#11 -- The Singapore Slinger

Okay, so I really should be blogging about my vacation to Malaysia and Singapore, but instead this is all about drink number eleven.

But first, a recap:
#9 -- joining the mile-high club. I don't know why that has to have a sexual connotation. Why can't it refer to anything that happens a mile above the earth?
I had a glass of white wine (don't know what kind it was specifically), but it was totally not worth my 9th drink. It tasted gross and I couldn't even finish it. You know how small those plastic glasses are -- the kind that they put apple juice and 7-Up in. Really classy wine glasses, I know. But in any case, I used up numero 9 on the flight back from Manila to Portland. First class is totally not worth the extra $1000.

#10 -- Strawberry margarita at the Dubliner. We had gone out to do some salsa dancing and stopped at the Dubliner in Bangkok. Granted, I don't remember if it was a strawberry margarita, but it was fruity and sweet. Nothing exciting happened, but it was followed by soco and sprite. Pretty good; not as good as Germany.


And now.......#11 -- The Singapore Slinger in, where else, Singapore. I wasn't planning on using up #11 in October, and especially on vacation. I started with a mocktail and a bottle of water and was totally content, until we decided to drink out by the water.
Let's back up for a paragraph.....October break was spent in a relaxing vacation in Penang, Malaysia--the smallest national park, a secret beach, a chocolate haven, Indian food, Chili's, church with new friends, and of course the one thing that made it all possible -- bus 101. After Penang, we made our way down to Singapore via an overnight bus complete with reclining seats and movies. By 9 in the morning, we had made it to our destination, found our hotel, and was on the hunt for the Merlion. The Merlion became our favorite place to visit in Singapore partly because we made our way back to it on the night of the Slinger. We were planning on meeting up with a few other girls we had traveled with, but since that was unraveling quickly, we took a walk by the river canal in the hopes of finding some interesting company. We found a pub, ordered drinks inside, and were headed outside before realizing that the fourth member of our group was not with us. Yup, she was quick to find company with a couple Australians. Inviting themselves to our table, they greeted the rest of us eagerly (if not a tad gaily). After seeing our 'fourth member' with a Slinger, they ordered a round for everyone. If you haven't had a Slinger, it is a pink fruity drink with an orange slice on the glass; so having two men order it for everyone including themselves. I tried telling him that he didn't have to order one for me, but when the drinks came, there was definitely one set aside for little ole me.
What was I to do? Drink it of course. Tasty, fruity, and a wee bit strong, the Slinger was more than I needed. I am not even sure I finished it. Mostly I sat there quietly listening to everyone else talk. Let's face it, 4 girls and 2 guys is an uneven party. Since I've been teaching at a Christian school the past three months, hearing foul language in everyday conversation was very rare. Hearing it now was like a wake-up call -- the world was not a Christian community. And the great thing was, I hated hearing it. I had gotten pretty accustomed to hearing swearing all the time with college students, but now in Thailand, if people swear they do it in Thai, and I gratefully can't understand them.
Anyway, I was getting immensely bored listening to these two men brag about themselves, and was starting to have breathing problems (since I'm allergic to alcohol), so I decided to go for a walk and explore what else was down the lane. By this time, they had ordered another round and I wasn't planning on drinking. The other girl who wasn't occupied in conversation decided to join me and we made our way down to the bridge spanning the wide canal. Eventually, we convinced the other girls to get going and leave the men to their drunkenness. Unfortunately, they weren't ready to end the night and followed us around the water to another bridge. We used the Merlion as an excuse to ditch the men (which sort of worked), and on our way there, found a taxi to shove them into. We still made it to the Merlion for a few minutes, took pictures with the evening lights, and with a hop, skip, and a jump we were back at our very sketch hotel.

My expectation is for you to not be stupid

Please, for the love of all that is holy, don't be an idiot.
Don't pretend to be ditzy.
Don't act like you've never played the game before.
Don't just stare at me blankly.

