A tribute to cherry blossoms and Easter

It was winter when my family and I first arrived in Canada. Our friends and family in Manila thought we were crazy to make the move in the winter time. “Wait until the summer, when the weather’s warmer,” they urged us. But my mother wanted to spend Christmas with her parents and sisters, who were waiting for us in Vancouver. So on December 10, 1992, after interminable delays due to bad weather, and the final, bumpy flight in an airbus from Seattle, we seven Olagueras landed on Canadian soil.

I don’t know if you remember the winter of 1992. By December 10, it had already snowed, and it continued to snow into the new year. One morning, early, just a few days after we arrived, my father gently shook me awake and led me to the window, and together we watched our first snowfall. I was astonished and delighted to see that the sky was pink, and the thick, feathery flakes turned gold in the light of the street lamps.

For the most part, though, that was a miserable time. In early January, we moved from the comfort and familiarity of my aunt’s house and into a rental in South Burnaby. The house was clean and spacious, but unfurnished, the rooms echoing with emptiness. Our furniture, books and paintings had followed us out from the Philippines by ship and were not due to arrive for another month. The day after we moved in, there was another huge dump of snow which made it impossible for anyone to come out and visit us. But it was a Sunday, and my father and younger sister and I decided we had to try and make it to Mass. I remember standing at the bus stop in the whirling snow, wondering, “What am I doing here?” and feeling colder than I had ever been in my life – both inside and out.

Finally it stopped snowing, but it was still cold and I was stuck with the feeling of not belonging anywhere. Home, to me, was still the white stucco house back in Manila, with its red tile roof, eucalyptus trees and ginger flowers in the garden, and one of my best friends living across the park. But that house was no longer ours and I knew I could never go back. On the other hand, to call this empty rental house “home” was a joke. I found a job and started working, telling myself that at least, unlike many immigrants, I already spoke English. But I found that nobody could understand me, as I struggled to get the accent and colloquialisms of Canadian English just right. New friends were few and far between, and I was terribly lonely. But I didn’t want to unburden my woes on my parents, who already had enough to worry about, or my sister, who had started at the local secondary school and had major adjustments of her own to cope with. My other siblings were too young to be confidantes. Besides, they seemed to have taken to our new life with no problems whatsoever. They thought playing in the snow was fun, for heaven’s sake – while I had to trudge up a steep and icy hill to the bus stop and was already thinking of it peevishly as that “d---ed” white stuff. The children’s innocent enjoyment seemed an affront to my misery.

So things sort of limped along – and then, spring came. Miraculously, the snow melted, the sun shone. Best of all, the cherry blossoms appeared. I had never seen cherry blossoms before. Our neighbourhood streets were lined with cherry trees, and walking to the bus stop was no longer penance but pleasure. To this day, the sight of cherry blossoms, pink and white against a blue sky, lifts my heart and my spirit.

By this time, the shipment from Manila had finally arrived. My mother was happily arranging our belongings, and the house looked better everyday. But there were delights outside as well. Whoever had lived here before us had been an avid gardener. As the months progressed, the garden was constantly surprising us with all sorts of unfamiliar but wonderful flowers. Later, I looked in garden books and found out that they were crocuses, daffodils and tulips. I stuck dandelions in the buttonholes of my jacket, not knowing they were weeds. We had apple trees by the back porch, all adrift in white, as if there had been another snowfall, and in the vegetable patch, my youngest sister discovered strawberries.

It was truly for me a time of new beginnings. Easter Sunday that year was a beautiful sunny day, warm enough for the children to paint Easter eggs on the back porch and have an egg hunt in the garden. Watching them, I found myself smiling, widely and openly, for the first time in months. I had been, both literally and figuratively, in a cold, gray limbo. But spring sunshine and Easter joy are a powerful combination. Suddenly, I was filled with hope for the future, and with the unshakable conviction that I was exactly where God wanted me to be. I was home.

Happy Easter season, everyone!

Learnng to be human from The Little Mermaid

The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen was my favourite fairy tale as a child. For reasons I could not then name, I found it deeply satisfying, even if the little mermaid didn't end up with the prince. Revisiting it as an adult, I see now how marvellously rich and complex a story it is. Andersen's lush descriptions and enchanting plot fully capture a child's imagination. At the same time, the story easily resonates with adults because it grapples with the deepest longings of the human heart.

"Far out to sea…" The opening lines of the story sweeps us away with the swiftness of a speedboat to a magical, underwater kingdom inhabited by the mythical mermen. The heroine of the story is the sea-king's daughter. The youngest and fairest of six girls, her fascination with the world above the surface sets her apart from her sisters. Her love for the human prince ultimately causes her to leave her home and loved ones for a painful and uncertain future. Andersen manages to imbue the little mermaid’s alienation with real and intense emotion, translating into her character his own feelings of being an outsider (see Bredsdorff’s excellent biography, Hans Christian Andersen: The Story of His Life and Work).

