Rice - It's what brings us together

The most common staple in our household has to be rice. We have rice for the majority of our meals. Rice with dinner, rice with lunch, rice with breakfast.  You get the picture.

I find it so fascinating that food is a way of learning about one's culture (think Anthony Bourdain's popularity) or in this case, retaining one's cultural heritage. For as long as I could remember, all my family meals were served with rice and now as an parent, I've subconsciously taken this way of eating with me and serve my family rice with every meal. In fact, Spaghetti's favorite meal is chicken with rice!

There isn't too much variance away from eating rice. I actually think it would be very challenging not to have rice as part of our diet. Part of the reason why is because we're so used to it, the other half would probably be the fear of losing that part of my identity. Remembering fond memories of partaking in meals (rice included) w/my parents and wanting the same for my children may just put more emphasis on rice not just for a meal but to hold on to the tradition.

Do you have any foods in your family that have stood the test of time?

dog days of summer

My parents rarely eat out. I don't know how they do it. Even as a child, I don't recall eating out at all during the week. The only eating out we did was our Sunday after Mass lunch ritual which went from Chicken Tenders at Burger King, to the lunch buffet at Pizza Hut, and the big time: Lo Mein and Moo Goo Gai Pan at the local Chinese restaurant, the Great Wall. Good stuff, really it was.

Now that I'm a parent in a dual income household (just like my parents), I just can't fathom how they found the time or maybe the energy to prepare home cooked meals every day. Incredible! .I can almost hear Rambo, my father, exclaim when we're at a restaurant he's not too fond of, "You know this chicken here, I can cook this at home and you can pay me half the price!" Goodness. 

Most times I wish I had that discipline, that energy, that developed practice of eating at home all the time.  Then there are times like below, when you just need a break from the norm and take your little one, like Spaghetti, to the local food court and partake in dollar Tuesday at Hot Dog on a Stick!  One hot dog, two hot dog, three hot dogs she scarfed down to that little belly of hers. For $3 dollars, I got this memory and maybe that's worth more sometimes than eating at home, just like Sunday after Mass lunch rituals...

Practicing the art of discipline

I just took Spaghetti out of a time out. Nothing new. Our 2 and a half year old gets a timeout at least twice a week. We plop her down while she screams and wails in the same timeout spot as I glance over at the clock, counting down five minutes. I'm sure those 5 minutes feel like hours in 2 and a half year old time. At this point, I'm not sure if timeouts are effective. I haven't read any books on discipline in a while, just recalling trial and error from disciplining her older sister, the Meatball (who, by the way, was and still is a saint growing up).

With Spaghetti it's a little different, she has a stubborn streak. My parents (and husband) say she's a lot like me. Go figure. So when it comes down to discipline, I try to be as firm and patient as possible, but like any one there is always the last straw pulled, the pushed button, the last nerve struck that gets my blood boiling where I cannot control it anymore and I become, my mother.

Well almost my mother. My mother was a hands off disciplinarian and a big fan of crying it out. She was the kind of parent that could take one look at you with a face full of disdain and in the next minute glance away and ignore you as if she could care less. From a child's perspective (aka what I remember from when I was little),  a child wants and needs acceptance especially from their parents, this move worked on me every time. She had this tactic down so well that my challenging, stubborn attitude diminished in seconds as her glare drowned me in guilt for even reacting. She had one of those glares that made you think twice about what you were doing and had you figure out fast that you were and always will be wrong. And boy did that wrong feel bad! I can remember wailing about one thing or another one second then begging and pleading for her forgiveness forgetting whatever the reason was I was wailing about. Throwing tantrums at my mother were battles I never won and I hated it, especially the feeling of not knowing if my mother actually cared if I was wailing on the floor for her for what seemed like days.


I remember feeling so alone during those times. I promised myself that I would never do that to my children and even if they would be a pain, I wouldn't leave them to 'cry it out' extensively. After the Meatball was born, I finally asked my mother why she handled my tantrums that way. "My goodness, anak(child in Tagalog), you still remember those!?!" in her Filipino accent. "Uh yah, you made me feel really bad." "I did not hurt you. You are too sensitive. Emotional." "Gee thanks, Mom." "You know what, anak? I was just tired. I worked so long hours for you and then you were so active, I cannot entertain you so much." "Maybe I was just happy to see you, Mom." "I know, I think you were so hyperactive too." "Why didn't you just tell me you were tired back then, Mom?" "I am not so good in communication like you. We do not do that in the Philippines so much." "Oh." "You are better with Spaghetti and Meatball than me. You are able to talk to them and have patience. You are good in the parenting." 


