(previously published at the Mill Woods Mosaic, January 15, 2010 issue)
The Live-in Caregiver Program(LCP), a government initiative that brings domestics into Canada from other countries, is here to stay, along with several improvements upon it, Immigration Minister Jason Kenney announced last December 12th. The changes, he said, were the result of consultations with domestic workers’ groups and advocates all over the country.
One notable improvement allows the number of hours a caregiver has worked to be counted towards their qualification for Canadian permanent residence, as opposed to the number of days. Caregivers who have worked overtime hours will then be able to apply for resident status faster that those haven’t.
A second one gives a live-in caregiver four years to complete the number of hours required to qualify, instead of formerly three.
Minister Kenney probably didn’t get the response he was expecting, because the groups he consulted didn’t get what they asked for. These changes are alright, considering the alternative, but not nearly enough. The caregivers still have to live with their employers, and still have to wait years to be reunited with their families.
The Philippine Women’s Centre of BC, in particular, wasn’t thrilled. They say the LCP is flawed, because it allows employers to exploit their employees, and it rips families apart. I agree with the PWC on both counts.
The PWC is now calling for the cancellation of the Live-in Caregiver Program.
Historically, Canada has been bringing cheap labour from other countries since the 1900’s, because no one else around are willing to do many of the back-breaking, lowly-paid jobs. In the 1970’s the government had the Temporary Worker’s Program, where immigrant women were hired and brought in to do menial work, and then required to leave after their contracts were over.
In 1981, Canada created the Foreign Domestic Movement (FDM) program. Under the FDM, foreign domestics are required to live with their employers but were allowed to apply for landed status and sponsor their families after two years. In 1992, Canada replaced the FDM with the Live-in Caregiver Program (LCP), with added restrictions; raised the educational eligibility to grade 12, and required the caregiver to complete the regulation two years of work within three years.
The LCP’s live-in requirement is no doubt restrictive and discriminatory, and it allows unscrupulous employers to exploit their workers. It has to go. Think about this: if you’re a worker who just got into the country, you’re isolated, scared, and you’re totally dependent upon your bosses for the roof over your head, for the money you need to send home, and you’re desperate to stay because you had a goal, wouldn’t you be scared to say no to any of your employer’s demands?
Believe me, abuse often occurs in these instances. I know because I’ve worked with an Association that helped foreign domestic workers sort their immigration and labour problems. Some of these women have had to take their employers to court just to get the money they’ve already worked for. A few had been physically or sexually assaulted. Women have killed themselves, gone out of their minds, or given up and gone home, because they couldn’t stand the situation they’ve found themselves in. Very sad, but true.
But cancel the LCP altogether? I’m not sure I agree with the Philippine Women’s Centre on this one. What the Program actually needs is some serious overhauling.
The fact is, not all bosses are abusive. Many of them are kind and supportive, and they receive the nanny into their households like a family member. I’m one of those fortunate nannies. My transition from domestic employment to a mainstream job had been smooth, although of course, not easy. I’ve had to volunteer, work and study hard to achieve my goals. But through all those years, my employers had been there for me.
But definitely, let domestics come in as landed immigrants. Let them bring their families with them. Too many children have already been neglected and psychologically affected by separation from their mothers. Too many families have been fractured as a result of the wife/mother’s years of absence.
By the rules of the LCP itself, a caregiver is allowed into the country because she is healthy, educated, and fluent in English or French. According to statistics, 98% percent of these people become permanent residents after three or four years. Which means, all these women and their kids are future Canadians. Isn’t it in the interest of the country to ensure that its citizens are happy and well-adjusted, so that they can become more productive?
Let’s face it, Canada needs immigrants, and we need the job. I think it’s a very fair deal.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
If things were different, will there be seniors’ facilities in the Philippines?
(previously published at the Mill Woods Mosaic on Nov 15, 2009)
In the Filipino culture, neglect of the elderly is not acceptable.
Senior citizens in the Philippines, defined by law as individuals aged 60 and over, comprise 7 percent of the current population, but experts predict this percentage could increase to as much as 14.5 percent by 2025. In view of this, legislators are proposing two different bills in the Philippine Congress --- providing for monthly financial support for the elderly. The pension will go to seniors who live below the Philippine poverty line, who have no families to look after them.
In the West, every senior citizen receives a pension. And everyone who's incapable of looking after himself either moves into assisted living facilities or into homes for the aged. This is normal, in the same manner that western children are expected to move out and create independent lives for themselves by the age of 18. It’s a culture everyone has been brought up in.
In the Philippines, three generations commonly live together under one roof. Unmarried adult children aren’t expected nor forced to move out, and on the flipside, aging parents, grandparents, and unmarried uncles and aunts alike, are looked after until they pass on. Every elder receives filial care, because there aren’t any nursing homes.
However, priorities evolve, fuelled by economic reasons, when families immigrate. Filipinos are a very hardworking and security-conscious people. The minute one’s luggage is unpacked, the new arrival’s thoughts turn to finding a job. After the job, then to start saving for the house. Then to bringing in the rest of the family.
A Filipino immigrant needs to feel settled and financially capable of taking care of everybody else, to be totally happy. And if one doesn’t arrive carrying a luggage-full of dollars, then one needs one or two jobs going, to acquire that feeling of assurance that the family will be housed, fed, and those that require it, educated adequately. One sometimes needs to be almost superhuman to achieve this; in other words, to become a dollar-churning machine.
Every migrant child means well, and her dearest dream is to get her parents to experience every good thing she has ever experienced out there: like eating the same delicious foreign food and gambolling in the same falling snow. Now, for the 70-year-old parent who’s somewhat arthritic, two weeks of that should be good enough. More so if you have no friends in the area, you don’t drive, and your kid has to leave at 6 AM to work. You will not see this kid again until dinnertime. What do you do, then? Watch TV all day, or babysit the grandchildren, and go to church on Sundays. You know your kid wants you to enjoy yourself, but you’re 70 darn it, and you pine for warmer weather and that strong pot of brewed coffee you used to drink with your friends, back in the village. And you miss the extended family.
