Welcome to the Jungle

So...I went to a middle school orientation last week. I should have been thinking about my twins: how they would adjust come next year, what they would love, what would give them pause. But of course I didn't manage to do what I was supposed to do, for I am too self-absorbed! It must always be about me! Me! ME! And that is how I fell down the memory well and directly into my own junior high school experience.

Which was horrible.

So awkward.

Bad hair, owl glasses, Chinese slippers. Tough girls who smoked and swore and had hickeys and who scared the crap outta me.

Algebra. Absolutely did not get algebra.

And there was some guy who had the locker above mine, and he'd always reach down and grab at my non-existent boobs. This was so traumatizing that I cannot remember his face or name.

Kids at this age are the worst kids EVER. My science teacher's husband committed suicide by jumping in front of a train, and on her first day back at work one of us said, "How do you feel about trains now?"

Girls would get in fights, and the object would be to inflict embarrassment by ripping each other's shirts off. And did any of us try to stop these fights? No, we'd stand there in a circle, screaming, screaming.

I was called "schoolgirl" and "virgie."

I do not recall a school library; I do not recall a school principal, school office, or any place or person of comfort other than my childhood friend, Paul, who walked to school with me every day.

I was pulled out of a class once a week—I can't remember which—to attend something called "High Potential." Every week at the appointed time, I would raise my hand. "Yes?" the teacher (male) would say.

"I have to go now."

"Oh? Where do you have to go?"

"To my HP class."

"What does 'HP' stand for?" he'd say, even though I did this every week, and even though he already knew.

"Um, high potential."

"You think you have higher potential than the other kids in this class?"

"No," I'd say, my face turning red. "I don't know."

"Well, someone apparently thinks that you do." And I would just stare at him, stupid in my owl glasses and bad short hair and red face. "Well, what are you waiting for? GO!"

And that, my friends, is some of what I can recall of junior high school. The idea of my own children having to be dropped into such scenarios makes my head hurt. But I have to say that the school I visited did not at all appear to be the same sort of lawless jungle that mine was. But we'll see, right?

We'll see.

Writing, Neatness, and Idol Robbery

You know that writing tip about keeping a notebook by your bed and trying to write stuff in it before you're fully awake? I wanted to report that this advice is a load of hollyhocks (what are hollyhocks?), a load of rotting durian, a load of fast food shrimp poppers (what?), a load of dirty kleenex, but...it's not! This totally works, particularly for someone like me whose plots (such as they are) are hard won. So, yes. As soon as you feel yourself starting to wake up, grope for your notebook and get to it. You should clip your pen on the notebook the night before, silly, so you don't double your groping efforts. If you have to fumble around too much, you're liable to become too alert, and then all is lost for that morning. Also the night before, make sure there's a page open already. Also, don't put on your glasses. Do all this and you will be magic.

You know what else would be magic? One of these slightly creepy hanging lounges. They are distributed via Dedon, and they are cleverly named "nestrests." I want one. I have no place to hang it, and even if I did, I would be too scared to climb out on a branch and somehow scuttle myself into the little opening, but I want one nevertheless. Hmmmm...I see that now that they don't necessarily have to be hung somewhere. You could just, you know, set it down in a corner and climb in. It would cut off my peripheral vision, which is a good thing because my peripheral vision is always revealing Grapenuts on the kitchen floor, pencil shavings near the dining room carpet, a bit of spilled juice on the counter. Such distractions are...distracting. This brings to mind something else. Was your house ever a mess growing up? Because I can honestly say that I do not recall my growing-up house to ever, ever be in the state of hopeless disarray usually displayed in my grown-up house. How did my mother manage that? Or maybe it was sometimes messy, but my overall memory is of calm and order. Or maybe what you end up remembering about your growing-up house is not whether it was messy or neat, but whether or not you were liked and loved and cared for.

I'll end with some random thoughts:

I think my daughters are secretly crushing on Justin Bieber, but they are afraid to admit it because they think I'll be disappointed. This is what my harsh judgements have done: they have turned them into closet Bieber-ites.

I think dental hygienists inflict violence on gums.