After this conversation, I understood my mother and her ways. A tired, working mother doesn't have that much energy at the end of the day to pay their children the attention they need. I guess that's the trade off. Our main difference is that I may communicate it better before I impose firmer discipline. I can tell you that half of the reason why I communicate it, is probably because of my own experience. The other half lies in our cultural difference. Growing up, my mother never exercised many emotions. If you were quiet and followed orders, that meant you were well behaved and that's all parents expected. Everything else wasn't really defined. Here it seems like everyone expresses themselves in one way shape or form. I wonder if the combination of the two is effective? I guess, only time will tell.

Happy Fourth!

Don't ask me how but I've known the lyrics to Lee Greenwood's class "God Bless The USA" for as long as I remember. And I couldn't think of a better day than the 4th of July to share it with all of you. Thanks to YouTube I was able to pull up American Idol, Season 2's rendition for your viewing pleasure since Mr. Greenwood's music video doesn't necessarily represent the United States I love and live in. But that's one of the beauties of living in this country, to each his own.



How much more patriotic can you get?!? American. American and Filipino. In between. Or maybe not in between, maybe I've come to the point in my life when both perspectives co-exist successfully within me. How do I know?  Last week, I was running through YouTube checking out the NY Handog Project's rendition of  Handog Ng Pilipino Sa Mundo (translated, "The Filipinos Gift To The World) and well today, it's "God Bless The USA". Both brought the same feeling of pride. Of connection. Of my identity. And maybe my history doesn't go back to 1776 and I'd probably have a harder time tracing my ancestors through the Smithsonian, but I am an American. Born here to immigrant parents who served in the United States Armed Forces, raising my children as Americans, continuing our history with our roots in the Philippines but our story in the United States.

Cheers to celebrating yours!

Blending the American "dream"

For as long as I could remember I was supposed to be a doctor. "What are you going to be when you grow up?" Even at an early age, I would answer the most common adult to child question with great confidence, "A doctor!" Of course, this answer would be received with proud grins, eyes and nods from any of the following: the Colonel, Rambo, an auntie, an uncle, Lola or Lolo or even from all these folks in the same room. Nonetheless, it was my dream or at least what I thought was my dream. Maybe because that's what the Colonel did or maybe it was because I wore her doctor's coat as my Halloween costume for 3 years straight beaming with pride as I would glance down on the embroidered letters that spelled my name with the salutation, "M.D." after it. Or maybe it was because my own Lola one day told me how great it would be for me to take after my mother and how proud she would be if her apo also became a doctor and how I would make everyone so proud. As a young child I had no idea what that meant, proud. But I figured, by the way their faces lit up with joy and hope that it must have been a good thing. And as a child, all you want to do is make the others around you happy. So when that one day came and my Lola told me how great it would be for me to, "Study hard, get good grades, get honors, so you can be a doctor just like your mom, so we will all be so proud." There was nothing left to do but nod and announce, "Okay Lola, yes I want to be a doctor!"

And that's how the journey of what-I-thought-was-my-dream-but-it-really-wasn't-but-I-did-it-anyway-because-I-was-too-young-to-know-any-better started. Lucky for me and most of my academic career, getting good grades came easy. Straight As? Done. Honors? Easy peasy. Seems like I was on the glory road, on my way to make my whole family, proud. Being the eldest granddaughter, to the eldest child of my grandparents on my mother's side and the only American born (most of the Colonel's siblings never immigrated to the United States, hence I was the only American born cousin for a very long time) I was perfection. As I grew older, entered high school and started noticing boys, the "dream" started to take more shape. Visits to medical schools with my parents would add to the "dream": 4 years, graduate high school, 4 more years, graduate college, another 4 more years graduate med school (insert meet future husband here, who would probably be white but more on that in another post), a couple years or so of residency, one year of globe-trotting with my now fiance, wedding, happily ever after to include the white picket fence. It was the perfect dream. It just wasn't mine.

Fast forward to present day and if you've been following this blog, you would know that "dream" didn't happen. For a plethora (and possibly quite a lot of material for the blog) of reasons, I, after 2 and a half years of being a failing biology major in undergrad just stopped the "dream". No longer could I rely on stellar grades coming easily, in college, I actually had to work for it. And how can one work hard at something they didn't love? But even though the "dream" stopped, it took another couple more years to let it go. Just imagine growing up thinking, more importantly, believing you were to become something then gradually realizing that the path you were on wasn't your journey at all? That's a huge pill of unlearning to swallow! But in my own beginning (also known as the end of that "dream") it was the best decision I ever made. 