This could create friction. You don’t want to appear ungrateful, and make your child unhappy, but there’s only so much you can do in their two-bedroom apartment everyday. The child worries about who will look after you back in the village, and what she’ll do if you, god forbid, got sick and needed to be taken to the hospital. But sometimes your homesickness could get so bad, never mind the hospital, you just wanted to go home and die. And be buried in warm familiar ground, mourned by familiar people.
Sometimes it does work and you like it here, because you’re younger and could move independently around. You find people to volunteer with at the local Catholic Church, making sandwiches for the homeless, once a week. You join a bible study group and worship in a born-again church every Sunday. Or join a seniors’ association with dancing and mah-jongg-playing activities on weekends. But when you finally get older and unable to get out of the house, who will look after you then? Your child and her partner are out making money everyday, this time to send their own kids to university. You can’t go home again because your friends in the Philippines have all died off, and there’s no one to go back to. The children suggest getting you into a home so you get better fulltime care.
Loneliness is rampant in the homes for seniors, just because the older folk need more interaction, and the staff is only capable of giving each patient few minutes at a time. But there’s no other option. Whether your children like it or not, sometimes they do have to send you to a home.
An informal survey among my friends in the nursing profession revealed that there are very few, if ever, elderly Filipinos residing in the seniors’ facilities in BC’s Lower Mainland. My friend Fe, a nurse shuttling between two elderly centres in Surrey, BC, says they only have two Filipino seniors, both of whom had been admitted in the last three years. Even then, the children of these old people try to do their best. Both patients, Fe says, are visited by their families everyday.
One wonders, if services were available in the Philippines, will the Filipinos send their elders to such places? It’s like the chicken or the egg conundrum.
In the Filipino culture, neglect of the elderly is not acceptable.
Senior citizens in the Philippines, defined by law as individuals aged 60 and over, comprise 7 percent of the current population, but experts predict this percentage could increase to as much as 14.5 percent by 2025. In view of this, legislators are proposing two different bills in the Philippine Congress --- providing for monthly financial support for the elderly. The pension will go to seniors who live below the Philippine poverty line, who have no families to look after them.
In the West, every senior citizen receives a pension. And everyone who's incapable of looking after himself either moves into assisted living facilities or into homes for the aged. This is normal, in the same manner that western children are expected to move out and create independent lives for themselves by the age of 18. It’s a culture everyone has been brought up in.
In the Philippines, three generations commonly live together under one roof. Unmarried adult children aren’t expected nor forced to move out, and on the flipside, aging parents, grandparents, and unmarried uncles and aunts alike, are looked after until they pass on. Every elder receives filial care, because there aren’t any nursing homes.
However, priorities evolve, fuelled by economic reasons, when families immigrate. Filipinos are a very hardworking and security-conscious people. The minute one’s luggage is unpacked, the new arrival’s thoughts turn to finding a job. After the job, then to start saving for the house. Then to bringing in the rest of the family.
A Filipino immigrant needs to feel settled and financially capable of taking care of everybody else, to be totally happy. And if one doesn’t arrive carrying a luggage-full of dollars, then one needs one or two jobs going, to acquire that feeling of assurance that the family will be housed, fed, and those that require it, educated adequately. One sometimes needs to be almost superhuman to achieve this; in other words, to become a dollar-churning machine.
Every migrant child means well, and her dearest dream is to get her parents to experience every good thing she has ever experienced out there: like eating the same delicious foreign food and gambolling in the same falling snow. Now, for the 70-year-old parent who’s somewhat arthritic, two weeks of that should be good enough. More so if you have no friends in the area, you don’t drive, and your kid has to leave at 6 AM to work. You will not see this kid again until dinnertime. What do you do, then? Watch TV all day, or babysit the grandchildren, and go to church on Sundays. You know your kid wants you to enjoy yourself, but you’re 70 darn it, and you pine for warmer weather and that strong pot of brewed coffee you used to drink with your friends, back in the village. And you miss the extended family.
This could create friction. You don’t want to appear ungrateful, and make your child unhappy, but there’s only so much you can do in their two-bedroom apartment everyday. The child worries about who will look after you back in the village, and what she’ll do if you, god forbid, got sick and needed to be taken to the hospital. But sometimes your homesickness could get so bad, never mind the hospital, you just wanted to go home and die. And be buried in warm familiar ground, mourned by familiar people.
Sometimes it does work and you like it here, because you’re younger and could move independently around. You find people to volunteer with at the local Catholic Church, making sandwiches for the homeless, once a week. You join a bible study group and worship in a born-again church every Sunday. Or join a seniors’ association with dancing and mah-jongg-playing activities on weekends. But when you finally get older and unable to get out of the house, who will look after you then? Your child and her partner are out making money everyday, this time to send their own kids to university. You can’t go home again because your friends in the Philippines have all died off, and there’s no one to go back to. The children suggest getting you into a home so you get better fulltime care.
Loneliness is rampant in the homes for seniors, just because the older folk need more interaction, and the staff is only capable of giving each patient few minutes at a time. But there’s no other option. Whether your children like it or not, sometimes they do have to send you to a home.
An informal survey among my friends in the nursing profession revealed that there are very few, if ever, elderly Filipinos residing in the seniors’ facilities in BC’s Lower Mainland. My friend Fe, a nurse shuttling between two elderly centres in Surrey, BC, says they only have two Filipino seniors, both of whom had been admitted in the last three years. Even then, the children of these old people try to do their best. Both patients, Fe says, are visited by their families everyday.
One wonders, if services were available in the Philippines, will the Filipinos send their elders to such places? It’s like the chicken or the egg conundrum.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Karaoke Magic
(previously published in the Mill Woods Mosaic, October 2008 issue)
Eyes on the TV screen, ears focused on the beat, I sang what I personally consider a flawless version of ‘Love Me Tender’ and finished with a score of whopping 96 per cent, to the burst of canned applause coming from the huge speakers. I bowed and thanked my audience of one, in my best Elvis Presley manner: “Thank you, thank you very much!”
My daughter Catherine then took the mic, and proceeded to do Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby One More Time, dancing to the music all the way. 98 per cent. Woo hoo! We high-fived and congratulated each other on our amazing (if I may say so myself) performances. Life was good. Singing the karaoke is a regular feature of my visits to my daughter and her husband’s home in Washington, USA.
