on fact (circumstantial or otherwise) and/or borne out of someone’s bruised ego. Action equals reaction equals label. It is a relentless cycle: the “labeled” can become the “labeler” and vice versa.
Labels are like Post-it’s with industrial-strength adhesive – people stick them on you to constantly remind you of who you are, what you are, or what you’ve become as a consequence of your action/s. Should you care? Do you care? Will you prove those people wrong? It’s entirely up to you. You can battle it out with your own kung-fu or do things the hard way by scrubbing it off.
Laborious I should say, to have to utter countless “I’m sorry’s”, to forcibly feast on humble pie, to call out to high heavens to the point of pestering The Almighty just to ask for forgiveness. The most painful of all is having to c-h-a-n-g-e just to get that wretched label off you. Does it matter how much of your ego’s been hurt? Does it matter how other people think of you? How important does your reputation mean to you? Can you save it? Do we really have to fight back?
Tsk, tsk…
Let’s face it: we’ve all played the role of victim and criminal, the labeler and the labeled. We’ve all played the game. And like any other game we win some, we lose some.
Now whatever happened to the adage “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”?
Go get a mirror and see for yourself.
The Know-it-all who thinks he’s/she’s always right and infallible.
The Parasite who feeds on you and your possessions.
The Critic who always has something bad to say about anything and everything.
The Self-absorbed who’s always me, me, me!
The Copycat who, perhaps because of his/her lack of ideas, copies everything that you do.
The Jerk who two-timed you.
The Bitch who stole your man.
The Player who never commits and is just into you because of the benefits.
The Brat who gets everything, always wanting his/her way.
The Snooty who looks down on everyone.
Ah, these are classic examples of people we hate and the labels we’ve given them (or they’ve earned?), classified according to their most undesirable trait that they carry out consistently and ever so seamlessly. Unfortunately, these labels may be applicable to some of our friends, some family, some even us. Yes us.
Labels – it’s inescapable, it’s inevitable, it’s universal, either based on fact (circumstantial or otherwise) and/or borne out of someone’s bruised ego. Action equals reaction equals label. It is a relentless cycle: the “labeled” can become the “labeler” and vice versa.
Labels are like Post-it’s with industrial-strength adhesive – people stick them on you to constantly remind you of who you are, what you are, or what you’ve become as a consequence of your action/s. Should you care? Do you care? Will you prove those people wrong? It’s entirely up to you. You can battle it out with your own kung-fu or do things the hard way by scrubbing it off.
Laborious I should say, to have to utter countless “I’m sorry’s”, to forcibly feast on humble pie, to call out to high heavens to the point of pestering The Almighty just to ask for forgiveness. The most painful of all is having to c-h-a-n-g-e just to get that wretched label off you. Does it matter how much of your ego’s been hurt? Does it matter how other people think of you? How important does your reputation mean to you? Can you save it? Do we really have to fight back?
Tsk, tsk…
Let’s face it: we’ve all played the role of victim and criminal, the labeler and the labeled. We’ve all played the game. And like any other game we win some, we lose some.
Now whatever happened to the adage “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone”?
Go get a mirror and see for yourself.
Job interview blunders
Conducting interviews can be as painful as being in one. Working in a 5-star hotel for 8 years has given me the chance to meet applicants from different schools and different backgrounds, mostly greenhorns fresh out of college.
Now just because I’ve been through so many interviews doesn’t make me an expert. After all, I usually come up with the strangest of questions, getting away from the usual “tell me about yourself” route in the hope of extracting the real personality of the interviewee (in our industry, we hire for attitude, not skill).
It’s funny because you’d think that at this day and age when we have so much access to information (through the internet, new books, school programs or personality development classes), most applicants would come prepared. Apparently not.
First, the resume.
The most bizarre resume we’ve ever received was pink-colored, glittery, textured, scented and decorated with a border of leaves. On the upper right part was a tree-trunk that showed the face of the applicant – yup, morphed into the bark. The applicant didn’t stop there – she made use of three decorative fonts. Ayayay, caramba.
For the first time in my life a resume made me nauseous. Whatever happened to “less is more”?
