that makes it smell wistful?
that makes you feel a strange combination of excited, anxious, and calm?
that feels gentle?
that feels like sadness?
that reminds you to hope?
that ushers in peace?
that moves you to a new place?
that breezes through your house like no one month can?
that brings people together?
that feels more like a whisper?
that harbors many painful memories?
that brings you back to new pencils and glue sticks?
that makes me raid the discount aisles of art stores?
that puts summer to shame?
that urges us to let it go?
that gears us up for sports?
that puts oil in our neutral engines?
that creates an illusion of a novelty in the closing months of the year?

that I cannot put my finger on, but leaves me with a sweet nostalgia?

The thing about Filipino families is that togetherness is everything. No matter what is going on, togetherness is the priority. It’s what we strive for, look forward to, push everything else off the plate in the name of: togetherness.

When family members have passed, it’s togetherness that glues our sanity together. At weddings, the fun melts into some kind of semi-organized rage, minus the mosh pits. The explosive energy can be life-giving, life-saving even.

The two bookends of the past week, both calling for togetherness, couldn’t have been any more different in nature.

On my maternal side of the family, my only surviving grandparent, my Lola, underwent a partial mastectomy for cancer. She’d never met Isaiah and my memories of time spent with Lola were dated back to the 90s. After much discussion and re-organizing, I decided to take Isaiah on his first flight and meet more family.

My parents and sister traveled as well. My aunts, uncles, and cousins that lived there were happy for an unexpected reunion. And while the reason why we were there was sobering, the atmosphere couldn’t have been any more of the opposite.

I arrived in Atlanta Monday afternoon and eager to see Lola. I carefully stepped down the stairs with Isaiah and immediately saw my Tita from the Philippines. She swiftly embraced Isaiah and urged me to go greet Lola. I did. Her face looked more full of life than I had ever seen. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy, her body looked strong. “Hi, Lola,” I breathed into her silver hair as we embraced. “Oh, hija, I miss you,” she replied in her thick accent. She chuckled and talked quietly in Tagalog when she saw Isaiah, her newest and youngest great grandchild. She bathed him in her affections.

Within ten minutes of my arrival, Lola, stubborn as a mule and spiritual as the Dalai Lama, wearing her tsinelas and apron, brought me a bowl of Tinola, homemade soup of vegetables, potatoes, and chicken. Lola, about to undergo surgery, insists on cooking for me, the new mother who is still nursing her baby. My father, mother, and Tita echo Lola’s intention: it’s the soup bones that help a new mother regain her strength. “That’s what my father cooked for my mother,” my father reminds me, “she gave birth eleven times and had this soup every time.” Even though I wasn’t really hungry, I ate. It felt wrong otherwise.

The table was slowly crowding itself. Plates of tinola, adobo, rice, pancit, and – out of nowhere – a plate of Mexican chicken appears. “Lisa, have you had this?” my Tita is about to give me a piece of chicken. I smile and decline. But not before my Tita slams a huge bowl in the middle of the table: FRENCH FRIES.

My Tito, who has the fastest stride in the south, quickly walks in the room and inspects the table, “Oh these are poisonous! They’ll kill you!” as he grabs a handful of french fries and shoves them in his mouth.

It was the first of many meals we shared together. Always talking, re-telling, remembering, laughing, and prompting someone else to share their thoughts. Uncharacteristically, I just sit back and observe. Smiling, taking in the craziness, loudness, and overlapping conversations that no one can understand. The mixing of English and Tagalog and a little bit of Spanish. Seeing Isaiah sandwiched between his Lola and greatgrand-Lola gives me a moment of grace that I can’t really explain. I just thank God.

I’ve heard that children of immigrants carry the traditions and history of their family with them, but oftentimes, much of it dies when they begin their own families in westernized cultures. Sadly and inevitably, that has begun in my life. For as much as I try to keep pieces of my culture alive, without an active support system that continues to remind and teach you of your background, those once vibrant pieces of culture become memories.
The glorious part of it, though, is when you are reunited as family. It’s like a shot of Filipino adrenaline to my blood.

