The Sweetness of Pasalubong

By Karen Galarpe

On a media trip to Thailand last week, my fellow journalists and I made a beeline for the duty-free shops at the airport with less than an hour left before boarding time. Our agenda: buy homecoming gifts or pasalubong. We bought chocolates, tamarind candies, mango in sticky rice, and Thai curry in a box and headed to the gate with our loot.

Looking around, I see that rare is the Filipino who doesn’t buy pasalubong for folks back home. It’s more of an unwritten rule and a custom to bring home a souvenir for those who weren’t with us on the trip, in effect saying, “Wish you were with me” or “Thinking of you” or “Here’s a little gift to show you I care.”

It’s not really the grandness of the gift that matters, rather the thought that counts, and so little pasalubong items from chocolates to little trinkets are welcomed. This is an expression of the love language of gifts. In “The Five Love Languages of Teenagers”, author Gary Chapman writes, “Gifts are visible, tangible evidence of emotional love.”

My sister remembers hugging and carrying this big white stuffed bear on the plane back home to give to her kids. A friend of mine brought home in his hand luggage two heavy little sculptures from Bangkok to give to friends. And I remember checking out maybe about three stores in Akihabara in Tokyo looking for a specific anime action figure for my son.

There’s satisfaction in buying something for a loved one, or people you care about, and handing this over personally upon arrival from a trip. The smile on the recipients’ faces is worth it.

Traveling soon? Make room then for some strawberry jam and peanut brittle from Baguio, otap and danggit from Cebu, green tea from Japan, coffee from Seattle, wine from California, chocolates from Switzerland, tea from China, and yes, why not—some crocodile jerky from Australia. If it fits in the bag, it’s great pasalubong. Have a safe trip!

Teaching by Doing

By Regina Abuyuan

My friend R, who partnered with D and me on this new venture of ours, a pub in Cubao X, has an ingenious solution to the never-ending quest for work-life balance and spending time with his kids even when he’s at work: letting his kid work alongside him.

For two weeks now, his son R2 has worked Fridays and a couple of Sundays waiting and clearing tables at the pub. Unlike most teens, he’s not into video games and girls (thanks to his ultra-sensible, well-grounded parents). However, R thought he could use some boosting in the get-your-nose-out-of-your-book-and-relate-to-the-world department. Don’t get me wrong—R2 is no sullen, emo-type nerd. He’s always smiling; chatty when he wants to be. But parents like to push their children’s potential, so here we are.

The first night, R2 was learning the ropes, trying to gain his footing. And he did—fast! Now he automatically hands guests their menus, knows how to serve beer, and wipes down tables after.

“It’s about building confidence,” his father likes to explain to people, after joking about child labor, when they inquire about the bespectacled lad handing them their drinks. “How to relate to different kinds of people—people skills.”

The best feedback I’ve gotten from R about his boy waiting tables, though, is this: “Papa,” R2 told his father after one (his first!) particularly busy Sunday. “I will never get irritated at waiters again.”

And what about my kids, you may ask? Why haven’t I asked S to join in? I don’t think it’s for her. I’ve asked her to serve customers a few times, but I know she wouldn’t be the eager learner like R2 is. Instead, I let her watch and witness how hard D and I work at the kitchen and bar—and her reaction has been just as rewarding.

“Are you sure you’re OK?” She texted last pay day, a Friday, when she learned D was going to be late for service and R wasn’t around. I was basically running the whole show, with the crowd growing bigger by the minute. “Yes, I’ll be OK,” I answered.

“Uhm, well, at least you’re earning…and you like it…I hope Tito D comes soon so he can help you.”

I rediscovered what I taught myself and S when she was little and would sit beside me while I wrote: If you can’t bring your kids to work, or have them experience what you do, at least make them understand what you do, how much you enjoy it, and how much it means to you. That way (hopefully!) they won’t resent your work—or at least resent it less.