DON'T BE STUPID.

That's my only expectation of you at the moment. Can you handle that?
Can you handle doing what you're supposed to do on a soccer field?
Is it too much to ask you to actually run? To defend a player?
To chase after a ball that's 10 feet away from you?
To want to be out there playing soccer?

If you want to call yourself a soccer player, then play the game.
Do what your coaches tell you, and don't rely on inexperience as an excuse.
Move those legs that God gave you and run.

If you don't want to play, then why are you wasting your time?
Why are you wasting my time? Get off the field.

Let Me Be.

I don't mean leave me alone.

I mean, let me be who I am. Please.

Most of you won't understand, or say that I'm imagining things, but being so recognizably cross-cultural can be hard. You see, people like me are caught in the middle between what they ethnically are (for me it's being Filipino-American), and what they culturally are (American with just a pinch of Asian thrown in).

Yes, I know I'm American. I am most definitely American ethnically, socially, mentally. I'm just hiding behind my Filipino skin. And I feel like an impostor.

I used to feel proud to be half Filipino -- even more proud because I looked the most Filipino out of my siblings. I was the different one in my extended family -- certainly the "loud and proud" Asian in a sea of white faces. But with so many comments correcting my ethnic proclamation "No, you're only half-Filipino," has made me feel like an impostor; as though I'm trying to hide my American-ness. Or that by being half-Filipino, I am somehow less than a pure Filipino or pure American (which, by the way, does not exist).



The truth of the matter is, I know I'm American. It's obvious to everyone I meet (except for those who think I'm Mexican). I know I'm half-white (but thank goodness it doesn't show until winter!). It's shown in the way I speak, the way I dress, in the way I act, and the way I carry myself. So what's wrong with trying to recognize my other half every once in a while? The half that is obvious to the eye, but not to the heart. What's wrong with identifying my ethnicity with my skin color rather than my upbringing? By recognizing my pinoy side, I am struck again with being a fake. As though the only thing I have to show for being bi-racial is my skin tone. Why should I be made to feel ashamed because I claim both sides of my ethnicity?

Please, let me be as Filipino as I can possibly be. I didn't get the chance to be raised in a heavily Asian culture. I was raised in a bi-racial home with a full Filipino mother and all-American white farm boy father. My mother, bless her heart, was eager to raise us in the "American way," and although we got a good taste of Filipino culture through her natural upbringing, she also shielded us from other aspects of her culture. I didn't learn the language. Oh sure, I got bits and pieces of the language, but I can't form a complete sentence to save my life. In many respects, I am a first-generation American born on American soil in the midst of true Asians. My mom was born and bred in the heart of the Philippines: Manila. She didn't meet America until she was nearly thirty; so it is from her that I become first-generation. My father was, and still is, in love with Filipino culture. For someone so white, and raised in the middle of nowhere on a farm, he sure has a thirst for adventure in far off lands.

But it was inevitable: I became white on the inside, even though my skin refused to believe it. I don't know which is worse -- being white on the inside, in the heart of who I am, and brown on the outside for all to see and wonder; or brown on the inside, in secret, and white on the outside to be seen as I truly am. The only chance I get to embrace that secret part of me is proudly proclaiming that I'm Filipino without mentioning that I'm only half. People can tell I'm American, why should I need to mention that? When they see my skin and ask what I am, I know they're referring to the reason my skin is brown instead of the typical whiteness so often associated with Americans. I give them what they want. And I do it with hesitant pride. Sure, I really don't know the nitty-gritty about my other culture all things considered, but does that matter? It's hard enough saying I'm Filipino and feeling like a fake Filipino, than going through an in-depth explanation of my genetic makeup.

I'm still trying to sort out how much liberty I have to say I am Filipino without having anything else to back it up -- no language skills to help connect me to other pinoys around the world, no historical knowledge to show my interest in the heritage of my people, and no geographical understanding to show that I even know about the country I claim.