Certainly, karaoke singing is a staple part of most Filipino home gatherings everywhere. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think every Filipino is a closet Celine Dion or Phil Collins wannabe, or as in my case, a combination of Madonna, Elvis Presley and John Denver rolled into one. Mind you, no one outside of my family has ever witnessed any of my karaoke performances, and I have no intention of taking my act on the road. But I can be whoever I want to be inside my home. Such is the magic and flexibility of karaoke.
My Canadian partner who doesn’t care much for the activity, but who sang and played the guitar during his hippie days, jumps in every now and then to assist me when I fail to hit a note. On very rare occasions, he would join in and sing Better Midler’s The Rose. Most times, he plonks himself on the couch and goes to sleep in the middle of the action, periodically waking up to approve or disapprove of my current effort.
Penelope Cruz, an international movie star who doesn’t need much introduction, is well known for her love of karaoke. She has been qouted about how, in every one of her parties at home, she gets her guests to sing with the machine. Imagine, someone rich and famous, singing the karaoke? Hah. Let’s hear it for Penelope!
Knowing this makes me feel pretty good, because it’s a laugh in face of everyone who derides the karaoke culture. My take on the issue is, if it’s good enough for Penelope Cruz, it should be good enough for the rest of the world. So there.
According to my Internet research, the word karaoke comes from the fusion of two Japanese words: kara, meaning "empty," and oke, meaning "orchestra." "Empty orchestra" makes sense as one sings along to a band or orchestra that isn’t there.
The first karaoke machine was invented in the early 1970’s by Inoue Daisuke, a popular coffee shop singer in Japan. Daisuke was often asked by customers for an instrumental version of his songs so they could sing to them at home. Daisuke recognized its market potential so he created the machine that would enable them to do so. The machine came with a set of his songs in instrumental, for which Daisuke charged Y100 per song. In the beginning, Daisuke didn't sell his karaoke machines, but only leased them to those interested. Inoue Daisuke later earned the Ig Nobel Peace Prize --- a parody of the Nobel Peace Prize --- in 2004 for this invention.
Karaoke, ever since, has become an outlet for many would-be performers trying to coax their inner Inoue Daisuke, Barbara Streisand or Julio Iglesias out. Or perhaps just for the sake of entertainment, because nothing else gets people to come together faster in the spirit of fun, other than a shared love for music.
Restaurants that feature karaoke nights in Vancouver, and I’m sure in Edmonton, have become great equalizers. Where else can one find Filipinos, Caucasians, Chinese and other ethnic performers dining together, performing together, and raising their glasses to each other in pure camaraderie, without any judgment? Because I tell you, some singers can be really bad.
Despite its worldwide popularity, though, karaoke singing still enjoys a love-hate relationship with mixed households. While Pinay wives practice dedicatedly in their basements, with a view to impressing their audience in their next public gig, many of their non-Pinoy husbands consider it an annoying aberration in their partners’ otherwise normal psyche, and often choose to remove themselves from the vicinity, or suffer in silence. A friend refers to these men as “innocent victims who quietly suffer when their homes are turned into acoustic concentration camps”. Why do these people dislike it so? Search me.
While my own partner frequently rolls his eyes at my unadulterated excitement over learning my favourite songs on the karaoke, he does patiently guide me in negotiating the tonal quicksands of Janis Joplin’s Me and Bobby McGee or John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads. And if only for that, I vowed to cherish him for the rest of my life.
Eyes on the TV screen, ears focused on the beat, I sang what I personally consider a flawless version of ‘Love Me Tender’ and finished with a score of whopping 96 per cent, to the burst of canned applause coming from the huge speakers. I bowed and thanked my audience of one, in my best Elvis Presley manner: “Thank you, thank you very much!”
My daughter Catherine then took the mic, and proceeded to do Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby One More Time, dancing to the music all the way. 98 per cent. Woo hoo! We high-fived and congratulated each other on our amazing (if I may say so myself) performances. Life was good. Singing the karaoke is a regular feature of my visits to my daughter and her husband’s home in Washington, USA.
Certainly, karaoke singing is a staple part of most Filipino home gatherings everywhere. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think every Filipino is a closet Celine Dion or Phil Collins wannabe, or as in my case, a combination of Madonna, Elvis Presley and John Denver rolled into one. Mind you, no one outside of my family has ever witnessed any of my karaoke performances, and I have no intention of taking my act on the road. But I can be whoever I want to be inside my home. Such is the magic and flexibility of karaoke.
My Canadian partner who doesn’t care much for the activity, but who sang and played the guitar during his hippie days, jumps in every now and then to assist me when I fail to hit a note. On very rare occasions, he would join in and sing Better Midler’s The Rose. Most times, he plonks himself on the couch and goes to sleep in the middle of the action, periodically waking up to approve or disapprove of my current effort.
Penelope Cruz, an international movie star who doesn’t need much introduction, is well known for her love of karaoke. She has been qouted about how, in every one of her parties at home, she gets her guests to sing with the machine. Imagine, someone rich and famous, singing the karaoke? Hah. Let’s hear it for Penelope!
Knowing this makes me feel pretty good, because it’s a laugh in face of everyone who derides the karaoke culture. My take on the issue is, if it’s good enough for Penelope Cruz, it should be good enough for the rest of the world. So there.
According to my Internet research, the word karaoke comes from the fusion of two Japanese words: kara, meaning "empty," and oke, meaning "orchestra." "Empty orchestra" makes sense as one sings along to a band or orchestra that isn’t there.
The first karaoke machine was invented in the early 1970’s by Inoue Daisuke, a popular coffee shop singer in Japan. Daisuke was often asked by customers for an instrumental version of his songs so they could sing to them at home. Daisuke recognized its market potential so he created the machine that would enable them to do so. The machine came with a set of his songs in instrumental, for which Daisuke charged Y100 per song. In the beginning, Daisuke didn't sell his karaoke machines, but only leased them to those interested. Inoue Daisuke later earned the Ig Nobel Peace Prize --- a parody of the Nobel Peace Prize --- in 2004 for this invention.
Karaoke, ever since, has become an outlet for many would-be performers trying to coax their inner Inoue Daisuke, Barbara Streisand or Julio Iglesias out. Or perhaps just for the sake of entertainment, because nothing else gets people to come together faster in the spirit of fun, other than a shared love for music.
