Excuse me, will you be my friend?

I have only 3 friends.  I mean, 3 that I consider best friends. I try not to analyze what that word really means and how those 3 fair up to its meaning because if I do, I may actually have less.

The strangest thing is, I'm extremely social on the surface. Throw me at a cocktail party and I'll have everyone engaged, laughing with me, or at me, sharing various experiences, personal or business, talking easily about the past, the present, the future.  But when that moment comes, that awful desperate moment of needing someone to talk to...well, I'm virtually friendless.

I've been thinking about friendship for several months now. One of the teachers I work with, who I love dearly, had the unfortunate experience of losing her best friend to cancer right before Christmas last year. That best friend was her mother. Of course, my upbringing prevents me from ever knowing what that remotely looks like, but what I should've been able to relate to was the army of other best friends who stood by her side at her most difficult moment. Friends from childhood. Friends from the neighborhood. Friends who knew her worst and best traits and loved her unconditionally.  I remember being at the hospital, then at the wake, and eventually at that devastating funeral, and seeing the same group of girls rally around her. I was overcome with a deep sense of lack.  In her sorrow, in her loss, she was shielded by a wall of true, faithful friends.  I did not know what that was like. Not that level of devotion in such great number.

I always tell my husband that I will be surrounded by admirers at my funeral, but friends will be scarce.

"You've always had a wall," my husband once told me. "From the moment I met you. You can tell only very few are allowed in."  And then, because my husband is into metaphors, he proceeded to tell me that that wall had a foyer and a handful were allowed to hang around there. But deep inside the wall?  He hugged me and sighed, "I'm glad I'm in there." He named maybe two more people but he wasn't sure if anyone else was in.

There really is nothing mysterious about me. Like I said in my last blog, I'm really quite a bore so if anyone walked straight inside that wall...well, nothing exciting would await them.

"It has nothing to do with mystery, babe. It's your guard. It's never down."

And I argued to my husband that it has everything to do with my upbringing. Really.  I was taught that friends are there to deceive you, to take, and to mistreat you. And that those that seek friends are lonely, shallow people lacking intelligence and self-worth. And if you know me a little, you would know of course that beauty is of little importance to me. But self-worth? Intelligence? Depth?  They are descriptors that mean the world to me! So while in my youth normal girls were on a quest for true friends, I was on a quest to avoid them. (Also, I do believe my entry, "The Reason Why I Don't Cry", holds the answer to my isolation.)

But this month, as many of you may know, I attended a wedding at Martha's Vineyard. The event was lovely as could be expected, of course, and the groom was tall and handsome. But the bride...the bride who is in her early 30's was not just beautiful and charming, she is immensely smart. She is a graduate of an Ivy League school and she teaches at NYU while running her own clinic. And to my absolute surprise she was surrounded by an army of wonderful, devoted best friends. And they were all, likewise, smart and beautiful. I thought of the teacher I work with. She is by far one of the smartest girls I know and her best friends were all college graduates, from nurse practitioners to pharmacists.

Clearly, smarts have nothing to do with being friendless. Being unfriendly has everything to do with being friendless.  I mean, even the Bible says so.

I told my husband that it's too late for me. I've tried, really, to recruit friends, only to find myself finding a myriad of reasons why the friendship can't work. How do you learn to become a trusting friend at 40? The idea of working on such a relationship exhausts me. I can't picture myself sewing random people into the fabric of my being without careful assessment. Hence, the reason for my solitude.

So, I've turned my attention on my innocent victims. My children.

I ask my son every now and then if he has called his friends, if they wanted to hang out, if he needed me to take them to the movies.  And I'm always more excited than Alanna when her friend in the neighborhood knocks on our door looking for her.  I went by her house recently and asked her mother if they would come over for dinner. I'm not looking to make friends with the mom. I'm looking to make our girls lifelong friends.

"If ever we should both die someday when they're older but without their own family, I want them to have true friends," I told my husband. "I mean really good, amazing friends who will love them unconditionally."

As for me, who knows. Like that wonderful, intelligent bride who found a couple of lifelong friends while walking down the street, I too might stumble on a friend. She would have to be incredibly patient at how guarded I am, how unwilling I am to share my deepest thoughts and my true feelings. She would have to understand that I cannot be on the phone on a daily basis and that hanging out constantly suffocates me. She would have to find my scattered thinking charming and find humor in the fact that I forget every birthday and every anniversary. She would have to realize that I'm psychosomatic and I think every 2 weeks I may be dying of something...and she would have to love me through it unconditionally.