I think writer Vince Gotera's daughter, the incandescent Amelia Blue Gotera, was completely robbed! Robbed! ROBBED of a spot on this year's American Idol (she made it through the first day of Hollywood, as far as I could tell—no small feat, that). I have watched this video like 50 times. I love it. Love her, her voice, and this song:

It's raining hard here. We're off to the movies...

E-diction Free. For Now.

During a disorienting flurry of putting on jackets, throwing out trays of garbage, and gently elbowing our way through an obscenely crowded In 'N' Out Burger, I lost my 16-month-old iPhone.

Of course I raced back to the restaurant, and of course no one had turned in my phone (Why? Why? Why are people like that? Dude, I would never steal your phone; why would you steal mine?). I returned home dejected, disabled my number, kicked myself for not having Mobile Me so that I could track down the whereabouts of my device, and then promptly settled into that gross, violated feeling that comes from knowing that far too much of your life is likely being perused by a thief.

Next came the intricate dance between Apple, Evil Phone Company, and Bewildered Customer (that's me). The essence was this: if I waited until July, I could save myself $200 on the new 4G. Now, I have been known to suffer bouts of severe fiscal irresponsibility, but in this case I made a Very Good Decision and opted to wait until July. I was forced to unearth my 2G which is at this point, let's face it, basically a relic of ancient Alexandria. Evil Phone Company smugly informed me that I'd have to find an equally old version of iTunes if I was going to use my 2G. To this I said, "Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaaa! I've got you, Evil Phone Company!" Because guess what? My old laptop still has a super old version of iTunes on it! See? See? Sometimes you shouldn't automatically upgrade your shiz!

Once all that was settled, I began to experience withdrawal symptoms because—and this is the least of it—this phone is s-l-o-w. Worse, all I can do is text, check e-mail, and have unsatisfying interactions with the Internets. No New York Times app, no Poetry.org app, no Evernote app, no Wurdle, Facebook, or Twitter apps, no nothing. I had only the faintest idea of how desperately wedded I'd become to the downtime entertainment afforded to me by my phone. My dear, dear phone.

I moped for a few days, but then a feeling of sublime liberation settled into my bones. No longer did I cradle my phone as if it were my fourth child. No longer did I reach for it absentmindedly while standing in line somewhere. No longer did I feel compelled to sneak a peek at Facebook and Twitter just because I could. And, perhaps best of all, no longer were my kids constantly fighting me and each other to get their small, sticky fingers on it. In short, I was free. I am free. Until July 1st.

*I couldn't find credit for the photo above anywhere. If it's yours, I'm sorry.

My Mom's Cookbook

Have you noticed that people rarely feel neutral about their mom's cooking? Your mom is/was either the best cook ever OR she was sweetly and hilariously awful. I'm sure it comes as little surprise to anyone out there that I place my own mom squarely in the first category; I've written as much before. Her pesky and evil multiple sclerosis prevents her from cooking now, but of course I still go to her for advice and whatnot. PLUS I filched her copy of Recipes of the Philippines, compiled and edited by Enriqueta David-Perez and published in 1970 (the 16th printing).

How groovy is this cover? Take note of the bakelite faux wood handles on the carving set! The creepy twisty candle! Those random dried flowers! And let's not forget the pineapple wedges stuck to the ham via a toothpicked, pimento-stuffed olive. But don't be fooled by the cover, for many jewels are hidden in these pages, including my mom's handwritten notes, yellowed recipes clipped from newspapers, and what I think is a recipe for cucinta written on the back of a page from her 1974 check register (on October 19th of that year, if you must know, she spent $2.00 on books).

The book proper is equally entertaining. There are little charcoal folk drawings—people in traditional dress, a pair of tsinelas, cooking vessels, and of course a rider atop a caribou; color photographs; black and white photographs; and some fun text. In the intro, David-Perez warns that the book is not a complete collection of Philippine dishes, but one with general appeal "that give a good glimpse of the Filipino heart."

Here are a few more quotes that amuse or baffle me:

"After adding vinegar to a cooking dish, do not stir until mixture has boiled." - But what happens if you mix it before it boils? Tell me! Tell me!

"A Filipino thinks nothing of starving himself or getting into debt to be a perfect host." - This gave me pause, but then I realized: she's right.