Restaurants that feature karaoke nights in Vancouver, and I’m sure in Edmonton, have become great equalizers. Where else can one find Filipinos, Caucasians, Chinese and other ethnic performers dining together, performing together, and raising their glasses to each other in pure camaraderie, without any judgment? Because I tell you, some singers can be really bad.
Despite its worldwide popularity, though, karaoke singing still enjoys a love-hate relationship with mixed households. While Pinay wives practice dedicatedly in their basements, with a view to impressing their audience in their next public gig, many of their non-Pinoy husbands consider it an annoying aberration in their partners’ otherwise normal psyche, and often choose to remove themselves from the vicinity, or suffer in silence. A friend refers to these men as “innocent victims who quietly suffer when their homes are turned into acoustic concentration camps”. Why do these people dislike it so? Search me.
While my own partner frequently rolls his eyes at my unadulterated excitement over learning my favourite songs on the karaoke, he does patiently guide me in negotiating the tonal quicksands of Janis Joplin’s Me and Bobby McGee or John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads. And if only for that, I vowed to cherish him for the rest of my life.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Where, Exactly, Is The Philippines Headed?
(previously published at Millwoods Mosaic, Sept 15, 2009 issue)
Here I was, happily researching about the various acts of neglect and infractions the Philippine government has visited upon Filipino citizens working abroad, when I stumbled upon a lively, sometimes snide and somewhat cynical exchange of opinions, regarding the state of the Philippines today. The forum was started by my friend Jun Cabal, a former foreign worker in the US. I decided to take a closer look.
The letter that started this discussion states that: “…our nation is headed towards an irreversible path of economic decline and moral decadence… that in thirty years, the Philippine population will grow to 160 million, 90 million of whom will live below the poverty line, and we’ll probably be the most corrupt nation in Asia… and not even two Peoples’ Revolutions have made a dent in reversing this trend. (Apparently, according to the writer, we’re ranked 11th in the roster of most corrupt Asian countries right now.)
He says: We need a force far greater than our collective efforts… it’s time to move the battle to the spiritual realm…” He firmly believes that only prayer can save the Philippines.
Jerry L, an American married to a Filipina decries the idea of praying. He contends that “the primary reason for poverty in the country is my own Church. The Catholic Church is second only to the government in corruption, being the 'opiate of the masses' as Karl Marx said all those years ago.”
Jerry the cynical thinks prayer alone solves nothing. If one needs to create change, one must get up and do something for one’s self.
Joel, a Filipino living in the US suggests --- and I hope to God he’s joking --- that the Philippines apply to become America’s 51st state, replace the President with an American governor, and then hire Clint Eastwood or Sarah Palin for the job. One of the benefits, he adds, is that we won’t need visas to go to the US.
Philippine Chief Justice Reynato S. Puno, who launched the Moral Force Movement in Manila last August, has a different solution. He recognizes the need to change but believes what counts is the change within ourselves – “a change based on realization that we often faulted others for our problems when we ourselves have defaulted in our fight for our moral virtues and principles.”
Wow. My mind reels when I consider these ideas and the future of my home country. Everyone of these men has a point, although I disagree with Jerry when he equates praying with the Church itself. Praying is a very personal act that could focus the mind and clear one’s perceptions, and it doesn’t have to be done inside a church. Praying could probably help the Philippines.
Joel, I suspect, is most likely a former TNT (tago ng tago --- a Pinoy slang for illegal immigrant) who's gotten a US pardon, (I could be wrong) and thus appreciates the importance of having a green card, but has no intention of ever going back to the Philippines. But he’s gotta be kidding about Palin. Why not Stallone? No offense intended.
Now, I think Chief Justice Reynato Puno is on to a good thing when he suggested that first effecting a change within ourselves will change the Philippines. Yet even then, my opinion is, this is a change that would see result only in the next generation. Not today, not next year, but perhaps during the time of our grandchildren. In filmmaking, we always say, SHOW, DON’T TELL. If parents live the change they wish to make, and individually become a walking example to their children, then maybe. Let's plant the seed and watch it grow.
But where are some of these parents? Working abroad, keeping the economy back home afloat by sending monthly remittances. According to last count, foreign workers sent a record amount of 1.5 billion dollars in June alone. So they can’t hardly be home to teach the kids about change.
My point is, where do we start? The country is bleeding its brains into the international labour market everyday, because it’s not worthwhile staying home. Children are being left under the care of others, while many mothers look after other people’s kids. These young people, the future of the nation, are left inadequately supervised, a lot of them quitting school, joining gangs, abusing drugs, because their parents are out there making money.
I say start the change within ourselves, as CJ Puno advises; even start praying --- not necessarily going to church --- because I don’t think there’s much we can do at the moment. And another thing, those of us working abroad should maybe think about going home more often. Keep reconnecting with the kids. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. One day I’ll go home and never leave, and perhaps show my grandkidz how they can help save the Philippines individually. Slow but sure. Pray for me.
Here I was, happily researching about the various acts of neglect and infractions the Philippine government has visited upon Filipino citizens working abroad, when I stumbled upon a lively, sometimes snide and somewhat cynical exchange of opinions, regarding the state of the Philippines today. The forum was started by my friend Jun Cabal, a former foreign worker in the US. I decided to take a closer look.
The letter that started this discussion states that: “…our nation is headed towards an irreversible path of economic decline and moral decadence… that in thirty years, the Philippine population will grow to 160 million, 90 million of whom will live below the poverty line, and we’ll probably be the most corrupt nation in Asia… and not even two Peoples’ Revolutions have made a dent in reversing this trend. (Apparently, according to the writer, we’re ranked 11th in the roster of most corrupt Asian countries right now.)
He says: We need a force far greater than our collective efforts… it’s time to move the battle to the spiritual realm…” He firmly believes that only prayer can save the Philippines.
Jerry L, an American married to a Filipina decries the idea of praying. He contends that “the primary reason for poverty in the country is my own Church. The Catholic Church is second only to the government in corruption, being the 'opiate of the masses' as Karl Marx said all those years ago.”
Jerry the cynical thinks prayer alone solves nothing. If one needs to create change, one must get up and do something for one’s self.
