Who Needs "Filipino" or Tagalog Bloggers?

Thanks to Tigera Consciente who gave me a heads up that Blogger is now offering the feature to blog “IN FILIPINO.”

MHM.

I wonder if they mean to blog “in Tagalog,” which is the the official language of the Philippines, among the several dialects of the Islands.

There’s been discussion as to whether Filipinos “need this,” considering that English is taught and spoken in the Philippines. I thought that the question as to whether it’s “needed” is somewhat ridiculous. Not ALL Filipinos are bi/multi-linguial and/or know English. I see Blogger making an effort to extend blogging opportunities to the people of the Philippines, regardless if you know English or not. The blogging world should not reign supreme for English speakers.

Last time I checked, blogging one’s way into existence is not a luxury limited to English speaking writers.

Movie Review: Vantage Point

Nick and I just returned from a late night movie, Vantage Point, that opened this weekend.

It was crowded and we sat in decent seats, a bit close for my general liking, but I thought to myself, “As long as there isn’t any home videos or car chasing scenes, I should be alright.” The shaky cameras and fast action tend to mess with my head.

Vantage Point has the longest car chase scene in cinematic history. And Forest Whitaker’s role in this movie primarily features him taking home video footage with his camcorder. Nice.

No Advil on hand either. Drat.

Nick gave it a rating, “Entertaining, but by no means great.”

The plot grows from 8 or so different perspectives who experience one act of terrorism. What Nick found so annoying is that the audience grew unsettled when the storyline kept repeating itself to reveal more details of the plot. Anytime another character’s story began to tell a different angle of the story, the audience started moaning like it had one collective belly ache. Dude, the movie is called VANTAGE POINT.

As Nick mechanically munched his way through a large over-buttered popcorn bag and I slurped the Sprite and darted my eyes away from the screen every 10 minutes to avoid a massive headache, Dennis Quaid [WARNING: SPOILER IN THE NEXT FEW WORDS] comes up huge in the end, of course.

Another wonderfully overpriced Hollywood blockbuster.

Factora-Borchers and Borchers give this 2 thumbs pointing sideways. It scores a B- for originality, overall guessing game, and relevance to current events and political climate. Recommendation: worth a ticket at the discount movie theater or DVD rental in 9 months.

Now We Know that ‘Blogger’ Doesn’t Read Feminist Blogs

So, now there is this new feature in Blogger – CALL ME FOR FREE! where bloggers can receive voicemail messages right from our blog. And post them! What better way to start my day off than to wake up and hear my little nephew calling, “Tita, I miss you!”

Followed by a, “Listen you self-righteous b*#$@, you’re the f#*@ing reason why this world is going to hell in a handbasket with your bull$*&t feminist posts on your g^&d@#$ blog! I hope you f*#$ing die!”

WHERE DO I SIGN?

The Monologue that Should be a Dialogue

The Vagina Monologues, written by Eve Ensler, is a popular conversation topic in February.It is a production that has sparked a larger movement: Vday.  Every year, February 14 is V-Day, a day marked to end violence against women, and thousands of productions take place across the world.  All proceeds benefit local sexual assault services and community organizations.