Now that I have children of my own, do I want to encourage them to be doctors? Sure! A little hard work for a profession that provides without a doubt financial security is always something I will promote. And it will make me proud. The difference? I am mindful to communicate to my girls that anything they do, dream of doing, pursue and fail but try their best will make me proud. Growing up I never got the explanation of what actually would make my family proud, I thought the pride from would only come from the straight shot route of being a doctor. And that left me confused for a very long time. From my family in the Philippines perspective, it's easy now to understand why they associate pride and success with prestige and money. I think as Filipino-Americans we fail to remember the environment our native families came from where financial hardship (for my families at least) was a part of life. Whereas here in the United States following the "dream" is supposed to mean following what makes you happy. So, who's right? Does success equal achieving financial stability? Or does success equal achieving one's dream without a dollar sign attached to it? How about both?

As I observe the girls grow and pick up certain skills: Meatball loves to build and has a great eye for color matching and Spaghetti loves to be active and socialize) I feel it's my responsibility to nurture these budding skills. Create a blank canvas of opportunity for them to figure out what they like and don't like but constantly reminding them to finish what they started. With that in mind, I don't know what the future will hold for their dreams. I just know that I'll be there to support them.

When the hot water runs out, using a tabo: Filipino - American style

My sincerest apologies for my three week hiatus! I've really missed blogging! Believe me when I tell you it was unintentional and I promise I'll give fair warning the next time it happens. Moving right along check the story below as to one of the reasons for my blog absence. 

My most recent memory of the tabo was visiting my Lolo and Lola's (meaning grandfather and grandmother in Filipino, respectively) farm in one of the provincial areas. About 12 years ago, they still did not have hot water running through their bathroom pipes. Since the Philippines is an assortment of tropical islands, there wasn't really much of a need for hot water anyway only to accommodate a luxury for American me. Back then, I remember complaining about no hot water to the Colonel. I mean really? How could one not take a shower without it? Overhearing our conversation, my Lola pulled out her biggest pot, filled it with water and put it on the stove. Minutes later, she took the same pot now steaming from the boiling water, walked it over to their bathroom and told me I could shower now. My naive, spoiled self glanced strangely back and forth at my grandmother and the pot that she put in the shower stall. "What am I supposed to do with that, Lola?", I asked, trying not to sound as respectful as my frustrated, impatient self could muster. "You use the tabo, apo(grandchild in Filipino). You look in the pot, I put a tabo there so you can have the hot water." As I looked into the pot I saw what looked like a gallon sized cup with a handle that I wasn't sure I knew what to do with. But when I looked back at my Lola she had such a big smile plastered on her face because she felt that she accommodated her American grandchild, that I knew I had to at least give it a shot. With no hot water and barely any water pressure from the faucet (they didn't have a shower head either) what would normally take 15 minutes in the shower took me a good 45 -50 minutes at my grandparents' provincial home. During that time, I hated every moment of it in so many different ways: a part of me hated that I had to go through something I wasn't used to but another part of me felt such guilt for hating the experience and wishing painfully for the luxuries of my home in the United States. Oddly enough, none of it felt humbling until I returned home.

image taken from: http://liveinthephilippines.com/content/2008/06/how-to-know-youve-adjusted/

So over the weekend, our home ran out of hot water. Instinctively, I thought, "Oh great. Tabo time." Like my Lola, I found the biggest pot I could find, filled it with water and put it on the stove. Pretty Pants asked curiously what I was doing and I went on to explain my experience in the Philippines and how that experience really came into play now. He looked at me with both curiousity and amusement. As I put the pot and a makeshift tabo (7-11 Big Gulp cup) for my husband, he laughed, "So you want me to use the tabo, huh?" "Well we don't have any hot water, what are you going to do?" Up for the experience he gave it a shot. And, like me hated it. For the next few hours we waited patiently in the hopes that the hot water would miraculously turn back on, but it never did. It was a Sunday so there wasn't anyone we could find to check out our water heater. My husband, although he was trying to be a good sport about the whole tabo experience remarked at how he still didn't feel clean afterwards and wondered how we were going to use the tabo with the girls? We ended up checking into a hotel that night.

As you can see maybe we aren't the family that's cut out for roughing it. But looking back, having the experience of no hot water or running water in the Philippines was truly a humbling experience and reminded me of the many things we consider necessities in the United States are mere luxuries for those in countries that have less and that reminder overall is priceless.

