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As we near the end of the year, the final projects and exam stress are starting to pile on. Although the approaching deadlines for the APUSH and English projects are getting me antsy, I feel that I am genuinely excited to open my computer every day and dig through databases and google books in search for primary sources and new knowledge on my research question (that sounded incredibly sarcastic, but really, I don’t mean it that way). My energy this May is really surprising me, mainly because around this time last year, I struggled with constantly feeling burnt out. Burnout is difficult because it’s easy to miss the signs; it can come out of the blue and really hit you hard. I know for me, while feeling burnt out and unmotivated I mostly blamed myself—why couldn’t I just put my head down and get through the work? Looking back, after a few more short spells of burnout, I have realized that the best thing to do is just listen to your body. There really is nothing else to do when your mind is virtually throwing a tantrum at the thought of having to accomplish another task. I know, it’s easier said than done, and it would be really helpful if the people around us were more receptive to that idea. Although I acknowledge that there’s no quick fix to burnout, and it is definitely a different experience for everyone, I think a good start is always trying to acknowledge and stand by what you feel.

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I read an article in the New York Times Magazine about the latest development in the Filipino diaspora: in addition to the many overseas workers in Saudi Arabia, the United States, Europe, and Hong Kong, increasing numbers of Filipinos are leaving their home to work abroad in Israel. A vast majority of those migrant Filipinos in Israel work as caregivers, so much so that the word Filipino has become almost synonymous with caregiver (as the New York Times Magazine article stated). I have not done too much research on the policies regarding migrant Filipinos in other countries, but in Israel, it’s really difficult for migrants to obtain and keep a visa. As a result, many Filipinos in Israel do not have legal status, and they become especially vulnerable to coercion and abuse by their employers. But for the most part, many Filipino caregivers love working in Israel. Many of these “overseas foreign workers” (OFWs, as they are called in the Philippines) living in Israel enjoy higher pay and better conditions than their counterparts living in Saudi Arabia or Hong Kong, other popular destinations for OFWs. Additionally, many OFWs in Israel find their values compatible with Israeli ones, at feel at home in Israel.

As an ethnic Filipino living abroad, I share some similarities with these Israeli OFWs—I feel a sense of home in both places. But we are also drastically different; my parents left the country to get a better education, not out of dire necessity but more out of choice. Some OFWs must leave to create steady income for their families—many leave spouses and young children behind. In total, this group of OFWs bring in 10% of the GDP. In other words, there are a lot of working class Filipinos that give up their lives and families at home to become domestics, construction workers, and caregivers abroad. To me, this is not a sustainable system, and reflects one of the key fractures in Filipino society: the divide between those with resources and those without. 

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Today I spent my free period playing with Dave’s (our artist in residence) 10 month old baby, Linden. I watched as Linden grinned her toothless smile, shoved strips of chicken and diced watermelon in her mouth, and grabbed for the astronaut attached to my car keys. Once she got her bottle of milk, she began laughing at the most random things. I couldn’t figure out what she was so entertained by at all—and I started thinking about what it would be like to be a baby again: seeing things for the first time, and experiencing the world as a person smaller than everyone and many other things you see. I imagined waking up as a baby in my bed, and wading for forever within the sheets on top of my double bed. Seeing the dawn light and feeling wide awake. I thought about riding in the car; feeling the bumps in the road and having no idea where I am, being almost temporarily suspended from normal time and space. The whole world would be the little shell of the car. I imagined walking around the circle at break, holding someone’s hands and only being able to make it a few steps before falling on the wet pavement. Examining the pollen cones lining the asphalt, split open by the steps of other (bigger) people.

There’s just something so comforting about babies. They almost force me to pay attention at the smaller things, like pollen cones, wads of discarded blue tape, and stones on the paths I walk upon every day. They remind me of what it’s like to do something new and experience something for the first time. It can be difficult to get into that mindset, but I think it’s a good way to ground myself. No matter how stressed or disappointed I am, there are always the little aspects of life itself to look to.