So the layout is one thing. Our other (and more important) concern is the content. Sure, you might have a ghostwriter helping you out with your resume (sometimes injecting lies just to make it appear interesting). The least you could do is READ it and UNDERSTAND what’s in there! Know what is written on your resume, know how to explain your credentials. Sometimes when we ask applicants to elaborate on certain items on their resume they just give us a blank stare. Sigh! Doing a Moose Mason on your interview definitely won’t land you a job unless you’re applying for an acting part for the sequel of Dumb and Dumber.
Next, the fashion.
Yes, we want to look good, feel comfortable and dress in a manner that shows our personal style. But this is an interview! Whether you’re applying for a rank and file, supervisory, management or executive level position, whether you graduated with honors and/or graduated from an expensive school – please dress appropriately! It is a given that you should come in business attire during your interview unless advised otherwise.
The moment you graduate from college and intend to apply for a job, immediately invest on a basic interview get-up: a basic black suit, black shoes, simple accessories and for the ladies, basic make-up. It doesn’t have to be branded for as long as it looks elegant, clean, wrinkle free and uncomplicated. Now girls, if you have issues about putting on make-up, don’t aim for customer contact jobs where make-up is considered a part of the staff uniform because it is simply a MUST.
Here are some examples of interview-fashion faux pas I personally experienced:
1. Tee, cargo pants and flip-flops
We were totally outraged when this applicant walked in; she didn’t even get 5 minutes of our time. She didn’t bother to dress for the interview so why should we bother to give one?
We don’t care if that’s Abercrombie and Fitch, or if you’ve just had your pedicure done, or if you matched your outfit with a Louis Vuitton Globe Trotter bag. It ain’t gonna work baby.
2. Socks with bold stripes
Waldo?!? What are you doing on that woman’s ankle? Get out!!!
3. Full length beard
Ran out of shaving cream? Lost your razor? Are you a member of a cult that prohibits shaving? Are you hiding a hickey on your chin? Are you even serious about applying? I thought so.
Third, the actual interview.
Come prepared inside and out. Practice your answers if you must. Be prompt, polite and pleasant. Review your resume, know something about the company you’re applying for (so try to do a little research beforehand). Turn your cellphone off or put it on silent. Sit properly. Don’t chew gum. Avoid irritating gestures and avoid blatantly kissing your interviewer’s ass (even if you speak of the truth):
Example (and this is real): Applicant walks in obviously nervous, she sits down, smiles and greets her interviewers by saying:
“Ma’am, ang ganda-ganda niyong lahat!”
Before leaving, the applicant bid her interviewers goodbye by saying:
“Thank you ma’am…ang gaganda niyo talaga!”
Dearie, a simple “good morning” or “thank you” would do. Save your compliments when you’ve already nailed the job.
I can go on and on ranting about interview must’s and must not’s but the solution to avoid all these boo-boo’s is fairly simple: be prepared. Don’t rely on the power of your last name, your diploma, your connections or your good looks to get you a job. Keep learning new things and constantly look for ways to improve your self.
And finally, when you do get the job you’re applying for – please don’t screw it up. There are a lot if people out there willing to fill your shoes in a heartbeat. Remember, in this dog-eat-dog world, no one is indispensable.
Now just because I’ve been through so many interviews doesn’t make me an expert. After all, I usually come up with the strangest of questions, getting away from the usual “tell me about yourself” route in the hope of extracting the real personality of the interviewee (in our industry, we hire for attitude, not skill).
It’s funny because you’d think that at this day and age when we have so much access to information (through the internet, new books, school programs or personality development classes), most applicants would come prepared. Apparently not.
First, the resume.
The most bizarre resume we’ve ever received was pink-colored, glittery, textured, scented and decorated with a border of leaves. On the upper right part was a tree-trunk that showed the face of the applicant – yup, morphed into the bark. The applicant didn’t stop there – she made use of three decorative fonts. Ayayay, caramba.
For the first time in my life a resume made me nauseous. Whatever happened to “less is more”?