Joel, a Filipino living in the US suggests --- and I hope to God he’s joking --- that the Philippines apply to become America’s 51st state, replace the President with an American governor, and then hire Clint Eastwood or Sarah Palin for the job. One of the benefits, he adds, is that we won’t need visas to go to the US.
Philippine Chief Justice Reynato S. Puno, who launched the Moral Force Movement in Manila last August, has a different solution. He recognizes the need to change but believes what counts is the change within ourselves – “a change based on realization that we often faulted others for our problems when we ourselves have defaulted in our fight for our moral virtues and principles.”
Wow. My mind reels when I consider these ideas and the future of my home country. Everyone of these men has a point, although I disagree with Jerry when he equates praying with the Church itself. Praying is a very personal act that could focus the mind and clear one’s perceptions, and it doesn’t have to be done inside a church. Praying could probably help the Philippines.
Joel, I suspect, is most likely a former TNT (tago ng tago --- a Pinoy slang for illegal immigrant) who's gotten a US pardon, (I could be wrong) and thus appreciates the importance of having a green card, but has no intention of ever going back to the Philippines. But he’s gotta be kidding about Palin. Why not Stallone? No offense intended.
Now, I think Chief Justice Reynato Puno is on to a good thing when he suggested that first effecting a change within ourselves will change the Philippines. Yet even then, my opinion is, this is a change that would see result only in the next generation. Not today, not next year, but perhaps during the time of our grandchildren. In filmmaking, we always say, SHOW, DON’T TELL. If parents live the change they wish to make, and individually become a walking example to their children, then maybe. Let's plant the seed and watch it grow.
But where are some of these parents? Working abroad, keeping the economy back home afloat by sending monthly remittances. According to last count, foreign workers sent a record amount of 1.5 billion dollars in June alone. So they can’t hardly be home to teach the kids about change.
My point is, where do we start? The country is bleeding its brains into the international labour market everyday, because it’s not worthwhile staying home. Children are being left under the care of others, while many mothers look after other people’s kids. These young people, the future of the nation, are left inadequately supervised, a lot of them quitting school, joining gangs, abusing drugs, because their parents are out there making money.
I say start the change within ourselves, as CJ Puno advises; even start praying --- not necessarily going to church --- because I don’t think there’s much we can do at the moment. And another thing, those of us working abroad should maybe think about going home more often. Keep reconnecting with the kids. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. One day I’ll go home and never leave, and perhaps show my grandkidz how they can help save the Philippines individually. Slow but sure. Pray for me.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
AM I GOING BEIGE? (thoughts on mixed marriages)
(first published at the Mill Woods Mosaic, July 15, 2009 issue)
One evening, I was happily chattering away in English, while eating rice, pakbet and adobo together with a bunch of my closest friends. I didn’t notice anything different, until my partner Daniel pointed out that all the wives on the table were Filipinas, but the husbands were all white men --- one American and three Canadians. Skin colour, it seems, has ceased to matter, and --- to quote comedian Russel Peters --- we’ve all become beige. It has taken years for every one of us to arrive at this stage of acceptance, and I have to say, it hasn’t been all smooth sailing.
Here in Vancouver, mixed marriages and common-law relationships occur quite often. In recent decades, the growing ethnic diversity in Canada has made it easier for people to meet and marry someone from a different racial group. The numbers are going up: a 2006 Stats Can survey recorded 289, 420 mixed marriages in Canada, a 33% rise from its 2001 numbers.
Actually, skin colour is not that big a deal to second generation immigrants --- the children who grew up in Canada and have had Canadian education along with others of various ethnic origins. One young woman of Filipino parentage told me, “I’m just as Canadian as the next person.” Children of Chinese immigrants sometimes compare themselves to bananas: ‘yellow on the outside, white on the inside.’ So when a marriage occurs between these Canadian-born kids, I suppose one can still call it racially mixed, although not, culturally speaking.
Things are more challenging for first generation ones, like myself and my three other Pinay friends. We all arrived in Canada with our undiluted Filipino-ness. If you think making success of marriage with a compatriot is hard, try marrying someone who grew up in another country.
My friends and I survived by bargaining, discussion and adaptation. And sometimes, through out and out warfare, to get what we want. Areas of contention include handling of finances, pursuit of religion, spoken language, and disciplining of children. It could get ugly. But in the long run, things simmer down, compromises are made, and peace returns to the household. Through the years, one learns that no issue is important enough to consider murdering a bull-headed mate, or to seek divorce.
The only rare exceptions are my friends F and S, who celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary last July. They have built a union founded on cooperation, and suffered very little growing pains. S readily embraced the Filipino culture, and as a result, they behave like a Filipino couple. (F runs the household, S says “Yes, dear.) (Just kidding.) Their finances are fully shared, and their decisions are always by consensus. Except in culinary choices, where F makes concessions by making non-Pinoy dishes during most meals, but lets loose when her Filipino friends are invited for dinner.
Daniel and I thrive on compromise on most things, and it works because we pick our battles. Usually happens when two highly-opinionated people come together. We don’t have culinary problems though, because Daniel likes Asian food and rice, and loves to cook. He once told me. “You’re lucky I like to eat rice.” He acquired a taste for rice during his stint as a Peace Corps volunteer in Borneo. We have rice with dinner 6 days a week.
I said to Daniel, “ You’re lucky you like rice, otherwise you’ll have to learn.”
There’s one thing Daniel remains firm about, though. He flatly refuses to eat tuyo (dried salted fish). He thinks it smells bad, and it doesn’t taste that good either. A long time ago, before we lived together, he visited me regularly at my own place. One day he came over and smelled the tuyo I’ve been frying for lunch. He announced he did, meters away from the house: “ I’m surprised that the police hasn’t cordoned this area off. I thought there was a dead body in here.”
I said to Daniel, “You had better start learning to like the way this smells, because it’s my favourite fish.” It’s one of those stands I had no intention of backing down from.
So Daniel learned to tolerate the smell of tuyo, and to open all the windows and doors when I’m cooking them. And I learned to keep his spice collection in alphabetical order, the way he liked, and ride a bike at my advanced age, to keep him company while cycling around the Stanley Park seawall. And we agree on most other things.
As of now, it looks like we’re going to live happily ever after. If he keeps listening to me, that is.