I suppose I should be thankful I at least have 3 friends...I think.

I was born a sloth

I think I was always a sedentary child growing up.  You wouldn't know it by looking at me and glancing at my brakeless schedule.  But really, if it were not for work and occasional obligations that require moving my joints, I would lay at home all day, surf the web, or read a book, or think about life, or stare into nothingness.  I would go nowhere, see no one, do nothing.  I stay at kinetic energy because when that's interrupted and my true nature kicks in, that energy goes into a screeching halt and I start to gather more moss than should be allowed.

I'm on vacation now, visiting my sisters and their families, enjoying the presence of wild and happy children around me, reveling in the sounds of laughter--with the occasional shrieks of sobbing hysteria because "he hit me, she hurt my feelings, he snatched my toy", etc.,  In between this daycare chaos, my ever outdoorsy sister with her toned legs and flat stomach would ask, "Do you want to go take the kids out?"

Out where?

"Anywhere! We can take them to the park or the zoo or the museum..."

But see, I am now operating only on potential energy and I have started gathering my moss and the idea of slipping off of the couch and putting on my shoes fill me with dread. I am the laziest workaholic I know. And although one would think that self-awareness is half the battle, the war is lost because being self-aware is where it pretty much ends for me. The desire for change is nonexistent.

I have two jobs, I go 100 miles an hour at work, but when that's done, it is downhill from there. Couch, computer, TV.  Unless there's an earthquake, I'm not moving around.

"Don't you wanna see St. Louis?" my sister asked in what I detected to be a restraint voice.

Uh...not really.

"I came to see the kids," I said, scanning the room and wondering where they all went.

"We can take them to the science museum." 

Science Museum. I want to stab my eye.

"Or take them to the Art Museum.  I haven't been there."

I had a quick vision of the 2-year-olds discussing Van Gogh. 

"There's a park nearby," my sister said, putting away toys in the toy box for the third time that hour. Why doesn't she stop moving? I don't remember her moving nonstop like this when she was in New York.

"Okay," I said, hoping that response would settle her a bit and then a couple of hours later she can ask again and I will say ok, and buy a couple more hours until the sun goes down. And who goes to the museum at night? Not me.

Why am I such a boring, lazy homebody? I remember living by an hour per hour schedule in my 20's, from 7AM to midnight, running constantly, going to work, going to class, speaking at rallies, counseling students, planning events, and needing to pencil in a time to see my boyfriend. I was beyond busy. And, really, even now, I've always worked more than one job, registered in school for some certification, my foot on the gas. But whenever I get home or the weekend comes or vacation hits...I transform into the human sloth.

Always on the quest to get to know myself, I've been reeling on this seemingly organic form of laziness. Why, oh why, am I this way?

And no, it really isn't because I'm so busy all the time that I inevitably just crave for some down time.  I truly think I intentionally stay busy because given the opportunity, I would never leave my house and I would just hibernate the whole year through and never bathe or change my clothes.

I fished for a memory in my childhood because I'm convinced that every gift, every deficit, every strength and every defect can be traced there.  I was 7 again in the Philippines, occasionally watching my siblings and the neighborhood kids through the window. I could see a game of stick baseball, kickball, marble flicking, etc., The combination of the noise, the social interaction, the physical activity were enough to make me hyperventilate.  I stayed in my room, drew pictures, read books, and pretended I was adopted waiting for real wealthy parents to claim me. I laid around, moved in slow motion, observed everyone and stayed by myself. No one came and said, "Okay, Chic, time's up. Your schedule now requires activity." I was left to myself, drooling in welcomed boredom, staring at the ceiling, feeling my little soul fall into an endless abyss. That would be interrupted every now and then by an invitation.  "Do you want to play tag? We need one more person." The invitation/demand would often come from my oldest sister who only exerted one kind of energy: kinetic.

"Okay..." I was afraid of her.

"You can't pull out last minute or I'll beat you," she'd snarl.

"Okay...but...I think I may be getting sick."

"You're always sick, you're always sick, you never want to do anything!"

It was true. I was always sick. But it was also true that I never wanted to do anything. No game was ever that interesting. No group of kids were ever that fun. No childhood event was ever that exciting.

When my husband and I started dating, I said, "I'm really boring. You will find that I'm really boring."

But I was the youth pastor, a performer in college, and a school ambassador. I had an infectious amount of energy, I was charming and gregarious, able to hold any type of conversation. I was full of dry humor and wit. How in the heavens could I possibly be boring?

But I was. I preferred to be sedentary and I liked my solitude. I was the human sloth.