So the layout is one thing. Our other (and more important) concern is the content. Sure, you might have a ghostwriter helping you out with your resume (sometimes injecting lies just to make it appear interesting). The least you could do is READ it and UNDERSTAND what’s in there! Know what is written on your resume, know how to explain your credentials. Sometimes when we ask applicants to elaborate on certain items on their resume they just give us a blank stare. Sigh! Doing a Moose Mason on your interview definitely won’t land you a job unless you’re applying for an acting part for the sequel of Dumb and Dumber.
Next, the fashion.
Yes, we want to look good, feel comfortable and dress in a manner that shows our personal style. But this is an interview! Whether you’re applying for a rank and file, supervisory, management or executive level position, whether you graduated with honors and/or graduated from an expensive school – please dress appropriately! It is a given that you should come in business attire during your interview unless advised otherwise.
The moment you graduate from college and intend to apply for a job, immediately invest on a basic interview get-up: a basic black suit, black shoes, simple accessories and for the ladies, basic make-up. It doesn’t have to be branded for as long as it looks elegant, clean, wrinkle free and uncomplicated. Now girls, if you have issues about putting on make-up, don’t aim for customer contact jobs where make-up is considered a part of the staff uniform because it is simply a MUST.
Here are some examples of interview-fashion faux pas I personally experienced:
1. Tee, cargo pants and flip-flops
We were totally outraged when this applicant walked in; she didn’t even get 5 minutes of our time. She didn’t bother to dress for the interview so why should we bother to give one?
We don’t care if that’s Abercrombie and Fitch, or if you’ve just had your pedicure done, or if you matched your outfit with a Louis Vuitton Globe Trotter bag. It ain’t gonna work baby.
2. Socks with bold stripes
Waldo?!? What are you doing on that woman’s ankle? Get out!!!
3. Full length beard
Ran out of shaving cream? Lost your razor? Are you a member of a cult that prohibits shaving? Are you hiding a hickey on your chin? Are you even serious about applying? I thought so.
Third, the actual interview.
Come prepared inside and out. Practice your answers if you must. Be prompt, polite and pleasant. Review your resume, know something about the company you’re applying for (so try to do a little research beforehand). Turn your cellphone off or put it on silent. Sit properly. Don’t chew gum. Avoid irritating gestures and avoid blatantly kissing your interviewer’s ass (even if you speak of the truth):
Example (and this is real): Applicant walks in obviously nervous, she sits down, smiles and greets her interviewers by saying:
“Ma’am, ang ganda-ganda niyong lahat!”
Before leaving, the applicant bid her interviewers goodbye by saying:
“Thank you ma’am…ang gaganda niyo talaga!”
Dearie, a simple “good morning” or “thank you” would do. Save your compliments when you’ve already nailed the job.
I can go on and on ranting about interview must’s and must not’s but the solution to avoid all these boo-boo’s is fairly simple: be prepared. Don’t rely on the power of your last name, your diploma, your connections or your good looks to get you a job. Keep learning new things and constantly look for ways to improve your self.
And finally, when you do get the job you’re applying for – please don’t screw it up. There are a lot if people out there willing to fill your shoes in a heartbeat. Remember, in this dog-eat-dog world, no one is indispensable.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
My Top 10
I got this from a friend's blog. No, I am not running out of mateials to work with. This is just my way of entertaining myself, so indulge me on this one.
My top 10:
Colors
1. black
2. white
3. red
4. pink
5. green
6. brown
7. turqouise
8. yellow
9. beige gold
10. periwinkle blue
Memorable places (some would simply be favorites):
1. UP Balara (where I spent my toddler years)
2. Modesta Village (where I grew up, from 4 to 11)
3. Lolo and Lola's house in Project 4 (from 11 to my 20's)
4. Disneyland (for being hyperreal)
5. Amsterdam (for being a surreal brew of sex, drugs, art, Anne Frank and tulips a-bounty)
6. London (where Nanay, Tatay and I goofed around like kids)
7. Scotland (for its glorious architecture and breathtaking views)
8. NY (art, Broadway, music, food and fashion and for all the movies it inspired)
9. UP Chapel (for being my sounding board)
10. Our home (for being the happiest place on earth next to Disneyland)
Authors:
1. My father
2. My grandfathers Jose and Jesus
3. Enid Blyton
4. Mitch Albom
5. Ken Blanchard
6. Jessica Zafra (for simply being twisted)
7. J.K. Rowling (you gotta’ hand it to her, look at how rich she is now)
8-9. Alice Guillermo and Eric Fernie (for making the complexities of art easy to understand)
10. Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Memorable people but not necessarily friends (if I start mentioning any of my friends, I’d have to enumerate everyone!)