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My cousin and aunt arrived from the Philippines a few days ago. I haven’t really spent a lot of time with them yet because of homework and other activities, but I’ve still spent the past three days in their presence, as it’s pretty difficult to not cross paths when you’re staying in the same house. They talk and move loudly downstairs when I’m trying to sleep, but besides that, I like having them around. It’s nice to have people in the house who aren’t my parents or sister—my cousin, Kian, is my age, and a new person for me to talk to. He and I enjoy similar things like fashion and photography. Joan, my aunt, is loud, carefree, and a pretty fierce lady.

I even find myself thinking about their patterns of behavior while I’m doing my homework. They are asleep when I wake up for school. They go to the city for the day, explore different areas, eat good food, watch the sunset. They go out with some of our extended family’s friends (somehow all the cousins know each other's friends) and they return to the house late at night, laughing and chattering while I try to fall asleep. At this point in the school year, I’m getting a little tired of waking up early and having to go through the same routine every week. Watching the sunset and wandering around San Francisco sounds pretty nice. I know I won’t be able to accompany Kian and Joan out on every Bay Area adventure they embark on over the next few weeks, but I will be able to join in on some of their weekend explorations. And spring break is approaching fast. Thankfully, I think it will be pretty easy to incorporate some more spontaneity of Kian and Joan’s vacation into my life right now.

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silence and skins

I spent a fair part of my break watching the television series Skins. If you haven’t heard of the show, it follows 3 groups of teenagers living in Bristol, England through sixth form (aka their last 2 years of high school). The show is a window into a life that is completely different from the one I know. Although I watched mainly for the purpose of having a good time and relaxing during my break, it got me thinking about silence. I don’t really watch much TV, but in comparison to other popular TV shows that I have managed to watch, the characters’ interactions seemed more genuine. The writers filled conversations and other moments with realistic amounts of silence—when the characters just didn’t know what to say, when they were processing something that just happened, when they were just pausing to let themselves feel. And these moments were not awkward. Watching these scenes made me believe that silence is a natural, integral part of any conversation or interaction that really matters. Silence is a marker that there is something bigger than the words at hand, that there are emotions involved that cannot really be understood or quickly reasoned out. Silence is actually pretty special and powerful. I’ve always shied away from it, and have felt embarrassed of the conversations punctuated by it, like the silence is somehow due to my awkwardness. But it’s definitely something I now want to try to start accepting more.

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Before we went on our global trips, we were all warned that there would be occasions where we wouldn’t know exactly what was coming next. We wouldn’t always have a schedule; we would always have to be flexible and sort of spontaneous. When we discussed our leadership competencies, fears, and goals for the trip, many of my classmates talked about this idea of being out of their normal routine, or just not really having a routine at all. I was sort of surprised at this talk—I have a routine, since my busy schedule forces me to keep one—but I have always been willing, if not eager, to give it up or interrupt it to make room for new experiences. I like to go with the flow, and I love just being somewhere, immersed in an activity, and knowing I don’t have to leave for some other engagement in the next hour.

Lately, with the semester in full swing, my schedule is as packed as ever. Everything is a task to check off, whether it’s math homework, or my jog, or sleeping an adequate amount. Everything is timed; two minutes until class starts, five minutes for a break between bio and APUSH. It was easy to do at first, and I was pleased with myself at being so productive (I was consistently getting more than eight hours of sleep). But it’s been getting harder and harder to just simply follow my schedule. It almost feels suffocating. Even though almost all the tasks on my schedule require deep thinking, I feel like I’m just going through the motions.

This is probably the time where I need to think back to my investigators trip. I need to figure out a way to bring back the spontaneity of the trip into my life right now. I know it will be difficult, but it’s something I really need to do, even if many of the people around me may not need it as much as me.

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adidas

Nowadays Castilleja is a sea of adidas trainers. At any given area of campus, you can always spot a pair of white and green Stan Smiths or the classic black and white Superstars. Occasionally, there are a few stray pairs of navy and white Gazelles. Of course, there are the colorway variations of these shoes, too: the pink and white Stan Smiths, maybe red and white Superstars.

Adidas were my choice shoe from fifth grade to freshman year. I started with the sambas, which doubled as my everyday shoes as well as the shoes I would wear to futsal (indoor soccer) practice. I wore my first black pair until there were holes in the soles, and then I bought two new pairs--this time, a black one and a white one. I liked them because they showed the athletic part of me whenever I wore them out, even if I wasn’t wearing them with my soccer uniform.