"Bread and butter has taken the pace of the kakanin in many modern homes. But in many a heart lingers the nostalgia for something at one with the long ago." - Um, I would like to be at one with the long ago. The long ago of my 30th birthday, let's say.

Here's to nostalgia. *raises glass of Crystal Light*

Birds, Bees, and Wisdom From the Count of Connotation

The twins have turned eleven years old. Over the past year, I've been wondering how to broach the subject of what I believe schools refer to as "family life." Certainly, the various topics within the larger context have popped up during the course of everyday conversation, and so going into this, their eleventh year, they did have some general knowledge. While holiday shopping, I found what seemed to be an excellent book that covered just about everything. It's titled, It's So Amazing: A Book About Eggs, Sperm, Birth, Babies, and Families.

I wrapped it up with some of other books and put it under the tree. It was unwrapped along with their other gifts, but just as I imagined would happen, it went mostly unnoticed during end-of-the-year mania and back-to-school preparation. But yesterday, during a quiet moment, I saw Vida pick it up and begin reading. I headed back to Nesting Ground Central, still within earshot of the complete silence. Ten minutes in, Risa entered the same room and said, "What're you doing?" And Vida said, "This book is...kind of...odd." More silence, in which I could tell they were reading together. I gave them another ten minutes and nonchalantly walked into the room.

"Mom!" said Vida. She looked up from the book, concern all over her face. "What the HECK?!"

And I said, "Look, you guys are eleven years old now, and I got you this book because I thought it might help with any questions or concerns you might have AND because I felt you were mature enough to deal with it in a...mature way because you're so...mature. If you have any questions, just let me know."

"I didn't know the man sticks..." Vida began.

Risa immediately put her hands over her ears (this, too, I knew would happen) and said, "Can't. Can't do it. Can't do it."

"Okay, okay, Risa, GEEEZ," Vida said. "Mom, can I speak to you in your room?"

So, yesterday, I spent much of the late afternoon fielding questions such as these from Vida:

What is the difference between sex and making love?

How do gay couples have children?

Is there any way BESIDES sex to make a baby?

I guess you really have to be in love with someone, then, to make a baby with them?

What's masturbation? I don't get it.

THAT'S masturbation? Oh. You can't hurt yourself, can you?

Etc. etc. I'm sure I will be barraged with still more questions, but I'm feeling pretty good about all this. And I highly recommend the book (it's for ages 7 and up, and there is another for ages 4 and up, plus another for when puberty arrives). The whole thing was neither as difficult, nor as easy, as I thought it would be. At the very least, I feel even more prepared to discuss the subject(s) with Risa whenever she decides to uncover her ears.

***

It doesn't seem right (or maybe it does?) to blithely blog without mentioning the political assassinations—both attempted and successful—that took place in Arizona, that current hotbed of unrest, this past weekend. Over-the-top, unimaginative (hi, can you think of any metaphors that don't revolve around violence?), hateful rhetoric may not have had anything to do with the shootings. And yet the shootings have directed the spotlight towards the senseless jabbering. The right blames the left for directing said spotlight, but I don't think the left had to do very much: it's simple to make the connection.

Is there crazy talk on both sides? Of course there is. But the left does not have leaders who use inflammatory language in the style of the former Governor of Alaska, Rush Limbaugh (some will say he doesn't lead the movement, but I would argue that oh yes he does), and their ilk. This columnist at Politics Daily correctly points out that only the right has "institutionalized their side's craziness."

I was reading The Phantom Tollbooth last night with Lea, and I think that the Count of Connotation (loyal servant to the King of Dictionopolis) should have the last say: "'You see,' cautioned the count, "you must pick your words very carefully and be sure to say just what you intend to say.'"

An Apology to My Family

I just finished reading Lord of the Rings last night, and I feel I owe my family an apology for several things related to said reading. Like, for example, disappearing for hours at a time. Or not making it to the grocery store. Or not wrapping gifts as prettily as I might have were I not anxious to get back to the book. And also for referring to my children as "Risa, Vida, and Lea of the Shire." But most of all, I think I should apologize for the following statements and a dozen others like them:

Statement: The Dark Lord calls.
Translation: I'm going to bed now.

Statement: I have scaled the black mountains of Mordor. I have battled on the Fields of Pelennor.
Translation: Sure, I'll play a round of Clue.