If I can't have anything else Filipino, at least let me have the ethnic label. America, I will not deny you, but please Americans, don't make me deny my other half. I feel lost between two cultures already; don't make me choose one over another.

So far:

1. I teach 8th grade English full-time
2. Coach soccer (V/JV) in a volunteer capacity
3. I give voice lessons twice a week to prepare a student for the Fall musical
   
4. I tutor a student once a week on their essay-writing skills
5. I advise the middle school worship band to prep them for MS youth group
6. I help lead the soccer team's Life Group (accountability/bible study-ish thing)
   
7. I juggle a multitude of emails and meetings that are fired on me every day (which could almost be a full-time job)
8. Create lesson plans, grade assignments, and figure out ways to keep my students awake
   
9. and somewhere in between the cracks, I try to have a social life. It hasn't happened yet. I'm hoping it hasn't disappeared completely.

Life is stretched so thin, I don't have time to muster any energy or motivation to be a real asset to students, co-workers, or even myself.

Lesson to be learned:

Just.
Say.
No.

Step DOWN 3

As I walked out of the ornate movie theater last night, I had the distinct impression that I was most certainly NOT in Thailand anymore. I really didn't know where I "was" (I knew I was in Bangkok, but it didn't feel like I was there) -- maybe it felt like the States, or even the Philippines, but not Thailand.

I had just watched Step Up 3, which I strongly advise NEVER SEEING, and with all the fast-moving dancing going on, I admit to feeling rather pumped. My body was on a kind of 'high' if you will, and instead of acting slightly more subdued (because, let's face it, Thais aren't known for their show of emotions) than normal, I was acting like a typical American coming out of a typical American movie theater. I was talking loudly because I had officially become deaf (the movie theater blared the sound at you and you literally felt the seats vibrating under you), gesturing wildly, and doing my version of dancing while I pranced down the stares and stood on the escalator. I tried not making eye contact with any of the Thais around me because I was sure they were staring.

After descending into the very pit of hell known by other people as the first level parking garage (the elevators were so packed we took the narrow service stares that wound narrowly around and around -- the lower we went, the hotter it got), we crept out into the humid air. It was there I saw the one thing that reminded me that I was, indeed, in Thailand: a pack of dogs lounging in front of another entrance to the garage. These dogs are used to people, and some of them might even be pets, but they lied there and took no notice of us. Not ten seconds later I saw another remnant of Thailand: a large rat. These rats are fairly friendly considering it took it's good sweet time scurrying away as we approached on the sidewalk.

But enough about the sights and sounds. More on the epic fail of a movie known as Step Up 3.

Basically, they took models and dancers-turned-actors and had them prance in front of the camera. The dialogue was so disgustingly corny, I found myself rolling my eyes and stifling laughter the entire time. I was glad my movie buddy sitting next to me felt the same, otherwise I would have felt rather embarrassed for making fun of the movie. Sure the lead character was nice to look at, but the movie was an absolute flop. I think the only reason people were coming to watch the movie was because 1) it's such a long weekend and they needed something to do, 2)Step Up 2 was such a success, and they felt this one would be just as good, and 3) Thais have been so completely inundated with previews of this movie on every Skytrain in Bangkok, that they had to see what the hype was all about.

Spoiler alert -- but what happened to tough guys being tough guys?? When you stalk another guy into the dingy bathroom at a club, it's usually with the purpose of beating him up -- NOT proposing a dance-off. In a bathroom?? What kind of pretty boy are you?

Cheesy line after cheesy line with no feasible plot couldn't even be salvaged by the fast-paced dancing (that was also computerized. What a disappointment). Sure, they were innovative and brought a few new dance moves to the floor, but all in all, it just looked like a very very bad remake of the second movie with cameo appearances of about six of their dancers. It was one dance competition after another -- and they even redid the whole dancing-in-two-inches-of-water thing from the second movie.