Eve Ensler has had her share of controversy and fame.  She is a well-known playwright who focuses on human rights and feminism on the global stage.  The Vagina Monologues, the biggest boom in her canon, catapulted her and V-day into the global spotlight as she coaxed hundreds of women to talk about their Vaginas and then turned it into a play based off of their testimony. As one can imagine, the play is not just about the anatomical gift of Vaginas, but about sexuality, relationships, violence, Self, and wonder.  The VMs also intermittingly spotlights an area of the world where Ensler eyes a particularly troubling trend of violence toward womyn.  Past spotlights have been on Juarez, Afghanistan, and Iraq.  Ten years have past since the first VM production and thousands of performances and millions of donated dollars later, it still raises as many eyebrows and questions as it does money.
The Filipina Women’s Network is producing a Filipina version of the Vagina Monologues in New York City in April.  The show is intended to channel attention to the Filipina community which suffers from domestic and sexual violence through marriages (according to the Philippine government census, 9 out of 10 women who are battered also experience marital rape), relationships, global sex trafficking, and the perpetuating  of the docile, sex toy image that is seemingly branded to the term ‘filipina.’ (More about challenging this image in future posts.)
While there is so much empowerment surrounding this particular movement, it’s also interesting to note its criticisms and concerns.  Every year, this time of year, I think of the VMs and contemplate its power, imperfections, and purpose.  I have participated in the Vagina Monologues twice; once to perform, the second as a director.  However, with more time and more Vdays to observe, I am once again brought to that unavoidable question that every activist, every feminist, every anti-violence human being must ask: What must be done to transform a rape culture to end violence against women?  
I’m not just talking about Filipinas.  I’m talking about everyBODY.  I’m talking about the New York womyn, to transfolks in Cambodia, to little girls in Argentina, to the womyn of New Orleans.  I’m talking everyBODY.  What needs to happen?  My answer comes from one of the questions that Eve Ensler asked every women interviewed for the Vagina Monologues, “If your vagina could speak, what would it say?”
Mine would say, “Considering the fact that the overwhelming majority of rapes come from men assaulting womyn, considering that womyn can do everything to in the name of prevention, education, and defense, considering that despite all these efforts to not live in fear and our resolve to live in a mentality of freedom…considering all these things, still today, nothing will stop my sisters from being raped except the men who rape them and the culture that feeds them.”
My largest criticism of the Vagina Monologues, in regard to its efforts to end violence against women, is it fails to ask the bleeding question of how MEN will stop the violence against womyn. (While I do want to acknowledge same sex violence and assault, the primary assaults are men violating womyn.)  Why is it ALWAYS the Vagina Monologues and not the Vagina and Penis Dialogues Against Violence?  
I remain convinced that this global culture does more than permit the rape of womyn, it blankets the cries of incest and sexual violence in every corner of every country with its own politics, corruption, and silence.  Cue: Eve Ensler and Vday come marching in the door to trumpet its resolve to END VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN VIA VDAY!  Solidarity with womyn in other countries have led to media profiling international activists as saviors instead of recognizing local antidotes.  
The truth is that no one can walk through the doors of Juarez and transform its community except the womyn and men and children of Juarez.  No one will effectively teach any community from the outside of what needs to heal on the inside.  Every community needs resources, models, and hope, but as activists, we must, MUST, end the notion that solidarity across the globe for womyn alone will heal this epidemic.  (Prepare yourself for the following.) We need – gasp – men!  We need everyone if we are to truly rid ourselves of this disease that we routinely baste ourselves in when we forge alliances across oceans but stamp a V on our foreheads and then holler at the stars when only a handful of men join the movement.
Violence against women must (m)en/d. 
And so I ask, “What would your vagina or penis say if it could talk?”

Eat, Pray, Love (Not necessarily in that order)


This past weekend, one of my best friends from childhood, Tricia, came to stay with us during the long weekend.  Taking the infamous Fung Wah Bus (it’s a bus company that takes you from NYC to Boston for $15), Tricia and I enjoyed a nice long weekend of long talks, buying books at Barnes and Noble, and drinking fine wine.

My latest book is the memoir, “Eat, Pray, Love,” by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I am on the 6th page and have already decided that I need to write a memoir of my own, complete with my own journeys and travels.  “Eat, Pray, Love” is a book that takes you to India, Indonesia, and Italy to explore the true meaning of self, life, and God.  I already highly recommend it.  The first six pages are riveting.
Speaking of books, Nick is still nose deep in his theological studies.  February is almost over and almost mid point for this semester.
Where does the time go?

The State of Brownhood

When I was younger, I hated when my dad pinched my nose. Out of nowhere, in the middle of trying to wield permission to attend a weekend slumber party, his face would grow into a big smile and I’d watch his long brown fingers extend to pinch my little Filipino nose. Hard.

In pain, I’d jerk back, “DAD!” He had problems with gentleness at times. I often wondered if he remembered I was not my brothers, but a smaller framed girl, a very impressionable young girl.
“Your nose is flat,” he smiled as if to justify the pinch.
“Yeah, I know. So’s yours, ” I would retort, rubbing my sore nose.