Statement: I prefer the trees and flowers of Lothlorien.
Translation: No, I will not consider a camping trip in 2011.

Statement: Beware the web of Shelob, my halflings. Away!
Translation: Clean your bedroom. Or else.

I am wishing you and yours all the delights of Middle-Earth in 2011. Make merry and be safe. I'll see you back here in the new year.

Bad Start, Strong Finish

After a morning and early afternoon of unrelenting mayhem (buy 30 bagels! buy 6 cookie sandwiches and a giftcard at Teacake! buy 2 gallons of milk! now use the milk to make a vat of homemade cocoa! cut out a few more corrugated cardboard circles! transfer cocoa to thermos carafe thingies! pack chocolates, cookies, and...well...everything! bring it all to school, but make sure none of it gets wet! put your hood up! try to maintain some dignity, you hood-wearing pack mule! set up 2 class parties! do a craft with the 3rd graders! try not to scream while all of them at the same time say, "Ms. Montes? Ms. Montes? Ms. Montes? Ms. Montes?") punctuated by equally unrelenting rain, the kids and I crossed the threshold of our warm little house. Vida went to the den to read. Lea went to her room and shut the door. Risa checked in at Woozworld. And me? I earthwormed into my bed and read Lord of the Rings while the rain pattered my window. Just like that, the hours preceding disappeared and life was good, warm, dry, and so nice.

Then I decided I would make Arroz Caldo with Chicken. The recipe (I know what you're thinking: why does she need a recipe?) called for "1 small chicken." I didn't have "1 small chicken," but because the cookbook was my mother's and was published in 1970, at which time I imagine chickens were quite small, I just decided to use the fat chicken breast in my refrigerator. Also, sadly, I lacked "1 small onion, chopped." I did, however, have a leek. So I used that. And it turned out so excellent and reminiscent of both my childhood and, not unpleasantly, the Greek version (is it avgolemeno?) of the soup. Now the kids and the SU are sitting in front of the fire playing Monopoloy and drinking eggnog. And, yes, there are Christmas carols and twinkling lights and stockings. I like it here.

Despite the annoyances that occurred earlier today, I just caught sight of the holiday craft I did with the 3rd graders, and it's kinda cute. Here's Lea's:



The SU says it's the "least offensive craft ever." I think that's what people mean by the term "faint praise." I'll take it.

The Post in Which I Start with Lord of the Rings and then Veer Off Course

For reasons unfathomable, I picked up a copy of Lord of the Rings, pondered briefly, purchased it, and now cannot stop reading it. I don't know why I've never read it before, though I have a vague memory of thinking that it must be exceedingly dorky. Now I don't care if I'm dorky. Frodo rulez!

On the same day, I found a new, hardcover copy of The Dictionary of Imaginary Places (which I have wanted for quite some time now) for twelve dollars! So if I ever get lost in Middle-Earth, I can refer to it, and all will be well. But seriously, it's difficult to pass up a book billed as "...an invaluable guidebook to more than twelve-hundred places-that-never-were," including Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, Eco's Island of the Day Before, and...how much do I love this?... a two-column entry for Dictionopolis and Digitopolis from The Phantom Tollbooth!

As I continued to ride the train of consumerism that day, I also purchased Hunter rain boots. But I did this for good reason, as heavy rains were imminent and my current boots had a hole. And also I bought other things, for reasons not as logical.

Moving on...

The spousal unit and I recently watched two films which I thought were excellent. First, I Am Love with Tilda Swinton as the lady-what's-in-charge of a villa-dwelling Milanese family. Super rich folks have major issues, people, but they also have dreamy shoes, textiles, food, and wait staff:

And then there was The Kids Are All Right with Julianne Moore (on whom I have a huge crush) Annette Bening, and the charming, rakish Mark Ruffalo. It was hilarious and true and good:

While I'm on the subject of recommendations, I shall now call your attention to my Pinoy/Pinay lit recommendations for this holiday season, which were cross-posted at the PAWA blog and the Re: Angelica's Daughters blog.

Finally, I will post a picture of my youngest, who now appears to be not-so-very-young. I post this because she was so extraordinarily overjoyed on this day and it made me—by maternal extension—extraordinarily overjoyed, as well. She performed in a holiday dance show, you see, getting all jazzy to the strains of U2's It's A Beautiful Day. I find these dance shows absolutely hilarious, but they also make me cry. Life is confusing.