One evening, I was happily chattering away in English, while eating rice, pakbet and adobo together with a bunch of my closest friends. I didn’t notice anything different, until my partner Daniel pointed out that all the wives on the table were Filipinas, but the husbands were all white men --- one American and three Canadians. Skin colour, it seems, has ceased to matter, and --- to quote comedian Russel Peters --- we’ve all become beige. It has taken years for every one of us to arrive at this stage of acceptance, and I have to say, it hasn’t been all smooth sailing.
Here in Vancouver, mixed marriages and common-law relationships occur quite often. In recent decades, the growing ethnic diversity in Canada has made it easier for people to meet and marry someone from a different racial group. The numbers are going up: a 2006 Stats Can survey recorded 289, 420 mixed marriages in Canada, a 33% rise from its 2001 numbers.
Actually, skin colour is not that big a deal to second generation immigrants --- the children who grew up in Canada and have had Canadian education along with others of various ethnic origins. One young woman of Filipino parentage told me, “I’m just as Canadian as the next person.” Children of Chinese immigrants sometimes compare themselves to bananas: ‘yellow on the outside, white on the inside.’ So when a marriage occurs between these Canadian-born kids, I suppose one can still call it racially mixed, although not, culturally speaking.
Things are more challenging for first generation ones, like myself and my three other Pinay friends. We all arrived in Canada with our undiluted Filipino-ness. If you think making success of marriage with a compatriot is hard, try marrying someone who grew up in another country.
My friends and I survived by bargaining, discussion and adaptation. And sometimes, through out and out warfare, to get what we want. Areas of contention include handling of finances, pursuit of religion, spoken language, and disciplining of children. It could get ugly. But in the long run, things simmer down, compromises are made, and peace returns to the household. Through the years, one learns that no issue is important enough to consider murdering a bull-headed mate, or to seek divorce.
The only rare exceptions are my friends F and S, who celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary last July. They have built a union founded on cooperation, and suffered very little growing pains. S readily embraced the Filipino culture, and as a result, they behave like a Filipino couple. (F runs the household, S says “Yes, dear.) (Just kidding.) Their finances are fully shared, and their decisions are always by consensus. Except in culinary choices, where F makes concessions by making non-Pinoy dishes during most meals, but lets loose when her Filipino friends are invited for dinner.
Daniel and I thrive on compromise on most things, and it works because we pick our battles. Usually happens when two highly-opinionated people come together. We don’t have culinary problems though, because Daniel likes Asian food and rice, and loves to cook. He once told me. “You’re lucky I like to eat rice.” He acquired a taste for rice during his stint as a Peace Corps volunteer in Borneo. We have rice with dinner 6 days a week.
I said to Daniel, “ You’re lucky you like rice, otherwise you’ll have to learn.”
There’s one thing Daniel remains firm about, though. He flatly refuses to eat tuyo (dried salted fish). He thinks it smells bad, and it doesn’t taste that good either. A long time ago, before we lived together, he visited me regularly at my own place. One day he came over and smelled the tuyo I’ve been frying for lunch. He announced he did, meters away from the house: “ I’m surprised that the police hasn’t cordoned this area off. I thought there was a dead body in here.”
I said to Daniel, “You had better start learning to like the way this smells, because it’s my favourite fish.” It’s one of those stands I had no intention of backing down from.
So Daniel learned to tolerate the smell of tuyo, and to open all the windows and doors when I’m cooking them. And I learned to keep his spice collection in alphabetical order, the way he liked, and ride a bike at my advanced age, to keep him company while cycling around the Stanley Park seawall. And we agree on most other things.
As of now, it looks like we’re going to live happily ever after. If he keeps listening to me, that is.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Searching for a Prospective Husband in North America --- Pinay-Style
Many North American women jokingly compare the problem of searching for a suitable husband to looking for parking spaces --- the good ones are all taken; the rest are either hard to get into, or disabled.
For newly arrived, unmarried Filipino women in Vancouver, Canada, the single biggest hurdle is finding a prospective life partner; particularly for domestic workers who are in their early twenties to thirties. Most men at this age are already in committed relationships, so the market is quite limited.
Worse, culture gets in the way of mating rituals, these being conducted differently in the West. For instance, the guys are not as confident in approaching women as Pinoys do, so the shy Pinay misses out on opportunities because her silence reads lack of interest. A western woman, on the other hand, has no qualms about taking proactive steps to snag her man. You smile, you approach, you talk to him. It’s called ‘chatting up’, otherwise known as flirting. He gets the message. You get your dude.
Even then, dating does not necessarily end in marriage. A man and a woman ‘see’ each other regularly to find out if they get along, and if so, they then agree to live together and let things develop naturally. I think most western men has a subconscious fear of commitment and could go through a lot of soul-searching before proposing marriage to his girlfriend, whom, mostly, he already lives with. How hard can that be? An unfortunate woman can wait forever for a proposal which isn’t forthcoming.
Filipino women who work as nannies/housekeepers in Canada started coming in the 80’s. Most of these were single, ambitious and educated women who missed the marriage train because they were chasing other dreams. Canada is their final stop, and once they get here, they’re ready to settle down. Good on those who already have boyfriends or fiancés waiting in the Philippines. If these men could wait, they’d be here in three years’ time. No sweat. For those who failed to find a future husband before leaving the country, looking for one becomes a project. This can be done through introduction by friends, or by asking for recommendations by relatives in the Philippines. The rest seeks the help of dating agencies.
In Vancouver, an enterprising older immigrant found the answer to young women’s desires. Maria Southwell, a Filipina married to a white Canadian, decided to give the women a helping hand while earning some money at the same time. She formed Maria Southwell’s Singles’ Club. Men looking for girlfriends could join the club for a fee of $50. Maria organized a monthly singles’ dance where members could meet endless number of ‘girls’ who were there for the same reason. DJ music was provided and everyone paid $10 to get in. The women joined the club for free, and submitted their resumes and photos. Outside of these dances, the guys told Maria what type of women they want and Maria in turn would match them with resumes from her files. The next step was up to them.