1. My grandfather Jose, for everything that he is.
2. My high school teacher Tes Perlas, for encouraging me to write
3. My Tito Boy, for teaching me how to drive like Mad Max and outrun all the crazy cab drivers in Metro Manila
4. Elvis Presley, for being my first crush
5. Gil Magnaye, who inspired me to take Humanities (Art Studies)
6. Prof. Reuben Canete, for improving my vocabulary and art know-how
7. My former boss, for being the kind of person I don’t want to be
8. My former neighbor, for also being the kind of person I don’t want to be
9. Madonna, for her constant reinvention
10. My client, for her wisdom, dynamism and plethora of idioms
Things you believe in:
1. God
2. Love
3. Destiny
4. Karma
5. Miracles
6. Santa Claus (‘till I was 12)
7. Everything my parents tell me
8. The existence of a soul mate
9. Reading is the best source of knowledge (aside from experience)
10. Money is the root of all evil
Pet-peeves: (just some among many things)
1. Crab mentality
2. People with no manners (as simple as not knowing how to say, “please”, “thank you “ and “excuse me”)
3. Traffic
4. Mga taong mukhang pera. This includes, mga taong mahilig mangutang (but who can’t live within their means)
5. Gray areas
6. Our corrupt society
7. Machismo
8. Pretentious people ( ang mga hindi marunong lumingon sa pinanggalingan...)
9. Improper pa-cute text messaging (I mean, how much bastardization can Tagalog and English take!!)
Example: Ma’am, late na me for work kse punta pa me sa doctor. K..ayt..
Unbeknownst to them, I have mentally bludgeoned these people’s cellphones over and over again.
10. Worthless TV shows like Wowowee and Eat Bulaga that blatantly exemplifies: the way to eternal happiness and bliss is stupidity.
My top 10:
Colors
1. black
2. white
3. red
4. pink
5. green
6. brown
7. turqouise
8. yellow
9. beige gold
10. periwinkle blue
Memorable places (some would simply be favorites):
1. UP Balara (where I spent my toddler years)
2. Modesta Village (where I grew up, from 4 to 11)
3. Lolo and Lola's house in Project 4 (from 11 to my 20's)
4. Disneyland (for being hyperreal)
5. Amsterdam (for being a surreal brew of sex, drugs, art, Anne Frank and tulips a-bounty)
6. London (where Nanay, Tatay and I goofed around like kids)
7. Scotland (for its glorious architecture and breathtaking views)
8. NY (art, Broadway, music, food and fashion and for all the movies it inspired)
9. UP Chapel (for being my sounding board)
10. Our home (for being the happiest place on earth next to Disneyland)
Authors:
1. My father
2. My grandfathers Jose and Jesus
3. Enid Blyton
4. Mitch Albom
5. Ken Blanchard
6. Jessica Zafra (for simply being twisted)
7. J.K. Rowling (you gotta’ hand it to her, look at how rich she is now)
8-9. Alice Guillermo and Eric Fernie (for making the complexities of art easy to understand)
10. Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Memorable people but not necessarily friends (if I start mentioning any of my friends, I’d have to enumerate everyone!)