Andersen also makes the little mermaid a true protagonist, in charge of her own destiny. She is not your usual fairytale princess, the kind that waits for the prince to kiss her awake or for her turn to try on the glass slipper.

First of all, and quite remarkably, the little mermaid saves the prince’s life, rescuing him from a shipwreck. In a valiant attempt to win his love and an immortal soul, she then visits the sea-witch, who strikes a terrible bargain: in exchange for a pair of legs, the little mermaid must give up her voice.

The witch also warns her that the transformation of her tail into legs will feel like being torn into two with a sharp sword, and every step on dry land will be as if she were walking on sharp knives. Even more painful will be the separation from her home and loved ones: never again will she live underwater, and if she fails in her attempt to win the prince, she will turn into sea-foam. The little mermaid agrees to everything, and with characteristic fairytale violence, the witch cuts out her tongue.

The prince of the story, on the other hand, is practically unconscious. He has no idea that the little mermaid was the one who really saved him from drowning. He treats her like a beloved pet, “but to make her his queen did not occur to him at all”.

However, the little mermaid remains faithful and devoted to him to the end. Even after he falls in love with and marries another, she refuses to take advantage of an enchanted knife, kindly provided by the sea-witch, which if plunged into the prince’s heart would cause his blood to splash onto her legs and turn them into a fish-tail once more. The little mermaid would rather face “an endless night without thought or dreams” than kill her love.

The little mermaid doesn’t end up with her prince, but she doesn’t turn into sea-foam either. It is neither a fairy-tale ending nor a tragedy, and features another unique twist: the little mermaid apparently has turned into an angel-like spirit, with a chance to win immortality. Ultimately, it is the only fitting reward for her tremendous love, courage, and selflessness.

The Meaning of Home

Last November my parents made what is hopefully the last big move of their married life, and left Vancouver for Montreal.

After a tearful goodbye at the airport, I got on the bus that would take me to a Skytrain station, and so on to Surrey, where I had been living for the past year – during the week, anyway. I still went “home” to Aldergrove most weekends – even if they consisted mostly of cleaning up and clearing out while the realtor brought around prospective buyers. As long as my parents still lived in Aldergrove, that was home to me, no matter where I laid my head during the week.

Don’t get me wrong. I will be eternally grateful to this good friend of mine who had offered me not only the extra bedroom and bathroom in her spacious townhouse, but also the space on the landing for my reading lamp, chair, and books; half her linen closet and kitchen storage; and the entire back end of her garage for all my extra stuff. Not to mention the fact that she herself is quiet, orderly, undemanding, and eats anything I cook for her (even the weirdest Pinoy food). I knew that when I got back to “our place” all would be clean, tidy, and peaceful. But as I made my way back to Surrey on that November day, feeling like an abandoned orphan, I was amazed to find that I was also homesick. I wanted to get on the bus that would take me over Langley's long green hills to Aldergrove. I wanted to walk down the street from the bus stop and see the yellow siding and gray shingle roof peeking through the trees that separated our yard from the neighbour’s. I wanted to open the front door and find everything and everyone still there where they belonged – including the dog (and she had been dead for a year).

When you live someplace for a long time, you tend to put down roots, and it’s a wrench to pull them back up. Or worse, leave them behind: the neighbours whose children grew up along with your siblings, all the wonderful folks at church, the cashiers at the supermarket who know you by name, your fellow regulars at the gym, the waitress at the corner Japanese restaurant who doesn't have to give you a menu because she already knows exactly what you’re going to order. The roses and peonies you set out in the garden; the cotoneaster, now running riot, that started out as seven small plants; the lilac bush that over the years became a tree. In the garden outside and in the empty rooms within are the ghosts of small children now grown up and gone, laughter over long-forgotten jokes, and echoes of conversations around a dining table that’s been packed up and moved away.

You know you will always remember them, and wonder if they will remember you.

And after a while you realize that the only cure for homesickness is to put down new roots and start being happy where you are.

To me, the word home will always bring to mind a picture of our happy little yellow house. Fortunately, my parents gave me the blueprints and tools to duplicate it, wherever I happen to be.

Middlemarch

I’ve just finished reading Middlemarch by George Eliot – a big thick wedge of a book, and one of the most satisfying novels I’ve ever read. It feels and reads like an epic, even though it contains no heroes in the traditional sense of the word, is not set in the context of any great historical conflict, and does not span a long period of time.

Instead, it contains characters marvellous for their ordinariness – people even we moderns can recognize and identify with. Eliot was a genius in character study, and she brilliantly portrays this or that aspect of human nature in a few skillful strokes, and captures a character’s predominant fault or virtue with a simple gesture, facial expression, or a few words of dialogue. The lives of her characters in Middlemarch make up three main story lines, which mingle, separate, and twine together again like the branches of a vine. From the very start we are drawn into their joys, loves, sorrows and concerns. Perhaps Eliot realizes this, for she begins the epilogue by saying, Who can quit young lives after being long in company of them, and not desire to know what befell them in their after-years?