Hey, the doorbell just rang and it was the UPS guy (did you know I harbor a not-so-unreasonable belief that one day I will open the door and the UPS guy will be an old high school classmate? Well, I do) with a big old box of holiday cards for me to address, so...yeah. I have to go.

An Overabundance of Harmless Musings

I like this time of year. I wrap myself up in a sweater, throw on jeans, manipulate myself into my boots (I have challenging calves, okay? Okay!), pin my hair up into a messy bun with randomly placed bobby pins, and make my way out into the world.

***

I'm all for music in the schools, but maybe not so much for my kids. They've brought home a trumpet and a flute, and they are to practice for 20 minutes a day which, I can tell you right now, is about 19 minutes and 30 seconds too long.

***

In theory, I have nothing against Harry Potter. Whatever. He's a wizard, and that's cool. I personally didn't find the writing compelling and have only read about half of the first book. The fantasy genre, in general, doesn't appeal to my kids (I've tried, I've tried...), so they haven't read them either. What drives me nuts is that some folks believe that the extraordinary length of the books makes them somehow more challenging or important than books that don't weigh in at 10 pounds. The owner of a children's (indie) bookstore, The Reading Reptile," reports on an experience with a customer who has fallen for the fallacy:

I’m standing [in front of this lady] trying to find a book thick enough for her brilliant six-year-old...It’s bizarre, and troubling. I think about Jenny and the Cat Club, My Father’s Dragon, Randall Jarrell’s Animal Family, and all the treasures this young genius may never read because they have too many pictures and they aren’t thick enough. Somewhere along the line Harry Potter has become an arbitrary benchmark, something much different than the literary cure-all it’s still touted to be. The fact is Harry Potter has stolen as many readers as it has inspired. Banished them to strange criteria of weight and size, and hype. “Big” books are now published in the hundreds of thousands, stacked up like buildings in stores where most of the employees have never even heard of Angela Johnson or Jack Gantos, Tor Seidler or Polly Horvath.

The whole post (scroll down to "TEN SECONDS: Running the Hurdles with Harry Potter") is super funny, sharp, and distinctly bittersweet.

***

Sometimes I'm just infuriated.

***

Lately, I am fascinated by business. By commerce, by globalization. I was just reading a riveting article about why, despite valiant marketing attempts, we do not eat chocolate from Venezuela, which is a country that boasts the best cacao beans in the world and which, in turn, sells this raw material to the famous chocolatiers of Europe. Well, it's because we've been conditioned to believe that fine chocolate comes from Switzerland and Belgium. It's the same for Chilean winemakers, airplanes from Brazil, or Turkish refrigerators. Corona beer (once described as "Mexican lemonade") used to have the identical problem, but their relentless branding now downplays its country of origin. Anyways, the term for this is the "provenance paradox."

It applies to a lot of things, as far as I can tell. Including writers.

***

Some months ago, our microwave oven fritzed out. We have not spent the time required to ease it out of its cabinetry (I think the cabinets were built around it when we had the kitchen remodeled), so we've just been going without. And you know what I've discovered? You don't need a microwave FOR ANYTHING.

***

Just noticed: I have very thin, old lady wrists. 'Tis the only thing "thin" about me. But never mind: I celebrate my medium-ness. Really. Oh, crap.

Getting Things Sort Of Done

On the one hand, I am ever-grateful to the inventor(s) of Daylight Savings, for it has meant the end of this Fall's relentless march of soccer and baseball practices and, in fact, the end of the "Fall Ball" season entirely. On the other hand, my sleep is completely wrecked: I can neither fall asleep nor wake up. I'm in a perennial state of half-wakedness which, thank God, has nothing to do with half-nakedness, and thus unable to perform tasks with any sort of elan. I am simply s l o g g i n g.