In around 7th or 8th grade, I got a pair of green and white Stan Smiths. I had seen a fashion blogger wearing them and knew I wanted them on my feet, too. In a sea of white converse and canvas vans, it was nice to think that I had my Stan Smiths. I wore them almost every single day for around a year and a half, until it seemed like everyone else began wearing them, too.

For at least a year and a half, I haven’t even considered wearing my old adidas again. Blending in wasn’t my thing and I didn’t want to be “basic” by any measure. But these past few weeks, I’ve pulled both my old white sambas and classic Stan Smiths out of the back of my closet and worn them out several times. My Stan Smiths were yellowing on the sole, and its new contrast with the white leather upper made me see my old shoe as interesting and different again. The suede lining of my sambas, although permanently caked in dirt, weren’t like everyone else’s adidas—and with their low-profile silhouette and creamy-white color, the shoe complemented some of my outfits perfectly.

As silly as it sounds, Adidas shoes have always been dear to me. Over the past three years, seeing them paired with basic, mainstream outfits have made me feel like they’re not really my own anymore, so it’s nice to be able to finally re embrace them.

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Although I live pretty far from school, I’m lucky that my commute involves driving down 280 every single day. I’m not a morning person, and it’s really hard to get me out of bed especially with the cold weather these days. But even when I’m barely awake and don’t really feel like moving, the one thing I can find myself looking forward to is the drive past the green hills adorned with their grey tendrils of fog.

I’ve found myself to be increasingly reliant and in awe of the nature around me. Green has always been my favorite color because I associate it with vibrance and life. I always loved seeing anything that was my favorite shade of bright, intense green--it always gave me a little boost of energy.

When I started Kindergarten at the age of four, I stopped paying attention to the plants around me. I didn’t start caring about them again until around last month. But now, with the constant stress, negativity and draining tedium of school, I’ve suddenly started to look to the funny plants and trees lining the places I frequent. On the Bryant sidewalk, I examine the fallen red leaves that have been pressed onto the sidewalk by rain. I touch the strange succulents that bloom by my doctor’s office. And I enjoy the fog and the hills of 280 too—though it’s not the plants that I look at, but the way the fog masks and plays with the hills. These types of nature are short, refreshing respites during my packed day; they provide a quirky, stubborn, beautiful, unpredictable kind of life that I don’t always see in my day to day experience. They give me variation from the papers and computer screens and insides of classrooms and bedrooms that I’ve found myself constantly surrounded by this past semester; more importantly, they give me genuine, spiritual energy.

I’m thankful to have found another way to fuel my tank for this final stretch. I think I’ll just have to keep reminding myself that there’s only one more week to go, and when it gets hard I know I’ll have something nearby to refuel me.

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Profiles

One of the profiles I read was The Bullfighter Checks her Makeup by Susan Orlean. What stood out to me most about the profile was how Orlean conveyed the complexity of Cristina Sanchez. She analyzed all the facets of Sanchez’s life: the nature of bullfighting, her presence at home, her “girly” personality, her fame. Sanchez is a character full of contradictions, and Orlean is able to convey that to the readers, who are then able to puzzle over her just like Orlean did.

Orlean especially capitalized on the fact that her subject was famous. She mostly wrote about Cristina Sanchez both from the normal spectator/fan point of view, with some interviewing and observation in a personal setting. It was interesting to gain insight on how others see her. Even though my subject is far from a celebrity, I will try to convey her interactions with others and how they see her. My subject works as a nanny and housekeeper, but she is also a mother, wife, theology student and active church member. She is part of many communities and her peers from the different spheres of her life probably treat her in different ways.

Lastly, I thought Orlean’s incorporation of translated quotes was interesting. They seemed a little sanitized, but I still thought they more or less flowed with the rest of the piece. My subject’s mother tongue is Spanish too (although she still speaks good English). I won’t have a translator for most of the time, but I will keep in mind that she may not be expressing herself fully through English and somehow try to incorporate this into my profile. Also, I will try to think more about how I will incorporate Spanish phrases into my piece, and whether I will translate them or leave them untranslated.