The endlessness of cooking. The overabundance of everything -talking, drinking, laughter, eating – and sleeping until the cows come home. Story-telling. More laughter. Tanglish talk.

The next few days passed slowly. Everyone was busy with transporting and taking care of Lola while I was just trying to keep up with Isaiah in new surroundings. Isaiah, unfortunately, had some kind of allergic reaction to the dogs. It’s doubly unfortunate because he thinks dogs are his best friend. His smile lights up the room when he sees those four-legged furballs. Keeping him away from the canines was a sad job. It was like holding a treat a few feet out of his reach for four days.

My Lola is Illocano, from the Illocos Norte region in the Philippines and it’s customary that when a child enters your home in Illocos Norte, you give the child money so he or she will never experience poverty. Four days had passed and we were saying goodbye, both my Tito and Lolo stuffed envelopes of money and ran it over his silken, chubby limbs for blessings of abundance. Isaiah thought it was some game called SNATCH THE ENVELOPE AND EAT IT. I stood by and watched the tradition of my bloodline reach my offspring. And while I have no such traditions in my house, it reminded me again of why I was so proud of my heritage. The hospitality, the history, the love, the togetherness.

Family, the inescapable stress and medicine of our lives, gets us through the darkest hours of the unknown.

I flew home with Isaiah, a deep tiredness in my bones from holding him so much and silently pleading with him to behave on the plane. The heart of me connected to the heart of him. We came to an agreement: if the plane ride went well, I’d let him chew on his beloved breakfast spoon, uninterrupted, for however long he wanted. DEAL.

We came home long enough to get one night of rest before taking off to Columbus for Nick’s long awaited half marathon.

Nick, training for ten weeks, had arrived at his big day and my brother and his family, along with our sister, all traveled to Columbus to cheer Nick on. Also running were his sister, Kelly and brother Keith. It was a family affair.

In Columbus, I was too exhausted to do much of anything but observe the togetherness. The way the Borchers talk, laugh, discuss, and prompt each other to tell stories is completely different than how my family does, but the result is quite similar: laughter, bonding, sharing.

I thought of how lucky Isaiah was to be locked into so many webs of families, all different from one another and uniquely situated in geography, life experience, and culture. I thought about how blessed he was to have greatgrandparents, grandparents, and parents who would never let a raindrop hurt him. I thought about how my mother traveled across oceans, leaving her mother, so she could work for a better life and, years later, my Lola would come to this country as well. I thought about how there was nothing either my mother or Lola wouldn’t do for family.

And I watched Nick’s parents and Jay cheer Nick on, how they took turns holding Isaiah. I watched my siblings mingle with Nick’s siblings and how amazingly beautiful families can look like when they’re celebrating the achievement of someone they love.

Families come together in times of worry and sickness, praying that death is many years away. Families come together in times of livelihood and celebration, praying that wellness and health continue to carry us to more marathons and dominating physical challenges. The unity, at times, seems unbreakable. Almost divine.

Individuality is one of my signature characteristics, but as I age, I am coming into deep awareness of how limiting and isolating extreme individuality can be. It comes at a great price. While I have a deep, almost intrinsic need to sometimes be alone in my thoughts and away from the world, I am learning how much I need family. I may not know it. I may not request it. I may even push it away, but the need for togetherness pulses strong in my blood. Families are far from perfect, but, luckily, perfection is not a prerequisite for occasions of recovery, healing and joy.

From last Monday to Thursday I was in Atlanta, Georgia with family. My maternal Lola, my mother’s mother, was undergoing surgery to remove malignant tumors from her thyroid and left breast, a partial mastectomy.

From Saturday to Sunday, I was in Columbus, Ohio to cheer Nick, along with two of his siblings, as he ran his first half marathon. 13.1 miles covered in under two hours.

I am physically and emotionally fatigued. This week was one of the most mind-boggling and emotionally charged weeks I can remember.

I will write more about it shortly, but for now, my reflection is this: Family, undoubtedly, matters.