And yet, and yet...things do get done. The lunches are made, the house is standing, homework is neatly completed, and the kids and I take turns reading to each other after dinner. Lately, Ri likes to read from her own writing: stories set in Sweden for no apparent reason, sunsets the color of "orange sorbet," and characters who like to "ponder" quite a bit. It's hilarious. Her sisters listen attentively and offer appropriate praise when she's done. Vi likes to read out loud from Stone Soup (remember Stone Soup?!), which is filled with stories and art by kids who are around their age. And Lea is into Jack Prelutsky poems—clever little rhyming pieces about "homework machines" and gigantic pizzas and whatnot. Last night—miracle of miracles!—they requested I read from Gombrich's A Little History of the World, and then they asked for Rex Warner's Men and Gods: Myths and Legends of the Ancient Greeks (the NYRB edition with Edward Gorey illustrations!), and after more than an hour of this I had to have been the happiest mother in the world.

Then they all wandered off humming Katy Perry songs and arguing about who would get to log onto Woozworld first, and I was forlorn. But you know what? We got some good stuff in, right? I've decided that I will use the same rule of thumb I use for their eating: as long as they consume leafy greens every day, I'm okay with some Halloween candy.

In other news of the world, Cecilia Brainard came to San Francisco to join me for the PAWA-hosted book launch of Angelica's Daughters. I turned my report around quickly, and you can read it here (with pictures and everything!). Cyndi Vasallo, who joined us and read a wonderful story, also blogged about the event. Anyways, I can't think of a more pleasant way to spend an early Saturday evening than hanging out with folks who write, enjoy, and support Filipino and Fil-Am literature, so high-fives all around.

The Post Where I Recommend Two Stories, Announce an Event, and Explain My Non-Participation in NaNoWriMo

First of all: did you vote? Because it's important to offset the crazy.

Now, back to the regular stuff:

It's the beginning of November, so that means that I've spent the last four days or something like that pretending to myself that I'll participate in NanoWriMo. But of course I never do. I'm not someone who can write with a water pistol pointed at her face; life is already too much of a do it! Do it now! Do it NOW OR SOMETHING AWFUL WILL HAPPEN existence. I'll take my writing slow and occasionally steady, thanks. But I wish the most buena-est of suerte to all those writers who are about to brave the NanoWriMo storm! May the muse kiss your keyboard (I'm talking to you, Cecilia Brainard!).

Speaking of brave and wonderful writers, I would like to draw your attention to two excellent stories. The first is "In My Country," by Tony Robles; the second is "Like Fish to Ginger," by Rashaan Alexis Meneses. Take a few minutes out of your Internet surfing and enjoy; I know I did.

This Saturday, PAWA is hosting a book launch for Angelica's Daughters. It'll be a nice way to start your evening, so come out, come out, if ever you can; I would very much like to see your face.

When: Saturday, November 6, 2010, 5:30 - 7:00
Where: Bayanihan Community Center, 1010 Mission St., San Francisco
What: Reading (Cecilia and Veronica), book signing, and light refreshments

And bonus: Arkipelago Books is also located in the Bayanihan Community Center, so you can shop for those hard-to-find Filipino and Fil-Am titles before or after (um, not during, 'kay?) the event!

The Sleepy-But-I-Can't-Sleep-Post

I had the world's best break in my scintillating routine of soccer practice, soccer games, softball practice, softball games, homework, dance class, homework, dinner, lunches, breakfast, homework EVER, and it came in the shape of a reading at Eastwind Books in Berkeley. My full report is posted at the Re: Angelica's Daughters blog, so do click over if you haven't read it yet.

I'm often guilty of ADD reading, and it seems especially true right now. I've been dipping in and out of a lot of things, but the anthology My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me: Forty New Fairy Tales, (edited by Kate Bernheimer) has claimed my reading-in-bed-time for now, and I have to say that the sinister element in these stories has kept me up more than a few nights. The title is a dead giveaway, is it not, that these are not Disneyesque versions? So far, it feels like an homage to Angela Carter, which is very cool indeed. Two thumbs up.

Also I'm reading from Barbara's Diwata and Maiana Minahal's Legend Sondayo. They make a nice complement to the fairy tales, actually. At Eastwind Books, I also picked up a copy of The Solemn Lantern Maker by Merlinda Bobis, and I'm looking forward to starting it. As for Illustrado, I see it every night as I climb into bed, but we continue to pretend we don't know each other. Why? WHY?!