Today is our last day in St. Louis and because I had only been to my nephew's school and the thrift store the past 3 days, I reluctantly agreed to go to the zoo with my sister and the kids because I started to feel guilty.  The zoo grounds were fantastic, with manicured grass, forest trees, clean pavements, and a collection of exotic animals ranging from flamingos, to orangoutangs, to tigers and lions. We had a small lunch then we stopped for ice cream as we made our way to check out geckos and pythons.  My brother-in-law was with us and he pretended to be an expert tour guide armed with useless information and we laughed and egged him on.  The kids ran and oohed and ahhed, and they called each other's names and pointed at unknown animals.

"I'm so glad we're here," I said.  "This is such a nice place and we're having such a good time."

And then I felt myself fill up with shame.  I'm a mother now and I have children.  This isn't about a game that's interesting enough or a group that's a lot of fun or an event that's exciting.  This is about family time and as much as what comes natural for others is an effort for me because it is outside my true make-up, I have to stretch my joints and slip off the couch and put on my shoes and get out.  My preference to be sedentary and to be in solitude has to have its own time and only when it does not make my family suffer as a consequence.

So, I've made a promise to myself to do better. That although I was born a sloth, I would do my best to become any other kind of animal that gets up and walks around. And should a moment come when my true nature wants to win the battle, I'll just speak to me in my sister's voice: "You can't pull out...or I'll beat you." And hopefully, that voice will be strong enough to get me off my backside, on my feet, and out the door.

The Samaritan

I've told myself that the next time I write a post, it will be lighthearted and fun, that it would evoke laughter and reflect my personality.

But, alas, there's a huge part of me that's deeply reflective and it affects the way I write. So, here it is, the entry I have thought about writing hundreds of times, rehearsing the lines in my head, wrestling with the right time to do it, the right way to do it...to share it with my readers as an objective event in my life without coming across...preachy.  Because that isn't my intent at all.  I just want to share with you something that made me look at everything in my life in a different light, an event in my family's life that my husband and I reflect about almost on a daily basis.

I grew up in a deeply religious home.  The fear of God was placed in me as far back as I can remember. There were rules and regulations that were glaringly from the Bible, sound and true: Do not lie, do not cheat, honor your parents, believe in one God, etc., Then there were rules that were not so categorically Biblical and needed interpretation and explanation and pulling in of other scriptures that likewise needed some explanation in order to make the case of such rules viable: Do not own a television, do not wear jewelry of any kind (wedding rings permitted in some circles), Do not go to the movies, A woman must not cut her hair (not even to trim it) or put on make-up, She cannot wear pants, etc.,

Because I am a cynic by nature, those closest to me knew what I thought about such rules. Some made sense, others did not. I followed all, not because I was convinced God made every single one, but I was convinced that obedience and a humble spirit pleased God above all else. And there was and is that simple fact in my life that remains unshakeable today: I love God deeply and I want to please Him.

Out of all the beliefs that could be questioned, there was one I did not, and I believed it without waiver: We are the chosen ones, the redeemed ones. Our lives are a true definition of Christianity. Everyone else is lost.

And then my daughter, Alanna, became gravely ill and I never would have thought in a million years that not only her life would be on the line, but so would my view of Christianity and the definition of what it meant to be a child of God.

Those weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds, were the most horrific of my life.  I had never felt so vulnerable, so desperate, so void of hope, and so full of agony.  I had watched Alanna deteriorate so quickly that I was inevitably in a state of constant panic, expecting the worst at every turn.  In her fifth day at the hospital, when both her lungs blew while connected to life support, I buckled down on my knees to the floor and yelled out her name and I was sure, so sure, that my little girl was gone.

She was transferred to Columbia Presbyterian that Friday, at noon time, amidst an expected snow storm, and we would stay at the precious, miraculous hospital for the next thirty days.

You cannot go through a difficult moment in your life without an army of support. My brother, the pastor, and my church family were of course there, praying, interceding, fasting.  My oldest sister drove every week from New Jersey and seized the heavens for a miracle.  My retired mother-in-law flew in from Florida the very next day, and stayed with my son, and cooked, and cleaned our house.  She visited Alanna everyday, many times taking the subway. My sister from California emptied her savings and flew in within two days and used up all her sick, vacation, and personal days and was an integral part of my sanity those first two weeks. My closest friends provided time, money, and most importantly, strength. Alanna's godmother, a doctor, drove straight from the operating room of her hospital at Maryland, stayed by Nana's bedside for a couple of days, and drove straight back to the hospital, without a moment of sleep.  One special brother from the church, Omari, who had no car, took the bus, took the boat, took the train from Staten Island more than once...to stand awkwardly, not knowing the right words to say. He was just there.  A sister of a friend drove hours from Washington DC, in the snow. She had heard about Alanna's ordeal and she wanted to just give me a hug and a cup of coffee.