Isaiah's Preseason Football Thoughts from Lisa Factora-Borchers on Vimeo.

A little Buckeye and Wolverine smack talk never hurt.

8 mo this morning

You let me cut your fingernails in peace, while you’re awake even.  You won’t eat vegetables unless they’re warmed up.  You stand with assistance.  Your words are BEH!, KEH! and BWAH!  The way you stare into someone’s eyes is just disarming.

The past eight months have taught me more about life than any other period of challenge.

You don’t ask for much, just a lot of play time and touch.  For me, there’s really no way to describe your incredible-ness, but I’ll try in this small poem:

Before You Came

If I didn’t believe in God before,

I would believe now.

If I didn’t understand life before,

I understand now.

If I didn’t know love before,

I know love now.

If I had nothing before you came,

I have everything now.

Happy 8 Months, Angel.

Love,

Mama

I wish I could link to the original photographer, but this remains anonymous.

The talk about amending or rewording or deleting or repealing – or whatever the head honchos of the Republican party want to call it -  the 14th Amendment is the nastiest pill to swallow in the latest buzz about immigration “reform” and legislation. The history of laws in this country – who was allowed in and for what purpose – is hardly a clear cut issue.  And neither is deciding whose citizenship should be denied, revoked, or withheld.

Being born in this country and gaining citizenship is one of the most exciting and wonderful amendments in the books.  I’ve always thought that particular amendment was pretty rad.  The idea that the GOP is pushing -  altering the 14th amendment would only shun the children of “illegals” – is a bunch of baloney.  It’s like saying, “I KNOW WHAT WE SHOULD DO TO THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE WHO ARE HERE WITHOUT CITIZENSHIP!  WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW THEIR INFANTS TO BE CITIZENS!  THAT’LL MAKE THOSE PREGNANT LADIES THINK TWICE ABOUT RISKING THEIR LIVES TO GET ACROSS THE BORDER SO THEY CAN WORK THEIR TALES OFF TO PROVIDE FOR THEIR FAMILIES!  THAT’LL CONTROL THOSE ‘ILLEGALS!’

Perhaps this is issue is striking a bit too close to my heart.  My parents came to this country to work their entire lives and devote their careers to giving us a better life.  Yes, they were “documented,” and my citizenship came by birthright.  So to hear the idea that children should be penalized for the government’s inability to formulate sensible and compassionate immigration legislation is infuriating.  And insulting to those of us who are children of immigrants.  The children who were brought here on the heels of dreams and labor.

An article on AlterNet by Greta Christina entitled the Five Things Society Unfairly Expects of Men has sent me into a mild, eyebrow raising rage.  Here are the bullets that Christina’s article outlines as the Five Things Society Unfairly Expects of Men:

1. Make Money

2. Win, win, win!

3. Be Physically Strong

4. Fix Stuff

5. Get It Up

Mhm, it never ceases to amaze me how westernized, US-centric and outdated is media’s portrayal of feminism.  Christina argues that:

…people who care about feminism ought to care about how sexist gender roles hurt men; partly because we’re human beings, with a sense of justice and compassion for one another regardless of gender, and partly because the cause of feminism can only be helped by convincing more men that it’ll be good for them, too.

Well, I agree with one thing there: sexism hurts everyone and unlocking the systematic roles and prejudices we inflict upon one another not only addresses core issues of freedom and rights, it unleashes the power to liberate ourselves and one another.

In a nutshell: yeah, fighting sexism is good for everyone.

But, here’s the problem in Christina’s argument:  this article points out all the things that sexism does to men, but raises these issues in a manner as if they are in addition to the problems sexism inflicts upon women.