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Ballon d’Ors and Failure

Recently, FIFA released the shortlist for the 2016 Ballon d’Or, the award for the world’s best soccer player. Of course, the nominees include the expected players, like Leo Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo. But there are newer players who have risen to prominence over the past year—Riyad Mahrez and Jamie Vardy of Leicester City, who won the 2015-2016 Premier League against all odds (many betting services listed the team’s chance of winning as 1/5000), Antoine Griezmann of Atletico Madrid, who showed his skill all throughout the Champions League and the Euro Cup (both that he ultimately ended up losing).

Griezmann is one of my favorite soccer players. He’s not Messi, but he still makes the game fun to watch because he is so scrappy yet so artistic at the same time. He’s received great recognition for this special combination of qualities this year. He led his club to the final of the Champions League, his country to the final of the Euro Cup, and himself to the final 3 of the UEFA Player of the Year awards. This list of accomplishments, however, ultimately amounted to 3 major disappointments: closely losing two huge finals and the European player of the year award.

Of course, even without those titles, he already has a great career: a starting spot on a good team, billions of euros, tons of people who adore him. And he’s only 25, still a few years away from his peak playing years. But the sense of failure must still remain in him, especially after coming so close 3 times in one year. There are no promises he will come so close next year, or the year after that, since his overall performance is always affected by the quality of the team around him. I can only speculate how he feels and how he deals with these feelings. But he does seem to be picking himself back up, because he still keeps scoring goals and moving forward. He hasn’t seemed to lose confidence.

This Ballon d’Or could mean yet another failure, and as silly as it seems I find myself scared for him. As a fan invested in him and his performance, I don’t want another failure to stop his soccer brilliance. However, the more I think about it, after three failures this year, each of which he has dealt well with, one more failure wouldn’t realistically make or break his game.

I guess I tend to think of failure as something that will inevitably end up affecting you in large ways that you can never foresee. And that probably explains the nervousness I feel at the case of Griezmann and the Ballon d’Or. Currently, failure in one aspect of my life can affect many other parts of me, and I find it really hard to stop this from happening. The way I perceive Griezmann dealing with failure—the way he puts it behind him and keeps doing his thing, working hard and playing beautifully—will serve as a reminder to me to keep my disappoints in their place, that I have agency in the way failure affects me and that I can still be great despite not gaining everything that I work hard for.

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Trump has done another gross, disrespectful thing yet again. His denial in reaction to the claims of sexual assault has been equally disgusting and insensible, yet he still retains a sizable following, and everyone else freaks out about it. Yes, no presidential candidate should be able to behave the way he does, but Trump has done it time and time again, and he’s done it successfully. He’s made so many disparaging claims, whether it’s generalizing an entire nationality as rapists or blatantly disrespecting women time and time again. Everyone I know constantly talks and complains about Trump’s remarks as if they are still a surprise. People always focus on the revolting remarks themselves, instead of the insidious implications of his hateful rhetoric or even just his policies. Even worse, these conversations only take place within groups of politically like-minded people. They always agree that Trump is bad, Trump is dangerous, Trump needs to be stopped. None of this talking is productive; it’s not changing anyone’s mind, and it’s not even hurting the Trump campaign, as his supporters are as strong as ever despite all of the controversy around their candidate.

I definitely don't think people should condone his actions. People should call him out, online and in real life. I believe that it is helpful to process all of his hurtful and dangerous comments by talking with your politically like-minded friends. But talking alone won’t stop him and his agenda. People need to take their anger and frustration with this presidential candidate and put it into real political action, whether it’s helping to register others to vote, campaigning for another candidate, or raising your voice in politically-contentious environments. This is how we can truly do something about Trump and the hateful rhetoric that his candidacy inspires.

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During one of my spontaneous homework breaks yesterday, I opened my email and clicked on a message that directed me to choose my Model UN conference preferences. I scrolled through the first few committee descriptions; they were all typically Model UN: interesting but slightly esoteric. I began to scroll faster and faster as I realized I was procrastinating yet again that night—then I stopped, and I actually think I jumped out of my seat. I know I at least squealed when I saw there was a crisis committee about the Philippine revolution.

This was probably just another random topic for the other Model UNers. For most people, the Philippines is just a hazy concept. A lot of people can’t locate it on a map.