There were phone calls everyday and family and friends from all over the world prayed. The support was overwhelming.

But there was one support, one consistent, unexpected support that took the journey with us from the beginning to the very end.

My cousin, Charles.

Because of complex family function worthy of day time TV, unlike all my other cousins, I did not have a relationship with Charles. We did not grow up spending Summers or vacations or holidays together. In fact, Charles did not know about us until he was almost finished with high school, but of course, I had always known about him and his siblings.  My cousins from the Philippines stayed in New York for a short while and it was in that equally short time that I was able to get acquainted with him.

Years later, married and with two kids, I would come across Charles at a neighborhood CVS near my home. We were elated to see each other and I introduced my husband to him for the first time.  My husband would later on comment that Charles was perhaps the nicest of my family he had ever met. We would run into each other a few more times that eventually led to casual birthday party invites for the kids (although, I was the only one inviting at that time!)  I was reacquainted with his wife (she was a girlfriend years back) and I would meet his two children at last in one of those accidental run-ins around Staten Island.

I wanted to stay connected to Charles because eventually, I wanted to save him. He was the only family who did not grow up like the rest of us.  He was nice but he needed redemption.

And then, Alanna got sick...

I remember Charles coming straight from work in that ICU room, dressed in a suit. He was a director of a department in a hospital in Queens. He had had a long day and a long commute and he stayed with me until close to ten o'clock. My husband was home sick with H1N1, the same virus that ravaged Alanna's body.

Charles came back the next day, and then the next.

The day Alanna was placed on a ventilator, Charles and my best friend sent me home. They stayed by Alanna's side. The next day, we almost lost Alanna and she was transferred to Manhattan.

Charles took off work.  He was there, a grave face, standing with his wife.

Alanna's journey of miracle took many sharp turns, uphill climbs, down falls, and large bumps on the road. My unsaved cousin called in sick, took vacation time, and personal days from work. And every Saturday, without fail, his whole family, his wife and kids, would spend the day with us at Presbyterian hospital.  Because Charles is a natural comedian, he brought laughter. Because he was always so full of energy, he brought joy to the room. Because he was simply there...he brought great comfort.

And there were many moments when Charles spoke to me about prayer, and hope, and faith, and holding on, and trusting in God.

I remember being alone by the lobby of the ICU, looking out through the large windows, speaking to God. What was going on here? Where were the religious people? Where were the preachers and the pastors and the ministers who knew about our agony and our desperate moment? Was Manhattan too far of a trek for the righteous and the redeemed?

Except for a handful of people, those who had sacrificed their time and given of themselves, were people we considered lost! The woman who drove hours to give me a cup of coffee and a hug, my Catholic mother-in-law who came instantly, my sister who cut her hair and wore pants--they were not following the exact rules and regulations from the same, exact rule book---and now, here, Charles, the only unsaved relative, was showing the most consistent, deepest display of compassion and support!

God, what is going on here?

I will never forget God's answer: Charles is your neighbor.

I must admit that I stopped for a moment. Then I knew what God meant. He was talking about the Samaritan. The Samaritan who helped the half dying, beaten man in the Bible. The most righteous of men walked the other way, but the Samaritan tended that fallen man back to health.

I was the fallen man. Charles was the Samaritan. My cousin, my unsaved cousin, was saving me.

God taught me the true meaning of Christianity. It wasn't in the rules and in the regulations. It wasn't in the holy clothing and in the Sunday services.  There were preachers and ministers I knew who were aware of our desperate moment. They were no further of a drive than Charles. And yet not once, not once, did they come.

I no longer follow the same rules and regulations. That event in my life had made me less religious but hopefully, more Christ-like.

My relationship with Charles today is quite different. He does more of the inviting than I do. We do not miss each other's events and we are at each other's homes for dinner whenever possible.  I call him, I spend time with him, for no other reason than I love his company.

I know he has started going to church and I'm really happy about it but even if he had not, Charles to me would still be the greatest Christian I have ever met.  I live my life now hoping that I could be the same.

Ode to Facebook

I'm not proud of it but yes, I am quite addicted to Facebook. I'd like to blame this on my addictive personality but I think idleness keeps me socially connected. Or perhaps, the social connections ensure my idleness.