In the 90’s, when I was writing for the Philippine Chronicle in Vancouver, I was the self-appointed leader of a group composed of mostly single women. There were seven of us and I was the only one ever married and had children. I could hear their biological clocks ticking frantically, so I hatched a plan. Maria Southwell had been advertising in the Philippine Chronicle and I suggested we give it a try. We’d go to Maria Southwell’s to check the field out. We’d arrive early and pick a table facing the door, and then appear friendly when a likeable guy looked our way. My scheme worked. As the night deepened, everyone in our table was busy dancing and chatting with the boys. The girls went home excited about the new names added to their date books.
What I found out was most of the guys in that dating joint were older, and I thought they weren’t that great a choice either. My girls and I could be underestimating their own wifely worth. (I apologize for this. I was young and arrogant and a man-hating bitch at that time, although I tried hard not to influence my friends in any way.) Next day, I wrote a totally disparaging column about Maria’s Singles’ Club. I said the men at Maria’s were losers, shoppers, seniors, and those who couldn’t find dates under normal circumstances. Added to these were guys who thought they were god’s gift to the nannyhood. I went on unkindly that joining that club was like going to Value Village --- Vancouver’s version of the ‘ukay-ukay’ --- a second hand clothing store: if you dug hard enough and searched long enough, you’d eventually find something of value. I even felt good about what I wrote. Maria Southwell angrily pulled her ad from our paper the very day my column came out.
My subsequent research, however, showed that many women actually found good husband material through Maria’s help. I even interviewed some of them. I was happy to say sorry and eat humble pie.
Even so, finding a good husband in Vancouver remains a problem for Pinays today, perhaps harder than getting good parking spaces.
(Previously Published in The Manila Times in 2007)
For newly arrived, unmarried Filipino women in Vancouver, Canada, the single biggest hurdle is finding a prospective life partner; particularly for domestic workers who are in their early twenties to thirties. Most men at this age are already in committed relationships, so the market is quite limited.
Worse, culture gets in the way of mating rituals, these being conducted differently in the West. For instance, the guys are not as confident in approaching women as Pinoys do, so the shy Pinay misses out on opportunities because her silence reads lack of interest. A western woman, on the other hand, has no qualms about taking proactive steps to snag her man. You smile, you approach, you talk to him. It’s called ‘chatting up’, otherwise known as flirting. He gets the message. You get your dude.
Even then, dating does not necessarily end in marriage. A man and a woman ‘see’ each other regularly to find out if they get along, and if so, they then agree to live together and let things develop naturally. I think most western men has a subconscious fear of commitment and could go through a lot of soul-searching before proposing marriage to his girlfriend, whom, mostly, he already lives with. How hard can that be? An unfortunate woman can wait forever for a proposal which isn’t forthcoming.
Filipino women who work as nannies/housekeepers in Canada started coming in the 80’s. Most of these were single, ambitious and educated women who missed the marriage train because they were chasing other dreams. Canada is their final stop, and once they get here, they’re ready to settle down. Good on those who already have boyfriends or fiancés waiting in the Philippines. If these men could wait, they’d be here in three years’ time. No sweat. For those who failed to find a future husband before leaving the country, looking for one becomes a project. This can be done through introduction by friends, or by asking for recommendations by relatives in the Philippines. The rest seeks the help of dating agencies.
In Vancouver, an enterprising older immigrant found the answer to young women’s desires. Maria Southwell, a Filipina married to a white Canadian, decided to give the women a helping hand while earning some money at the same time. She formed Maria Southwell’s Singles’ Club. Men looking for girlfriends could join the club for a fee of $50. Maria organized a monthly singles’ dance where members could meet endless number of ‘girls’ who were there for the same reason. DJ music was provided and everyone paid $10 to get in. The women joined the club for free, and submitted their resumes and photos. Outside of these dances, the guys told Maria what type of women they want and Maria in turn would match them with resumes from her files. The next step was up to them.
In the 90’s, when I was writing for the Philippine Chronicle in Vancouver, I was the self-appointed leader of a group composed of mostly single women. There were seven of us and I was the only one ever married and had children. I could hear their biological clocks ticking frantically, so I hatched a plan. Maria Southwell had been advertising in the Philippine Chronicle and I suggested we give it a try. We’d go to Maria Southwell’s to check the field out. We’d arrive early and pick a table facing the door, and then appear friendly when a likeable guy looked our way. My scheme worked. As the night deepened, everyone in our table was busy dancing and chatting with the boys. The girls went home excited about the new names added to their date books.
What I found out was most of the guys in that dating joint were older, and I thought they weren’t that great a choice either. My girls and I could be underestimating their own wifely worth. (I apologize for this. I was young and arrogant and a man-hating bitch at that time, although I tried hard not to influence my friends in any way.) Next day, I wrote a totally disparaging column about Maria’s Singles’ Club. I said the men at Maria’s were losers, shoppers, seniors, and those who couldn’t find dates under normal circumstances. Added to these were guys who thought they were god’s gift to the nannyhood. I went on unkindly that joining that club was like going to Value Village --- Vancouver’s version of the ‘ukay-ukay’ --- a second hand clothing store: if you dug hard enough and searched long enough, you’d eventually find something of value. I even felt good about what I wrote. Maria Southwell angrily pulled her ad from our paper the very day my column came out.
My subsequent research, however, showed that many women actually found good husband material through Maria’s help. I even interviewed some of them. I was happy to say sorry and eat humble pie.
Even so, finding a good husband in Vancouver remains a problem for Pinays today, perhaps harder than getting good parking spaces.
(Previously Published in The Manila Times in 2007)
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Filipino-Canadian dinner: eat at your own risk?
(First published at the Mill Woods Mosaic, an Edmonton, Alberta publication, Sept 2008)
The first time my friend Daniel attended a big Filipino dinner, he was flabbergasted. He looked down the loaded dinner table which was set up buffet-style, and beheld a spread that boasted countless dishes from varying countries of origin. He had expected, I believe, a collection of Pinoy culinary specialties he was familiar with, like lumpia, pancit and adobo --- and was not disappointed; but was surprised to see so much more: baked ribs, stir-fried vegetables, sushi, lasagna, blood stew (dinuguan), roast beef, chicken curry and stuffed milk fish (relleno). Sitting in the midst of all these, like a queen reigning among its subjects was a heavy-duty rice cooker filled to the brim with freshly steamed rice. The only thing missing was the lechon, the traditional roast pig, which Filipinos reserve for more special occasions.