1. My grandfather Jose, for everything that he is.
2. My high school teacher Tes Perlas, for encouraging me to write
3. My Tito Boy, for teaching me how to drive like Mad Max and outrun all the crazy cab drivers in Metro Manila
4. Elvis Presley, for being my first crush
5. Gil Magnaye, who inspired me to take Humanities (Art Studies)
6. Prof. Reuben Canete, for improving my vocabulary and art know-how
7. My former boss, for being the kind of person I don’t want to be
8. My former neighbor, for also being the kind of person I don’t want to be
9. Madonna, for her constant reinvention
10. My client, for her wisdom, dynamism and plethora of idioms
Things you believe in:
1. God
2. Love
3. Destiny
4. Karma
5. Miracles
6. Santa Claus (‘till I was 12)
7. Everything my parents tell me
8. The existence of a soul mate
9. Reading is the best source of knowledge (aside from experience)
10. Money is the root of all evil
Pet-peeves: (just some among many things)
1. Crab mentality
2. People with no manners (as simple as not knowing how to say, “please”, “thank you “ and “excuse me”)
3. Traffic
4. Mga taong mukhang pera. This includes, mga taong mahilig mangutang (but who can’t live within their means)
5. Gray areas
6. Our corrupt society
7. Machismo
8. Pretentious people ( ang mga hindi marunong lumingon sa pinanggalingan...)
9. Improper pa-cute text messaging (I mean, how much bastardization can Tagalog and English take!!)
Example: Ma’am, late na me for work kse punta pa me sa doctor. K..ayt..
Unbeknownst to them, I have mentally bludgeoned these people’s cellphones over and over again.
10. Worthless TV shows like Wowowee and Eat Bulaga that blatantly exemplifies: the way to eternal happiness and bliss is stupidity.
Friday, August 25, 2006
To scratch or not to scratch
One of the things our parents taught us while we were kids was that we shouldn’t scratch any part of our body that feels itchy because doing so will make matters worse. The simple itch will become an infection. This nugget of parental wisdom has even been fortified by Caladryl’s slogan, “’Wag mong kamutin, lalala”, now immortalized.
But even at a very young age, despite our parents’ constant reminders, behind their backs, admit it - we would sneak a scratch or two. Because no amount of Caladryl can compare to the unexplainable pleasure one can get from scratching. With just a few simple strokes, what was once torture has now been replaced by sheer bliss.
Now why can’t they make Caladryl feel this good? Damn it.
Does it follow that a physical state of being (itchy) can only be relieved through physical activity (scratching)?
If scratching is bad for the itch, then why does our brain (despite its awareness of the fact that scratching is wrong) process it as a pleasurable feeling? This only proves that every act producing the feeling of pleasure (which is supposedly positive and pleasant) is NOT always the right thing to do.
Now, is there any other physical way to relieve an itch aside from scratching?
Can a displacement method work, similar to how cats make use of scratching posts? Probably, but then again the itch of a human is incomparable to that of a feline. Drats.
Why do we tend to complicate the uncomplicated when all we have to do is stick to what our parents told us from the very beginning?
From that very first moment we encountered the perplexing sensation called the itch, we’ve been told what to do and yet most, if not all of us never listened.
We itched, we scratched, we conquered.
But even at a very young age, despite our parents’ constant reminders, behind their backs, admit it - we would sneak a scratch or two. Because no amount of Caladryl can compare to the unexplainable pleasure one can get from scratching. With just a few simple strokes, what was once torture has now been replaced by sheer bliss.
Now why can’t they make Caladryl feel this good? Damn it.
Does it follow that a physical state of being (itchy) can only be relieved through physical activity (scratching)?
If scratching is bad for the itch, then why does our brain (despite its awareness of the fact that scratching is wrong) process it as a pleasurable feeling? This only proves that every act producing the feeling of pleasure (which is supposedly positive and pleasant) is NOT always the right thing to do.
Now, is there any other physical way to relieve an itch aside from scratching?
Can a displacement method work, similar to how cats make use of scratching posts? Probably, but then again the itch of a human is incomparable to that of a feline. Drats.
Why do we tend to complicate the uncomplicated when all we have to do is stick to what our parents told us from the very beginning?
From that very first moment we encountered the perplexing sensation called the itch, we’ve been told what to do and yet most, if not all of us never listened.
We itched, we scratched, we conquered.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
I like for you to be still
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.
- Pablo Neruda
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.
As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.
I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.
And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.
I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.
- Pablo Neruda
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