I would recommend this book to young men and women, especially those in a relationship and may be thinking of getting married. I would also recommend it to almost-grown-up children who are just beginning to realize that their parents are not perfect beings. The book offers many insights about friendships, relationships, marriage and family life: how very easily we can fall in love with the idea we have formed about a person, instead of seeing who the person really is; how parents, while capable of many mistakes, are still deserving of all our affection and respect; how married couples can survive any difficulty if they remain united and are able to laugh together.

I leave it to you to discover for yourself these and many other lessons from Middlemarch. But I cannot resist sharing with you two of my favourite quotes from the book:

The first was uttered by one of my favourite characters, Mary Garth: I consider my father and mother the best part of myself.

And this, the concluding sentence of the book, which I think expresses wonderfully the value and beauty of the extraordinary good we can do with ordinary lives well-lived: …the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.

"Chaste by choice"

A new generation of girls are keeping their virginity - for reasons that have nothing to do with religion or adult inspiration
SIRI AGRELL
From Thursday's Globe and Mail
July 26, 2007 at 8:52 AM EDT
Erin Burton's virginity is not up for grabs, politically speaking.
It cannot be attributed to religious affiliations, of which she has none, or sex-education classes, which the Grade 12 student from Hamilton found pretty uninspiring.
The 17-year-old simply chalks up her decision to personal choice.
But Ms. Burton and other young people who have decided to avoid sex until marriage are finding themselves amid something of a virgin renaissance, in which others are hailing their sexual inexperience as everything from a feminist manifesto to a reactionary trend to a fashion statement.
'Basically I feel that at this age I don't even know myself and so I shouldn't let anyone else know me that intimately,' says Erin Burton, 17. (Glenn Lows for The Globe and Mail)
Two new books about chastity, Virgin: The Untouched History and Girls Gone Mild: Young Women Reclaim Self-Respect and Find It's Not Bad to Be Good, credit today's population of modest teens to, respectively, a natural progression in female sexual liberation and the backlash against an overtly sexual culture.
As adults attempt to explain, explore or exploit teenage virginity, young Canadians such as Ms. Burton see their decision as unremarkable and apolitical, something they have settled on independently without adult inspiration.
"Basically, I feel that at this age I don't even know myself and so I shouldn't let anyone else know me that intimately," Ms. Burton said. "I've heard so many good reasons why you should stay abstinent and none against it."
And it is this attitude of nonchalant piety that has recently been embraced by pop culture.
Ian McEwan's new bestseller, On Chesil Beach, chronicles the awkward night two young newlyweds try - and fail - to consummate their relationship and lose their virginity. The female protagonist, who abhors sex, goes on to be successful and fulfilled, while her way-too-eager ex lives a life of sexual freedom and ultimate despondency.
In Manhattan, the producers of an off-Broadway play called My First Time gave free tickets to those who could prove - to a hypnotist - that they were virgins. The show is based on true-life deflowering tales that were submitted by the public on a popular website.
And in Canada, Winnipeg filmmaker John Barnard is developing a film called Wild Cherry, a teen comedy about three girls who make a pact to remain virgins during their senior year. The production is meant to offer a funny counterpoint to horn-dog boy flicks such as American Pie, in which getting laid is the ultimate in accomplishments.
Ms. Burton is not surprised the good-girl image is gaining traction within these media. She says there is appeal in not buying into the easy sexual culture that has permeated high schools over recent years. "It shows that I have the strength to go against the norms of society and not be influenced by everyone around me," she said.
Girls like her are influenced by a sociopolitical climate, even if they don't realize it, says Hanne Blank, author of Virgin: The Untouched History.
"One of the things at play here, somewhat paradoxically, is feminism," she said. "Women can make whatever choice they want without being taken to task if that choice is unpopular."
In the late 20th century, Ms. Blank said, the most popular rationale for remaining chaste was to avoid being labelled a tramp or a slut. Now, proud autonomy has supplanted the fear of getting a bad reputation.
"This is a way that you can express your independence, your feminism, your intelligence," she said. "And that message is marketed to young people from all sides of the political spectrum."
But Wendy Shalit, author of Girls Gone Mild, believes the trend toward modesty is occurring organically with today's young people, more of a reaction to previous generations than a result of their efforts.
Ms. Shalit interviewed girls and women aged 12 to 40, and found that the younger the woman, "the less likely she was to see being publicly sexual as the path to empowerment. ...
"They've seen it all already, and they're bored with it," she said of young women. "For teens, the concept of actually taking the time to get to know someone before you hook up with them is a radical and welcome new concept."
The highly sexed culture epitomized by Britney Spears, baby tees and the Bratz was begging for a backlash, Ms. Shalit believes.
This would explain why film producers, Broadway playwrights and famous novelists have adopted the proudly chaste as their new protagonist, someone who offers a somewhat fresher, more inspiring and introspective character than her sexed-up sister.
But for the girls themselves, the move toward modesty remains more closely rooted in personal experience than in cultural phenomena.
Hannah Boyd, a 17-year-old from Edmonton, said she decided to save herself for marriage after one of her friends contracted a sexually transmitted disease.
"I've seen a lot of people have bad experiences that left them in complicated situations," she said.
Ms. Boyd is also influenced by her religious upbringing but, like Ms. Burton, is unfazed by behaviours that conflict with her own.
"People who don't remain abstinent aren't bad or wrong, it's just a choice they made," she said. "I guess they just think it's the right time."
And it is this attitude that is ultimately revolutionary, said Ms. Blank, demonstrating that whatever the rationale, a new generation seems to be increasingly impervious to judgment.
"I think it's a nice corrective to what I grew up with, which was if you're not having sex, you're a freak."