For Christmas, my husband and I finally let go of our archaic phone plans and purchased iPhones (just the 4, we're quite cheap). And now, I'm addicted to the Scrambler game, howbeit the game reminds me humbly that I've overestimated my genius. In fact, based on my results, I might have some cognitive deficits. The deficits may have been brought on by hours spent on Facebook.

Facebook has some advantages, really. Yes, of course, it is overall superficial and should have an age limit---only for under 30, otherwise this site should insult your level of maturity. But aside from random posts ranging from useless (at the mall, woke up tired, eating dinner) to dramatic (I know no one cares about me...This weight just makes me want to give up...I know no one's going to respond to this...) to personal (if you're going to say something, say it to my face!!! some women should just keep their opinions to themselves!!! Grow up, and you know who you are!!!), Facebook has some important function.  It keeps us connected to friends and family (or disconnected, depending on how your responses come across), it allows us to show our creativity (a thousand ways to post a picture), and it gives way to self-promotion (I will be posting this blog on Facebook as soon as I'm done).

But Facebook, I think, might have made me a deeper thinker (except with Scramble, apparently).  The responses of people are quite interesting. You find out so much more about character, principle, and personalities much more than you would at a cocktail party, or perhaps even at a drunken bar.  It is amazing the exposure of the self that takes place in Facebook and because I am egocentric, it brings self-reflection. Am I that way? Do I rant when angry? Is this post craving for attention or pity? Are my vacation pictures shared for the joys of others, or do I just want to brag?

So many times I've read posts on Facebook and thought, "Oh my, I never knew how clever this person was!" "I don't remember them being this funny back in college!"  "Ok, that made absolutely no sense..."

And too many times I've read posts on Facebook and as many of you could probably relate, had to practice restraint.  I sooo want to respond to this post!!! I sooo want to give them a piece of my mind!!!

But I don't. And Facebook has done more than a therapist could accomplish: increase my level of tolerance and self-control. (Okay, I might've fallen victim a few times and posted away, clicked send, and the damage that resulted was irreparable but as in all things, we grow from regretful actions, hopefully...) 

But truly this is what I've learned from this social setting: our responses to our experiences reflect our character. I read an article on Facebook by a mother who lost a child in Newton, Connecticut. I couldn't keep the tears from flowing. Her response to her loss was raw and honest but it was full of love and hope and lacked the bitterness that the rest of the nation would expect.  I saw a video on Facebook of one of the fathers in that same school. He spoke, in a broken voice, about strength and redemption and love and gratitude.  I responded to a friend request from someone I didn't know, thinking he was one of the new volunteers in our church. He wasn't. He suffers from Chron's disease. His friends tagged pictures of him in Midland area helping Hurricane Sandy victims, and he posts pictures of himself in the hospital when flare ups happen. He is the most positive young person I know, so altruistic and full of courage. He never has a post of complaints, just appreciation for healthy moments. I find myself looking for his posts on days when I'm a bit down and I want my spirit lifted. I don't even know him, but I'm so glad for his friend request. His life on Facebook, I find, has helped keep my responses and my character in check.

Sometimes I want to write a dramatic post. Other times, I am tempted to write a personal one. But, thankfully, on those days, I opt for useless ones. Once in a while, I get philosophic and religious. And although I've received several grateful inboxes for those posts, I'm afraid they expose only my serious  side.

Attitudes.  Facebook is laden with them. It's not an honest measuring stick of our true nature, but it does give everyone a peek on what we are about, what we are made of, our intestinal fortitude, our level of maturity.  And although we surrender ourselves helpless to the reading of others and their interpretation, there is a pattern in our posts that reflect the truth of our nature.

I've deactivated several times for this reason. But I keep coming back.  Perhaps it's because I'm a behavior analyst. The behavior of people intrigue me.  Perhaps it's because I crave to share a bit of myself to others. I am outgoing but painfully private. Perhaps I feel the need to stay connected.  One of the rewards is keeping contact with faraway friends and family. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it's truly because I'm addicted.

The Fight Forward

I know I’m a self-proclaimed non-crier, if there’s such a word. I have a whole blog on why I do not cry. But lately, I think I’ve done everything in my power to prove to the world that I am all but that.  I’ve gone from being sniffly in front of uncomfortable parents, to pouring tears in front of a quiet staff, to an all out can’t-catch-my-breath sob on the phone with a panicked colleague.  All the while, I repeat a mantra in the back of my head, “Pull yourself together, Chic! You are sooo inappropriate!”