Step Up 2:
Step Up 3:

Let me try another analogy for you: porn. It's full of sex, has cheesy dialogue, and contains no plot. People don't care about the dialogue or plot, they just want the action. DISGUSTING.

Step Up 3: It's full of dancing, has cheesy dialogue, and contains no plot. People don't care about the dialogue, they just want to see the dancing because fluid body movement is amazing and they wish they could move like that. BLAH.

So unless you like dance-porn, I'd pick another summer flick to watch.

The Face of Jesus

I want to see the face of Jesus.

I want to know what He actually looks like.

I'm not talking metaphorically speaking. You know, like: "He's the face of love; of truth and justice; of compassion; of grace and mercy. He is what purity looks like. Perfection. Splendor."

No. That's not good enough for me. These things don't have a face. They're attributes, sure, and they're good ones to describe Jesus. But that's not what He physically looks like.

I've started reading "Captivating" again (more like picked up where I left off almost 2 years ago), and it talked about a passage in Isaiah that reminded me that no one knows what He looks like. At least no one living.

I know there are several passages (many in Isaiah) that describe His physical features as being unnoticeable, plain, homey, not one to catch anyone's attention -- certainly nothing deserving of the kingly status He so rightly deserves. He was not regarded as handsome to women (which would be awkward -- how would you feel if you were attracted to Jesus, the ruler of the universe and were thus distracted by his outward appearance and couldn't concentrate on His message?).

But we don't know what He looks like. All the pictures we have of Jesus that flood American walls show him as a sallow, gentle-looking, white man with a beard and long hair. Well we know He wasn't white. Nor was He necessarily sallow. He was a carpenter by trade, and therefore I am assuming He had the muscles to prove it.


He probably looked quite rough with large carpenter hands, the grooves of his fingers permanently ground with dust or dirt. Although He was a Nazarite, His long hair was probably not as well-groomed as the pictures make Him out to be. I wouldn't go so far as to say He had a full head of dreads down to His waist (like one European hippie I saw today had), but it more than likely was as groomed as any other outdoorsy man at the time. As much as we'd like to think of him as our own race, we have to come to grips with the fact that He was definitely born to parents of middle-eastern decent (and yes I know it was miraculous conception and He probably didn't have any DNA connecting him to either Mary or Joseph); however, He had to fit with His people and look like a Nazarite. His skin was not porcelain or untouched by the sun. His average smile broke with chapped lips burned by living in the desert.

I want to see His face. I want to see His middle-eastern face with dark brown eyes and near-black hair. I want to see His stature -- His less than average height, muscular build, and very rough hands.

I want to feel Him wrap his big hands and arms around me and tell me that no matter what, everything will be okay because He is there to protect me and walk me through the difficult times.

I want to look into His deep brown eyes and feel the intensity tingle my spine with the knowledge that He knows everything.

And I want to know if I wouldn't even recognize
Him as the Son of the Living God;
if He really is as physically forgettable as all the stories say.

VIVA ESPANA!!!

Yes folks, Spain just won their first ever World Cup final match. Although they were picked as the favorite (hello? they're Spanish), it was a very hard-fought, and can I say extremely longgggggg game. Being as I am still in the Philippines and we are many time-zones removed from the actual game, dedication dictates that I stay up for the live feed showing at 2:30am (Philippine time).

I can't say that I was all that dedicated during the matches leading up to this epic moment, but when it comes down to the wire, I will be there at the end to see who emerges victorious. It is extremely difficult to watch games here in the Philippines unless I am willing to stay up til all hours of the morning holed up in some sketch sports bar. My family does not have the appropriate sports channels that show the games, and watching the streaming feed online is near impossible with the slow internet. But I can proudly say as a blurry-eyed spectator, that I watched Andres Iniesta put the ball in the net in the 26th minute of overtime. Personally, I hold that he was two steps off-sides when he scored, but whatever; the refs were rubbish anyway.

Spain, you're beautiful.

Yes my friends, this is the face of victory.