Pursue Your Passion

By Karen Galarpe

 

Over lunch a month ago, one of my officemates confessed to me that he had just tendered his resignation as section editor of our online publication. I was dumbfounded. I didn’t see that coming, so I asked, “But why?????”

He said he wants to rest and pursue higher studies, and look for a job more allied to his college degree in the sciences. Four years in media was fun but stressful, and he wants to do something else now. I nodded in reply. I know the feeling.

Rewind to 22 years ago. I was a certified public accountant who finally realized writing was what I really wanted to do. Life is short, I thought, why be miserable?

Yesterday, my mom and I went to her friend’s house to check out a cute female shih tzu puppy for sale. On our way out, my mom’s friend told me that her son, who has been breeding shih tzus and chihuahuas, is really a nurse who even passed the Board exams. “But he likes taking care of dogs. That’s his business,” she said.

I believe we have all been gifted by God with passion for something for a purpose. When I hear Lea Salonga sing, for instance, I see the passion burning in her heart, and I feel moved by her singing. Similarly, when I see Lisa Macuja Elizalde dancing ballet with such emotion, I feel moved as well, and awed by such a gift which could have only come from God. When I heard former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair and former US Vice President Al Gore give talks in Manila, I immediately saw their passion for good governance and environment protection, respectively, and I was encouraged.

“The greatest things in life are not things. Meaning is far more important than money,” wrote Rick Warren in The Purpose Driven Life.

What’s your passion? Pursue it and have a meaningful life.

 

Try, Try, and Try Again!

By Mari-An Santos

 

I was recently awarded a scholarship to study abroad. It sounds so simple now, but the road getting there was anything but.

After having taught at a university, my eyes were opened to the possibility of pursuing higher education abroad through a scholarship grant. On occasion, colleagues would nonchalantly mention how they took a short course at a university in the United States or participated in a conference in Europe. Being an avid traveler, I yearned to see those places, but I did not quite know how.

One by one, my closest friends received scholarship grants. One got a Ford Foundation scholarship to study in the United Kingdom, another a Fulbright to study in the US, another a government grant in Singapore, and the last a fellowship in The Netherlands. I was very happy for every one of them. They deserved it. But then, a tiny voice inside me always said: “What about me? Why can’t I get one of those?”

Of course, I didn’t know the first thing about getting a scholarship. I would read about scholarship grants on the Net, but there were too many requirements. It would take too much time and effort, I thought. And so I didn’t even try.

But as one colleague after another flew off to some faraway land to study, I was pushed into action. They encouraged me to try. And so I did.

I applied to one scholarship after another, but only got letters of regret. I got disheartened. Fortunately, my friends kept on pushing me, telling me to try again. And so I did, again and again and again.

In the middle of a busy day, when I least expected it, I got the most exciting news! That life-changing story, however, is for another blog post.

 

 

 

 

The Search for Balance

By Regina Abuyuan

 

Readers of this blog who are connected with me through Facebook have probably been keeping tabs on the latest adventure of my wonky life. With D and another friend, R, I recently opened a pub in Cubao X. It’s called Fred’s (after D’s grandfather, a drinking stalwart who was also into cigars; coincidentally, R’s and my maternal grandfathers were also named Fred, and both carried their drink and smokes more than well). It’s been weeks of very late nights (er, early mornings) for me, which had me behind the bar serving drinks, wiping down tables, and cleaning ashtrays. I have great respect for waitresses and barmaids now. Their job is exhausting and murder on the feet and legs.

For more than a week straight, I packed my kids off to my mom’s (God bless grandmas!), and prayed they wouldn’t be any trouble.

They were.

Well, at least my twins were. My daughter behaved as she always does—responsible, quiet, obedient. My absence had taken its toll on the twins. My mom and her househelp tell me they frequently fight, watch too much TV, and fall asleep with the TV on. One day, when I had nicked enough time to drive by and check on them, they exasperatedly said, in unison: “Finally!”