I am quite possibly evolving into a weepy elderly, like a brutish man who turns into a sappy mess of a grandfather and cries over little children kissing him in exchange for candy.  But I’m only 38. If I’m so discomposed in my middle-age years, I’m going to be a basket case by the time the grandkids come along.  I really do have to pull myself together!

In my defense, it’s been a rough couple of weeks and the pain I’ve seen all around me has proven too hard even for an icy person to handle.  So I have responded in the most unfamiliar way. Cry.

“Here, dear,” said a woman in her 80’s, handing me two carefully folded blankets.  “I was able to save these from the flood. I want to donate them.”

I looked at the woman and her distraught eyes.  She had come earlier to our church,  now a Hurricane Sandy Relief Center.  She related her story of total loss. The furniture, the belongings, the house. Sandy came and just like that, everything was gone. I remember asking her if there was anything I could give her. Anything. What was it that she needed?

“I don’t know,” she said, still shaken, looking around her.  Water bottles, can goods, toiletries.  Her husband was surveying the building, holding on to a cereal box. “I don’t know. Everything is gone.”

Multiple families with small children had come before, but this was the first time I was confronted with elderly victims. I remember thinking, how could they rebuild? How do they start over in their final years? Where were their children? Did they have any?

And here she was, a couple of hours later, handing me blankets.

“I washed them in the laundry mat for you.  See?  They’re clean.  They’re still good.  Someone might need them.”  I don’t think she saw that I was emotionally crumbling in front of her.  “You are doing a good thing here, such a good thing…”

Everyone around me felt the same way, I’m sure, looking at tossed cars, gaping holes in homes, shifted foundations, heaps of broken wood, glass and debris. You cannot help but catch your breath in the middle of this devastation, your heart pressed tightly and pounding against your chest, your stomach hollow and empty.  But all the while, the whole tragedy is surreal.  A part of you removes itself from what you are physically witnessing. “This really isn’t happening. This cannot be real.”

Although I was physically tired from volunteering and my spirit was weary from all the devastation around us, I managed to take deep breaths and remain dry-eyed.  Even when I stood across the NYPD, as they searched for the two boys who perished in the flood just blocks away from the church, I stayed composed. 

But naturally, when those same two boys were viewed in a funeral service at a church right next to my job, a whole borough away from where they lost their lives, the irony of it all, and the closeness of their presence---I broke down and cried.

Sandy came for one day and just like that, so much loss, so much devastation, so much pain.

I think I had been in a state of emotional vulnerability for a while now because of Sandy, that by the time one of our teachers, who was my assistant for a couple of years, called me in tears about an MRI result of her mom, a doting mother who was her closest and dearest friend, I was anything and everything but strong.

And because that teacher is younger than my youngest sibling and I had developed a genuine love for her, and she had already lost her father suddenly just a few years back, that brain MRI that revealed a metastasized cancer was too much for me to handle.

I cried, then sobbed, then wailed.  I was driving through the BQE and asked God, why? Why is there so much loss? Why is there so much devastation? Why is there so much pain?  Was He watching all of this and would He please, please, do something?

I remember pulling over and calling my husband.  I could barely speak between sobs and because for the last decade of our marriage my tear ducts had normally been empty, he did not know how to respond to my breakdown.  “Come home,” he said in total panic. “Babe, come home.”

A couple of days later, when my emotions had settled, my husband and I reflected on the tragedies that we’ve experienced, even within the walls of our own personal lives.  It’s not that things were becoming more tragic.  It’s that we’ve been around for almost 4 decades now and we are witnessing what life naturally brings: joys and sadness, celebrations and despairs, gains and losses…

Some of the losses are unbearable but inevitably, they are a part of life.

Staten Island has a long way to go before it is totally rebuilt, but people have been gutting their basements, doing demolitions, putting up sheet rocks, plastering and painting.  Almost every home now has electricity, running water, and heat.  Facebook no longer mentions Sandy.  The topic of the hurricane has been replaced by mundane quotes, the death of Hostess Twinkie, and Black Friday. In other words, things seem to be shifting back to normal.

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” I said on a text to my assistant when she wrote that she could not fight for her mother, that she was wrong, she wasn’t as strong as she thought.  And really, she is one of the strongest people I know. I can’t…I don’t have the capacity… “You have to find the strength.  You have to stay lucid,” I said. 

Then, I repeated the words said to me when my daughter laid in what was meant to be her death bed and all I wanted to do was give up:  “You have no choice.”

And it really boils down to that.  A tragedy comes, a hurricane takes over.  We weep, we wail, we mourn. Then we brush ourselves up and we gather our resolve and we rebuild. We have no choice. We find strength in our sorrow, we push through our pain, and we fight forward.