And I do like my non-fiction, now and again. From the book Nudge I learned it is a proven fact (as opposed to an amusing, but not necessarily true, observation) that two people who have lived together for a long time start to resemble each other. Why? Because of shared diets and eating habits, yes, but also because they imitate each other's facial expressions. I buy this to a certain extent, but let's face it Nudge: my 6'3" smooth-domed, white spousal unit is never going to look like your Nesting Ground Mistress.

The moon is waxing gibbous this evening. I don't know why I mention this; I just like the way it sounds.

The Wonders of Self-Googling

I don't generally receive objective, third party feedback on the stories I write. Every once in awhile, though, a voice rings out from cyberspace, and then I feel kinda naked and vulnerable, actually. The other day on Facebook, Cecilia Brainard posted a review of Growing Up Filipino II from Cha: An Asian Literary Journal. The reviewer has a strange aversion to the cover of the anthology, as well as to its marketing position (wha?), but then has some positive things to say about the many good stories in the collection. And then all of a sudden—boom!—your Nesting Ground Mistress merited a mention:

For readers unfamiliar with Filipino fiction, though, the most welcome discoveries in Cecilia Manguerra Brainard's selection here will probably be the stories by Veronica Montes and Dean Francis Alfar. In "My Father's Tattoo," Montes tracks the story of a couple's tense relationship through the eyes of their daughter. Her prose is rich in wry, telling details, from "the young artist" who "surrounded it [the problematic tattoo of the title] with elegant curlicues at no extra charge" to the little verbal game the girl plays with her father to the conversation that the girl's father and uncle have when they go to wake her up from a nap. It closes with a moment of uncertainty that tips over into resolution with just the right light touch.

Hey, thanks! This, of course, piqued my curiosity: has anyone else commented on one of my stories? This review of Philippine Speculative Fiction 5 offered up little 2- or 3-sentence observations on each of the stories in the collection. Here's what the reviewer had to say about mine:

Part-coming-of-age story and part old wives’ folk tale, Veronica Montes’ "The Left-Behind Girl" is a wonderful exposition into a town’s beguiling mysteries that echoes southern gothic sensibilities and thickly veiled dream states. The story, however, is short and it leaves you wanting for more.

It made me laugh because my stories are forever too short. And also: southern gothic? Who knew?! Further googling unearthed a mention of my story, "Bernie Aragon, Jr. Looks for Love," in an academic article from Dance Research Journal. Written by Lucy Mae San Pablo Burns, it's titled, "'Splendid Dancing': Filipino 'Exceptionalism' in Taxi Dancehalls." I wish I could read it, but it's one of those sites that requires a subscription.

And then I said to myself, "That's enough self-googling for you, young lady."

In other literary news, I am reading with Barbara Jane Reyes and Maiana Minahal at Eastwind Books in Berkeley in October 16th. Stop by! Complete information here.

Angelica's Daughters In the Manila Bulletin

Did I tell you we are blogging about our dugtungan novel at Re: Angelica's Daughters? Well, we are! And the current post has the full text of an article that was published in The Manila Bulletin yesterday. In it, Nadine and Susan spill the haricot verts on our writing process.

Invisibility: What Is Acceptable, And What Is Not

As a woman growing older, I feel increasingly invisible. I'm getting used to it or—maybe this is more accurate—growing into it. It doesn't have to be a bad thing. I'll figure it out.

And I'm pretty much invisible as a writer, but that's okay, too. It certainly doesn't prevent me from writing, and it's 100% commensurate with what I have or haven't done so far.

Occasionally, I am invisible in my house because my older daughters are—I just need to face this—dreaded TWEENS, and they sometimes ignore me. This, too, makes sense. They are maturing, testing their limits, getting a feel for what's okay and what's is absolutely not freaking okay.

So these are invisibilities that I can deal with because they represent a natural progression of things, or my personal limits, or just the way that life is sometimes sucky. But what you see here in the trailer for the documentary The Delano Manongs: Forgotten Heroes of the United Farm Workers? Not so much:

The Delano Manongs from Media Factory on Vimeo.

The filmmakers have raised a lot of funding so far, but from the call to action on the website, it looks like they need a little bit more to finish their project. If you can, help to honor these Filipinos and their story. Because sometimes invisibility is acceptable, and sometimes it's not.