My Filipina Women, My herStory

The Colonel celebrated her 70th birthday over the weekend. In fact, her and Spaghetti were born on the same day! So the family and I headed to my hometown where we hosted a party in her honor. Of course, she did most of the planning: coordinating the program, scouting for a venue and managing the guest list. But last Saturday night about 100 folks came to celebrate my mother's birthday and life!  It was such a special occasion.

For her celebration, the Colonel had asked me to put together a montage of her life for the party. She had sent me photographs from all parts of her life along with their descriptions and as I worked through the photographs I could not help but feel so proud of her and all that she has done in her life. My mother was born in Pampanga, a province in the Philippines in 1940. She is the eldest of 4 brothers and 2 sisters. She attended medical school in the Philippines then immigrated to the United States. Her first stop was New York City where she continued to pursue her education and was able to achieve her license to practice medicine here. She then joined the Air Force where she met and married my father, Rambo.  My parents worked really hard for their lives here. When it came time for them to get out of the Air Force they both continued to work and at the same time my mother got heavily involved with her church and community. She is an advocate for the Filipino-American youth church community establishing various cultural, sporting and religious events to keep the youth involved.


My Lola (meaning grandmother in Filipino) was a school teacher, beauty queen in her province and a mother to 7 children. She survived and protected her first two children (including the Colonel) during the attack of the Japanese on the Philippines. During the later part of her life, left her husband, my Lolo, for years on end to come to the United States to help my parents raise me while they worked.

I am constantly amazed and empowered at how much hard work, sacrifice, commitment and strength these women in my herstory have shown in their lives. Coming from a place of poverty to the "American Dream", a piece of history that I always wonder, if I were in their shoes would I be able to do the same? Will my own girls look back at my life in admiration and for inspiration? What legacy will I be passing on for them?

Nonetheless, I am grateful for the women that shaped my life. For if it wasn't for them, I would not be who I am today.

Who's in your herstory?

Where are your tsinelas (chee-neh-lahs)??

Tsinelas (slippers), Lolo (grandfather) and Lola (grandmother) are the only words my girls understand in the Filipino language.  And I don't know how I feel about that just yet. As a child, I lived 5 years in the Philippines because my parents were stationed at Clark Air Force Base. However, I can barely remember if I used to be able to speak fluently. I guess it doesn't matter because all my girls got are three words, tsinelas, Lolo and Lola.

When we moved back to the United States, the Colonel and Rambo never taught me to speak their native languages. I just caught on by listening and understanding two dialects, Tagalog (the national language) and Ilocano. When the question comes up about understanding Tagalog with one of my peers, most have said their parents never taught them for fear that they would be able to assimilate into American society. Although my parents never had that intention in mind, they never drove the language home either. So you must understand my amusement now that I have my own children, when my mother asks me if I have taught them Tagalog.

"Honey, are you speaking to Spaghetti and Meatball in Tagalog?" 
"Colonel, I don't know Tagalog that well maybe you can teach them."
"Oh, my dear! You do not know?"
"No, Colonel, you never really spoke to me in Tagalog so how can I know?"
"But we lived in the Philippines for a long time! How can you not know?!? Well, you just teach them what you know, okay? It's good for them to know, even just a little bit" 
"Um okay, Colonel, I'll try."

It's quite a conundrum "teaching" a language to my girls that I'm not too familiar with myself. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to teach it to them if I could speak fluently and I am trying my best to teach them any words/phrases that I do know. Studies show that raising a child in a bilingual household provide them with better mental development. But with what I know of Filipino, my girls nor I are nowhere near bilingual! It's a sad thing and I can't help but feel caught in the middle of another retaining the heritage challenge; slowly mourning the slow and agonizing death of the Filipino language in our family. It's not like they can listen to it all the time nor have someone fluent speak to them regularly. And you probably guessed it by now, Pretty Pants doesn't know the language, can barely make sense of his mother's own dialect (Pampanga) and has actually become one of my students of Broken Filipino as well. So I'm doing what I can to resist every step of the way through the interjection of Filipino words into our everyday life ("Meatball, where are your tsinelas?), finding some Filipino picture books, and reminding the Colonel and Rambo to speak to the girls in Filipino when they visit (which honestly lasts 10 seconds before they're back to English again). Maybe the Filipino language won't die in this generation after all.

Are you fluent in another language? Are you speaking to your children in another language other than English? Is it worth it?