And hopefully, hopefully, by the grace of God, we’ll win.

An Identity Crisis

Until recently people who have met me can't seem to identify where I'm from.  In a couple of occasions, guessing my ethnicity became a "bet" and in both of those times, no one won.  I'll never forget the first time it happened.  My son was in intensive care, recently diagnosed with diabetes.  I walked by the nursing station.  There were probably four people there, including the doctor.  Eventually, one of the nurses, blonde and blue-eyed, came in the room, struck a conversation after checking my son over and ultimately asked about my background.  I told her I was from the Philippines and she winced and said she was sure, so sure, I was from South America but alas, she did not win the bet.  As she left, the doctor walked in.  She also checked on my son and then, strangely, the conversation led to my nationality.  I told her I was from the Philippines.  She walked away.  She too had lost the bet.  She was Russian and had insisted earlier that certainly, I was mixed with Eastern European blood.  The Filipino nurse had bet I was from China.  She was shocked to discover we came from the same place. Everyone lost the bet.

I've had numerous guesses come my way, from very close (You're Indonesian?) to somewhat close (You're Tibetan and White?) to extremely far fetched (I thought you were Mulatto! Half black and half white!)

The second bet that I know of took place in graduate school from a group of women who carpooled to college together.  One of them was a Filipino woman.  She wasn't a very good loser as she insisted to her group I lied about coming from the Philippines.  I wondered if they had bet money.

I've looked like Pocahantas, the Virgin Mary from the movie Jesus, and most recently, the martial artist and actress, Maggie Q.

It used to matter how I looked when I was younger.  True to how Filipinos are, I did not want to be mistaken as Chinese.  I, in fact, did not want anyone guessing that I was indeed from the Philippines.  I was, however, open to anything resembling Western features.  As I got older and eventually had exotic half-Haitian children, I embraced anything that came closest to my Oriental descent.  And whenever someone said Filipino, (hardly ever by a Filipino, by the way) I would be struck with a sense of excitement mixed with surprise and relief that someone had guessed my identity correctly.  I suppose I wanted only to be identified by my real origin since that's the part of me I've given to my children.  They know they are half Filipino and half Haitian.  And that half, that Filipino half, came from me.

Yes, yes, of course I have Spanish blood.  Four hundred years of Spanish rule, pillaging the land and subjecting women into cohabitation, will render a Filipino half bred.  But the most of me is Filipino and at almost 40, I am not only at peace with it, I am quite proud of it.

Those of you that know me know that in the last few years some changes have taken placed in my life that may bring on an identity crisis.  My Dad had somewhat turned Buddhist (he insist he's a Christian but spend 5 minutes with him and you make your own conclusion) and my mother had started claiming she's a Messianic Jew. I tried to tell her repeatedly that you first need to be a Jew, get converted and then become Messianic.  I was raised an Apostolic Pentecostal, in a church where trimming hair led to eternal damnation and being eternally damned was a favorite subject.  But after a minister Dad now Buddhist philosopher, and a Messianic mom and now a gay brother, I want to be nothing more than just a Filipino who believes in Jesus Christ and hopes somehow, someway everyone makes it in the pearly gates.

And then...my aunt died 3 weeks ago.  Her death, though painful and mourned, sadly did not come as a surprise.  She had been battling cancer for some time and in her last week, she said her goodbyes.  She was tired, she missed her mother, and she wanted to be with the Lord.  

Her death was expected.  Her burial...shocking.

"We are Jewish!" my mother laughed with excitement when she saw me.  "The rabbi in the Jewish cemetery confirmed in our genealogy that your great-grandmother  from my mother's side was a full Jew from Spain who relocated to the Philippines in the 1800's.  Your aunt is buried in the Jewish cemetery.  We are Jewish!"

I looked at my mother.

"Do you hear what I'm saying? According to Jewish law if the mother's side is Jewish, even a thousand years back, their children are 100% Jews.  We are Jewish! I always knew I was.  I always said I was! And that means you too. You are Jewish!"

I kept looking at my mother.

Three weeks have passed and I don't think I've quite recovered from the shock.  How could that be?  That Law makes no sense.  How could you be so watered down and still be 100%? 

"Wait a minute, wait a minute.  If your great grandmother is Jewish, then your grandmother is Jewish which means your mother is Jewish.  And Anna Marie, you are Jewish."

I was on the phone with my Hasidic boss.

I stared at the computer screen in my office, mouth agape.