Example:

Make money.  Yes, men are still largely expected to be the breadwinners of the hetero-normative nuclear family unit.  Yes, men are expected to be the “providers,”  but, women are often expected to be BOTH the provider and the caretaker.  Isn’t it somewhat curious that more women are enrolling in higher education and receiving degrees at higher rates then their male counterparts, and, supposedly a college degree increases your money making power, yet women overwhelmingly populate the trenches of welfare and poverty?  Women, who are often multitasking roles of motherhood, employee, student, and fillintheblankofwhateverneedstogetdone represent a whopping 57% of college students on American colleges since 2000, and still make less than their male counterparts once they are employed.  It may be an unfair expectation of men, yes, but the sexist reality is that it’s women who have dual existing responsibilities: make money and care for families.

And yes, women on average earn less than men, but that becomes even more stratified when you analyze race as well.  The ugly truth of sexism is that, yes, while men may be expected to earn money, it is women who are working and are paid less and women of color who are paid the worst.  It is single mothers who are often working to make ends meet and staying above water.  So, yes, Greta Christina, I, too, would welcome any and all men to put an end to sexism, so long as they understand it’s not just the unfair expectations of men that are of concern.  Maybe we can glean a more sobering reality of the financial aspects of sexism if we take a look at working mothers who tend to be discriminated against when trying to get back into the workforce or if you are a working and pregnant resident of Massachusetts and are now only protected for eight weeks of maternity leave to return to your position.

Winning, being physically strong, fixing stuff, and sexual performance are not just expectations of men, they are sexist depictions of what men should be in a sexist coordinated dance of how women should be as well.  They are in tandem, not in addition.

Men cannot be expected to be strong without women being expected to be weak.  Men cannot be expected to win without women being expected to not be competitive.  Men cannot be expected to fix stuff without women being expected to be entirely unknowing with it comes to mechanics.  Men cannot be expected to have a wild testosterone guerrilla-like sexuality without expecting women to be demure virgins.  Men are prized for their stoic facades and women are expected to be emotionally articulate.

These expectations especially flourish and deepen for men and women of color when it comes to sexuality:  black men are expected to be uncontrollable sex fiends while black women are Jezebels. Asian men are less attractive, less sexual beings while Asian women are subservient, fetish toys in the bedroom. The list goes on and on…

That’s the deception and stealth of sexism, it feeds off of what is deemed socially acceptable, and when someone or thing strays from that path of normality, they are are harassed, fired, threatened, discriminated against, or even killed.

Sexism varies in its destruction, from the mild to the severe and I, intentionally, focus on women because my experiences and observations of life have afforded me a belief that it is women who bear the brunt of violence, poverty, structural discrimination, and enslavement.  Whether that’s because of workplace harassment, racist and sexist depictions in media, or sex trafficking of mother/daughter families – sexism hurts us all, but it’s women that it most often kills.  It’s not about listing the top five of anything because all the harmful factors of sexism work together and leads us to false identities of masculinity and femininity.  It’s about the perilous manner that these expectations work together and influence what and who we desire, love, appreciate, and seek in ourselves, relationships, supervisors, friends, partners, and our families.  Not only do we come to standardize behavior based on our gendered expectations, we celebrate gendered behaviors in our daily rituals, religions, and beliefs.  And then we demonize whatever or whomever doesn’t fit in these snug expectations of male or female.  Just ask anyone who identifies transgender or individuals who feel that their minds and bodies do not fit into these boxes of identity.  Ask anyone who is gay about what expectations are heaped upon them; how gender-norming impacts expectations of how they are “supposed” to behave as a gay man; how they are “supposed” to be as a lesbian or queer-identified woman.  Or, if he could speak, ask the 17 month old boy who was beaten to death by a babysitter for acting like a girl.

Sexism isn’t just about forming our expectations.  It’s about forming our belief system about what is normal and acceptable.  And when those boundaries are crossed, the punishment are horridly severe, and sometimes fatal.

And so, Greta Christina, while I am not playing Oppression Olympics and pooh-poohing the plight of men in American society, I do urge all those who publicly reflect on the effects of sexism to remember that sexism works in pairs.  Like a railroad.  Two steel rods, opposite one another trying to keep everyone in line and on track.  And while I agree that we ALL are held captive and endure sexist expectations, when we blink and those expectations become reality, it is often women, particularly women of color, who pay the dearest of prices.