Arranged neatly at the farther end of the table were a bowl of cut fresh fruit, a leche flan sitting on a plate of brown syrup, trays of brownie squares and rice cakes and the famous Filipino fruit salad, a glorious concoction of pineapple chunks, grated young coconut, kaong nuts, raisins, apple slices, grapes and cheese bits covered in thick canned cream. This was the dessert corner.
On the side table were different kinds of pop, which included the all-time Pinoy favourite, coca cola, and a purple non-alcoholic punch in a massive punch bowl.
He turned to me and asked whether the event was potluck and that we misunderstood the invitation. I assured him that I received clear instructions food-wise. We were asked to bring only ourselves, and if we were so inclined, perhaps a bottle of wine of our choice.
Now Daniel is one of those traditional Caucasian guys who believe that when you plan a meal, you stick to a certain theme, and he lives by that rule. When he hosts a dinner, he plans early and apprises prospective guests of the culinary theme. If it were potluck, say, he’d email everybody long before the dinner date and tell them what to bring.
For instance, if he fancied serving Greek, he’d prepare the main course which could be roast lamb and a side dish of calamari with tartar sauce. Others were instructed to bring things like a Greek salad, spanakopita or a dessert. The rest can bring drinks if they wanted to. No more no less.
When someone arrived with a contribution that diverged from the theme, the dish got quietly put away in the deep recesses of his fridge and was soon forgotten. Inflexible, I told him, but the guy was born that way.
But I digress. A Filipino gathering in a foreign country, I explained to Daniel, is the sum total of the community’s sensibilities and its continuing evolution. The food Filipinos serve is a reflection of our country’s history. Through centuries of colonization, through our private diasporas, through good times and bad, we adapt, we assimilate, we roll with the punches, we bend like the bamboo that swings with the wind; the food we serve during our parties reflects these. We take the best from our past lives and share it with the rest of the world.
So when you analyze a Filipino buffet table, the types of food on it represent the composite of what the host culled from her life experiences. She’s saying: here’s the special chicken curry I learned to eat and then make when I was working in Singapore; here’s a platter of Japanese sushi which I thought you might enjoy, and here’s a bunch of Filipino dishes I’m proud to share, because they anchor me, and because they remind me of home. I’m sharing with you my lifetime of culinary adventure. I’m sure you’ll like it.
For Daniel The Inflexible, this was a new way of looking at entertaining. And it works. He has since learned to appreciate the gustatory challenge of a big Filipino dinner, and when he hosts a potluck where Pinoys are invited, he now suspends his inclinations to control the theme. It’s become ‘bring whatever you want, as long as it’s edible’. He can now eat pakbet and rice with a side dish of roast beef without questioning its logic, although he still gives dinuguan wide berth.
The first time my friend Daniel attended a big Filipino dinner, he was flabbergasted. He looked down the loaded dinner table which was set up buffet-style, and beheld a spread that boasted countless dishes from varying countries of origin. He had expected, I believe, a collection of Pinoy culinary specialties he was familiar with, like lumpia, pancit and adobo --- and was not disappointed; but was surprised to see so much more: baked ribs, stir-fried vegetables, sushi, lasagna, blood stew (dinuguan), roast beef, chicken curry and stuffed milk fish (relleno). Sitting in the midst of all these, like a queen reigning among its subjects was a heavy-duty rice cooker filled to the brim with freshly steamed rice. The only thing missing was the lechon, the traditional roast pig, which Filipinos reserve for more special occasions.
Arranged neatly at the farther end of the table were a bowl of cut fresh fruit, a leche flan sitting on a plate of brown syrup, trays of brownie squares and rice cakes and the famous Filipino fruit salad, a glorious concoction of pineapple chunks, grated young coconut, kaong nuts, raisins, apple slices, grapes and cheese bits covered in thick canned cream. This was the dessert corner.
On the side table were different kinds of pop, which included the all-time Pinoy favourite, coca cola, and a purple non-alcoholic punch in a massive punch bowl.
He turned to me and asked whether the event was potluck and that we misunderstood the invitation. I assured him that I received clear instructions food-wise. We were asked to bring only ourselves, and if we were so inclined, perhaps a bottle of wine of our choice.
Now Daniel is one of those traditional Caucasian guys who believe that when you plan a meal, you stick to a certain theme, and he lives by that rule. When he hosts a dinner, he plans early and apprises prospective guests of the culinary theme. If it were potluck, say, he’d email everybody long before the dinner date and tell them what to bring.
For instance, if he fancied serving Greek, he’d prepare the main course which could be roast lamb and a side dish of calamari with tartar sauce. Others were instructed to bring things like a Greek salad, spanakopita or a dessert. The rest can bring drinks if they wanted to. No more no less.
When someone arrived with a contribution that diverged from the theme, the dish got quietly put away in the deep recesses of his fridge and was soon forgotten. Inflexible, I told him, but the guy was born that way.
But I digress. A Filipino gathering in a foreign country, I explained to Daniel, is the sum total of the community’s sensibilities and its continuing evolution. The food Filipinos serve is a reflection of our country’s history. Through centuries of colonization, through our private diasporas, through good times and bad, we adapt, we assimilate, we roll with the punches, we bend like the bamboo that swings with the wind; the food we serve during our parties reflects these. We take the best from our past lives and share it with the rest of the world.
So when you analyze a Filipino buffet table, the types of food on it represent the composite of what the host culled from her life experiences. She’s saying: here’s the special chicken curry I learned to eat and then make when I was working in Singapore; here’s a platter of Japanese sushi which I thought you might enjoy, and here’s a bunch of Filipino dishes I’m proud to share, because they anchor me, and because they remind me of home. I’m sharing with you my lifetime of culinary adventure. I’m sure you’ll like it.
For Daniel The Inflexible, this was a new way of looking at entertaining. And it works. He has since learned to appreciate the gustatory challenge of a big Filipino dinner, and when he hosts a potluck where Pinoys are invited, he now suspends his inclinations to control the theme. It’s become ‘bring whatever you want, as long as it’s edible’. He can now eat pakbet and rice with a side dish of roast beef without questioning its logic, although he still gives dinuguan wide berth.
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