Manny Pacquiao, pristine beaches, and recently Rodrigo Duterte—these are some examples of the things that make up the image of the little Southeast Asian archipelago. Although the future members of the crisis committee probably already have a better idea of the nation, this topic is still obscure.

The committee’s task is to represent either the revolutionary side or the Spanish side and try to either gain independence or end the rebellion. In just the description, the Filipino leaders of the revolution are even described as powerful.

The Philippines has never been considered important enough to really include in history textbooks, besides in the occasional mention of Spanish and American imperialism. It’s exciting to see the nation I semi-identify with in an intellectual setting, and even painted in a positive light.

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Over the past week, New-York based fashion designers were showcasing their Spring/Summer 2017 collections throughout the city. From the Delpozo show in crisp-white ballrooms to an Adidas x Alexander Wang collaboration dropping from trucks released in various locations on the streets of the city, I lived the entire week vicariously through Instagram stories. The funky clothes, the colorful bags, the ridiculously impractical shoes, the irreverent streetwear—I was aching to be there.

I continued to watch snaps of the shows throughout my lunches, homework breaks, and passing periods, feeling excitement at the beautiful collections. There were sneakers, platform sandals, ruffled dresses, slips over white t-shirts and hairstyles like mine. I saw myself and my style reflected in these collections and the people who created them. There was no one to share it with, though; the excitement started and stopped with me.

People say fashion is superficial, narcissistic, purposeless. To an extent, I guess it is. Most people only use it to fit in, and some use it to affirm their social status. I use it for neither. I use it to stand out, to display my individuality on the outside. But it’s also a break for me, a break from thinking about the so called “more important” things in life, like school and homework and my future and my family. It’s time to think about me, to take time for myself.  

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Home

I think more than anything, home means feeling safe inside yourself. Different environments and people can cause this feeling; for me, it’s my bed, talking about soccer, being with my mother or grandmother, feeling free enough to completely speak my mind.

When I think about going to college in a few years and eventually moving away permanently from my physical house, I’m slightly terrified. I do believe home is not a physical place, but I am almost always safe within my being within my physical room, and especially bed. The last time I had to give up my bed, I was 7. I cried and begged my mother to put the old wooden frame in storage instead of giving it away. I ended up having to donate it, but not before I demanded to leave a letter to the next user of my bed frame. I wouldn’t say I’m a hoarder, but I guess I do get attached to objects that I associate with a sense of safety. Perhaps because in the past, I found that feeling safe being within myself was difficult to achieve. It was always hard for me to suspend judgement of self, but I’m working on it; at this point I can say that I have made a lot of progress, but I still have a long way to go.

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What does it mean to be American?

I don’t always feel American anymore. I have every reason to, though. I have lived here my whole life; my parents came from a former American possession, the Philippines, where modern-day culture is very much influenced by American values and norms. Filipino culture is very much westernized, and “cultural” celebrations are more Spanish than Southeast Asian. Although I’m not white, I feel like a part of the American melting pot. English was my first language; I’ve always had an American accent. I should feel American.

But my sense of “Americanness” wavers. At times I feel like I don’t belong in such an individualistic, extroverted, fast-paced society. I’m constantly angered at the US for its perceived superiority and its lies of diversity and inclusion. But despite all this, I am American; I don’t really have another nationality I can identify with. There’s Filipino culture, of course, but I pick and choose the Filipino values I want to surround myself with; I am not totally Filipino. Yet I still see beauty in my American experience: the familiarity, the freedom, the sense that America can be my home if I let it.

I feel that my sense of Americanness is rooted in this kind of duality: sometimes feeling like an outsider, sometimes embracing my American identity. Belonging in multiple places, but not feeling entirely whole in one or the other.

I wanted to include a poem by Claude McKay that reminded me of my relationship with America. Although our experiences are very different, with me not experiencing the kind of hostility McKay did as a black man, I think his words echo my feelings of duality.

America

By Claude McKay

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,

And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,

Stealing my breath of life, I will confess

I love this cultured hell that tests my youth.

Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,

Giving me strength erect against her hate,

Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.

Yet, as a rebel fronts a king in state,

I stand within her walls with not a shred

Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.

Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,

And see her might and granite wonders there,

Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,

Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.

Edit: Poem retrieved from http://shenandoahliterary.org/blog/2014/03/america-by-claude-mckay-1921/