How we beat the heat

We're in the middle of a heat wave. Today was the hottest day yet...it hit over 35 degrees in the Valley. Even the cows are fainting (I'm not kidding).

I think the heat addled our brains a bit. Today, of all days, Mom roasted the boiled pork belly she's been air-drying for days, to make lechon with a nice, crisp, crackling, golden-brown rind. And Sashi decided to make cupcakes.

So the kitchen was boiling for most of the afternoon, but we had a great dinner. We ate outside on the patio and feasted on the roast pork, Thai noodle salad, and ice-cold Guinness. For dessert, Sashi made individual-sized trifles with crumbled white cake (made from the leftover cupcake batter), berries, and vanilla icecream, drizzled with white balsamic vinegar syrup.

Once, they had a secret love

Sorting through some papers after my grandmother died, my mother found her parents' marriage certificate. But there were a few strange details about it. First of all, it had been torn down the middle and then taped back together. And the date of the marriage was November 29, 1952: two years and a day before the date the family had always celebrated as my grandparents' wedding anniversary. It had always been easy to remember, because that day, November 30, was also my grandmother's birthday.

Understandably, my mother proceeded to have a small crisis. What did this certificate mean? When did her parents actually get married? If the wedding date was wrong, did that mean her birthdate was wrong, too???

Only one person knew the answer. When confronted with the certificate, my grandfather smiled. "I was wondering when you'd find that." Then he sat my mother down and told her the whole story - a story that he and my grandmother had kept secret for more than fifty years.

My grandparents had known each other since their early high school years. My grandfather's younger sister and my grandmother went to the same school, and my grandfather was the handsome older boy whose picture was sighed over by the other girls in their class. They each dated other people, but by the time they were in university, they had fallen deeply in love and knew they wanted to be married.

However, my grandmother's father was very strict, and they were afraid that if he discovered their attachment, he would never allow them to marry, and even try to keep them apart.

So, aided and abetted by a priest my grandfather knew, who performed the ceremony, and by my grandmother's best friend and my grandfather's young uncle, who acted as witnesses, they married in secret on November 29, 1952, one day shy of my grandmother's 20th birthday.

They tore their marriage certificate straight down the middle, and each kept one half. It was their insurance against the negative reaction they expected from my grandmother's father, in case he found out about their union before my grandfather was in a better position to formally ask for my grandmother's hand in marriage.

Fortunately, the next two years went according to plan. My grandparents both graduated from university, and my grandfather found a steady job. At last he was able to make his intentions known to my great-grandfather. That formidable gentleman was not pleased, but - amazingly - did nothing to stop them from being married.

Why was another church wedding necessary? Why not just reveal the original marriage certificate?

My grandfather explained, "We didn't want to hurt our parents. Besides, our families were well-known in the community. Imagine the scandal! How could we have explained it? Married in secret, but without being together as man and wife for two years? Who would have believed us?"

Who, indeed? Who wuld have believed that a young man and woman, very much in love, and with every right to be together as husband and wife, could wait for two whole years before consummating their marriage? Was it possible? Was it even necessary?

"Absolutely necessary," my grandfather said. "If she had gotten pregnant..."

Of course. An even bigger scandal would have ensued. They both wanted to "do things right" - to save their families a lot of heartache, and above all, to do nothing that might risk losing each other.

"So you mean I was really born on my birthdate?" my mother said in relief. "I'm really the age I am now? I'm not....older?"

My grandfather laughed. "Yes! You were born a year after our big church wedding." He shook his head, remembering. "All that fuss...the guests....and everything." And then he smiled. "Every year Mama and I would have a quiet little celebration...just the two of us...on November 29."