So, here I am, almost 4 decades old, trying to be the Virtuous Woman, a position I had concluded long ago to belong only to Jewish women.  And as of 3 weeks ago, it looks as though I may be in the running of really becoming one.

I looked at myself in the mirror and thought, well, that really will throw a monkey wrench in the works, wouldn't it?  The next time a group decides to bet, no one will come even close.  At this point in time, I also want to join that bet.  

And from the look of things lately, I too might walk away a loser.

The Unpromised Tomorrow

I was driving in the pouring rain when one of my staff members called me on the phone very early one morning.  I pulled over and tried to understand her between her sobs.  I heard words like "still can't see" and "MRI" and  "brain" and "swelling."  She was talking about her only child, her 7-yr-old in the ICU and I felt my body tremble as my own tears drenched my face. She cried, "My heart hurts, please Miss Anna Marie, help me...my heart hurts!"

Somewhere between closing my door and running across the street in the pouring rain, I lost my car keys.  I had never done that before but I felt half lucid and the early morning news had caught me off guard.  I had just been in that hospital room the day before, watching her daughter rest, wondering what it was that caused her to suddenly lose her vision.  I had prayed over her little body and every member of the family in that quiet room cried along with me.

I remember asking God, why. Why?  Why when that was her only daughter? Why when her whole life as a single mother revolved around her child, when she worked full time while finishing college, forgoing sleep and rest for the sake of the unpromised tomorrow for her and her little girl. Why?

"She woke up Saturday saying she had a headache.  I gave her medicine.  Then she went back to sleep.  When she woke up, she couldn't see."

Just like that.  One day life is routinely normal.  The next, tragic.

Because I can often only really relate when I'm able to associate an event in my own life, I kept thinking of my son, Aaron.  One day he was healthy. The next, a life sentence with diabetes.  I thought of my Alanna. One day running around singing Yo Gabba Gabba.  The next, fighting for her life.

The next day a friend called me and asked if I had heard about a girl we both knew.  She had taken her life just hours before.  She was young and married and had friends.

I must admit I drove in a stupor for several days, heavy hearted, clouded, and my soul somewhat empty.  I thought of the young lady I work with and her child.  I thought of the hardship of the test results and the diagnosis.  I pictured her tall, thin body trembling as we stood by radiology waiting for her daughter to awaken from anesthesia, tears streaming down her broken face.  But we were praying, we were hoping.

Hoping...

"The thing about suicide is on the one hand it's so selfish.  On the other hand...how bad could it be in your mind that you don't think things could ever, ever be better?" said a young friend.  We were both on our way to work, carpooling, and reflecting on the sudden loss that had taken placed just days before.  I thought about the grieving parents, the relatives, the husband.

That's just it, I told him. You never know what tomorrow will bring.  You can be on the top of the mountain today and find yourself at the bottom of the well in the morning.  You can be at the bottom of the well today, and tomorrow you can find yourself on the top of that mountain.  I told him I'd been studying the book of Ecclesiastes.  Everything is temporary.  The joy, the pain, the ease, the suffering.  We will experience them all because there's a time for everything.

"You can't say it's hopeless because you don't know what tomorrow will bring.  You can't say you got it all together either...because you don't know what tomorrow will bring."

Three days after that rainy morning and that phone call, I got a text.  That precious little girl got her vision back.  The swelling had decreased and her brain, slowly but surely, was healing.

This afternoon, although her daughter is still in the hospital, my co-worker graduated from college and celebrated a great victory of perseverance and sacrifice.

And so I'm thinking of right now. Today is here. And as I write this, tomorrow is fast approaching. I'm learning a lesson on things that have no permanence.  Happiness is not guaranteed but pain and suffering will also pass, sooner or later.

The Jewish scholars say that the Virtuous Woman was Bathsheba.  Her life was full of gains and losses.  She lost a husband and a newborn son.  She gained the heart of a king and inherited a kingdom.  But because she was a woman full of virtue and wisdom, I like to think that when things were good she didn't take them for granted.  And when things became tragic she knew they weren't final.  She was, after all, the mother of the wisest king that ever lived who claimed that there is a time for everything and to everything, there is a season--that life is but a vapor and that suffering is temporary.  Nomatter how long it may take, it will pass.

It is no wonder Ecclesiastes echoes repeatedly with this admonition: eat, drink, and enjoy the fruit of your labor.  The son of the Virtuous Woman knew that there are so many unpromised tomorrows. There are no guarantees.  There are no certainties.

What we do have is right now.  And for that, I am grateful and I must, to the best that I can, live every second of it to the fullest.