When I got ready to leave again, Mateo handed me the piece of origami he had made (he likes making me these things; my bedside table is littered with them). “I made this for you, Mommy.”

My heart almost broke with guilt.

Their teachers have told me their behavior has changed in school, as well. Mateo’s on the verge of being a bully; Marco is his usual cool self—but probably more cool than expected, which is also reason for alarm.

I swore I would never allow myself to feel this way again, to let any situation let me feel this way again. But the universe likes to play jokes on us sometimes, and just as we think we’re free, an opportunity comes where we have to give up something to attain something. I feel especially guilty because the twins have gotten the brunt of these choices; the first was when I was putting up a new magazine when they were only three years old, and now, this.

Is it worth it, you may ask? I don’t know yet. But at least now, being part-owner of something I created, I also have the power to choose how much time I put in our venture, and how much control I’m willing to take—or give up.

I’ve not had a late night in the pub since Friday, and I attended the twins’ emergency preparedness workshop on Saturday (another advocacy I’m involved in). I’m trying to regain what I lost over the past weeks: Balance. It’s what all mothers strive for. It’s the law of the universe; the law of Mother Nature herself, who knows just how and when to tip the scales this way and that.

Wish me luck!

Mothering My Mother

By Maridol Ranoa-Bismark

Since she retired early this year, my 75-year-old balikbayan mom has been staying with me in the house she helped build with her hard-earned money. The set-up is not as easy as you’d think. She left for the States right after I got married, figuring that my then new husband will take over the duties she used to fulfill for me. That’s a good 20 years of learning how to run a household, finding out the shortest route from my office in Manila to my house in Quezon City, raising my son, dealing with my husband and in-laws, etc.

It was a time of learning the ropes of motherhood, balancing family and career, and dealing with office intrigues on my own. I learned  to hold my breath while navigating the flood waters of Espana, shut my mouth when the boss woke up at the wrong side of the bed, fight for my rights as a wife, go to the moviehouse alone, and drive home in the early dawn hours all on my own.

And then my mom returns to mother me all over again. She makes me eat soda crackers just before I leave the house for work, asks me where I’m going every morning, and fetches me from work in the evening. After 20 years of being on my own, I want to scream, “No more! I’m a big girl now, thank you!”

I think she feels the same way about me as well. I ask her if she has enough money left in the bank for her needs and she protests, “Oh, but I deposited that money so I can spend it while I’m here!”

Very well, case closed.

I caution her against eating too much pork and `sinful’ food, and she shoots back, “It’s OK. I don’t do this often. And I don’t get to taste kare-kare anymore in the States.”

I offer to escort her in the nearby mall where she wants to have a hair cut and she says she can do it on her own. I assure her that I will pay for the cost of a paint job in her room, and she says it can wait until she comes home again for the Christmas holidays.

I guess my mom is as stubborn as I am, but I still don’t get it.

Or perhaps we’ve grown so apart the past 20 years we were away from each other that we scarcely know each other anymore. She has adopted the American way of relying on Western medicine for osteoporosis, arthritis, and even the common cold. I believe in resting to suppress the common cold, overloading on bananas to preserve my eyesight, and drinking milk to strengthen my bones.

But I dutifully swallow the pills she lays down on my plate every morning and  I haven’t gotten sick despite my killer schedule. She doesn’t withdraw from the bank every now and then because I will frown at her when I learn about it.

I grudgingly go to the salon and have my hair and nails done because she believes it gives me `personality.’ Personality? Duh?

It’s give and take. And I guess my mom is learning from me the way I’m learning from her. We may be reluctant to admit it, even to ourselves, but we’re adjusting to each other. Why, I even catch myself speaking like her!

In time, I know we’ll get used to each other again. And our 20-year absence in each other’s lives will vanish, like raindrops on a sunny day. After all, she is my mother. And as cheesy as it may sound, I love her. So I bend backwards and I know she does, too.

And guess what? This bending backwards between us will never stop, osteoporosis be damned!