“The irony of mixed-heritage Filipinos not being accepted as Filipinos is exposed when one considers the pains that Filipinos in the Philippines and abroad take to maintain a standard of appearance that has its roots in colonization: for example, keeping out of the sun so as not to get ‘too dark’ or pinching the nose to make it less flat,” writes Linda A. Rvilla in her article Filipino American Identity: Transcending the Crisis.


I grew up bicultured: in the US, but in a Filipino home raised by Filipino parents. In the long roads of sifting through identity and arriving to a loving appreciation for my culture, never did I anticipate the work of analyzing my own parents’ upbringing or their learned inferiority. For every inquiring feminist, all questions begin and end with your family. What runs in their blood also runs in mine.
As I sprinted out to play outdoors, my mother would yell out the summer door, “Don’t get too dark!” My father pinching my nose. My round curvy brown body was surrounded by white girls dying to be thin and dieting for attention. It’s taken nearly three decades to purge the poison, especially when I read how skin whitening is now on the rise in the Philippines.
The pinched noses and cautions not to get “too dark” remained an unchecked part of my childhood until I began to read magazines and notice the high energy levels for conformity. Where did I fit in? Would I ever fit? The questions were cyclic and relentless. I considered my options. 1) Rearranging my face 2) Pretending I don’t have thick straight jet black hair 3) Staying out of the sun for the rest of my life because I tan deeply in less than 10 minutes. I was left with no options but to begin accepting my state of Brownhood. I could spend a lifetime in shame or learn how to fight and love my skin, my color, my eyes, and hair.
In college, I found myself in an elevator with a few White women who kept glancing at me. Familiar with stranger gazes and rude stares, I looked back at them. One asked, “How do you keep your tan so even throughout the year?” It was winter at the time. I replied, “I spend a fortune at Jamaica-Me Tan,” and walked out of the elevator.
I chose and continue to choose pride because I never wanted to be tall or White.
I choose Pinay. I choose me.

The Happy Loving Feminist

As a feminist, having multi/interdisciplinary perspective is kinda like my thing. I see left, right, up, down, and through. I’m a feminist, that’s what I do.

As a feminist of Valentine’s Day, V-day, another day, any other day – I recognize that today, like any other day represents many things for different people. Today, I gave my sweetie a little pinch on the bum and soft kiss on the cheek and pulled on vibrant colored top. Today, I remember that LGBTQ relationships are not recognized, let alone celebrated in this heternormative, homogenous society. Today, I remember that I would be nowhere without the love and friendship of so many womyn who have lifted me out of the debts of depression, alienation, isolation, and writer’s block. Today I see a world turn red and pink and know that many women turn black and blue from their “loved” ones and today, regardless of Hallmark, more womyn will be raped, beaten, cheated, killed, kidnapped, tortured, traded, molested, tricked, slapped, cheapened, silenced, and broken on a day written for”love.”

I am a feminist, today and everyday. There is no price for my love, no appreciation found in a fold-out card, no funny shaped box to contain my generosity, no ribbons to tie up my forgiving heart, no t-shirt to match my joy.

I am a feminist, full of love.

And no, that is not a contradiction.

Blogging Recognition

Along with my feministically blogging radical sister bloggers, I have been nominated (thank you, MattBastard) for a lovely award – Best International Feminist Blog.

Now, I’m not even sure what an award like this means because I certainly honor SO many women who inspire me to write and blog that I feel funny saying YEAH GO VOTE FOR ME.

Instead, I say, YEAH GO READ THESE OTHER AWESOME BLOGS like Brownfemipower, No Snow Here, Problem Chylde, Ms. Crip Chick, among the many dazzlers in my blogroll.

I only want recognition if it’s in the context of the amazing community of womyn who inspire me.

Thanks for the nomination – Happy V-day to you, too.

Observing

I didn’t change the blog colors to grey because of the solemn season of Lent we are observing. I changed it because I get restless when there isn’t change after a while.

That makes Nick nervous, like, for our life in general.