Tinikling in the Midwest

A month ago, I was invited by Carol (Bob's wife), a Columbia elementary school teacher, to participate in a mini-Olympics that her school was going to hold among their students. She initially told me that I was to teach her second grade students some games I had played as a child in the Philippines. I immediately said yes, thinking that it was a great opportunity to share my culture with American kids. So, I sat down to think of which of my childhood games I would teach them. (Ok, I confess. I consulted the Internet.)

However, a week later, she told me that she had heard that there was a traditional Philippine dance called the Tinikling, and asked me (actually, she kind of just told me) to teach that instead. Now, Carol is a very assertive woman, and because of this, I automatically nodded my assent. After five minutes, I realized that I had agreed to teach a dance that I had never actually danced myself. Hmmm. Trouble.

I tried to get out of this dilemma by telling her that I could only teach them the dance if we had very specific Tinikling music. I was confident that she would not be able to find this in mid-Missouri. But she is a very resourceful woman, so she managed to whip up an old LP (as in vinyl!) record of Tinikling music, some PVC pipes and blocks we could use instead of bamboo, and she even found some Champola wafer sticks to give the students as well. (She got it from a Filipino store I had never even heard of.) So, it looked like I was committed to being a Tinikling DI.

The day of the mini-Olympics arrived. Seven classes from kinder-garten, 1st and 2nd grade joined the activity. Each class represented a country, and Carol's class of course represented the Philippines. The concept of the activity was- each classroom represented one country, and the children would "travel" to each of them. In the classroom, they would participate in an activity and eat some food that country was known for. The students even had a passport that was to be stamped in each destination they went to.

What this meant for me was that I had to teach Tinikling to all the seven classes that came into "the Philippines". Surprisingly, the children really got into it, even if they were only five, six or seven-year-olds (then again, maybe it was precisely their age that made them enjoy it). It was tiring to have to explain what the dance was about, what the steps were, to seven different classes. When I wasn't teaching the class, I would be the one holding the poles.

So, after two straight hours of Tinikling, I was exhausted. It was a gratifying experience though, because all the kids looked like they had fun. Some of them came up to me after the activity, hugged me and said they wished I would go back to speak to them again. Aww. Children always manage to worm their way into your heart, especially after you see that they personally tie-dyed their t-shirts to match the colors of the Philippine flag.

But hugs and kisses or not, I've surely had enough of our national dance to last me a lifetime.

Alien Abductions

I just saw a show on Discovery Channel about alien abductions. Apparently a lot of people TRULY believe they were kidnapped by aliens. I've seen similar shows before, and though I always thought the concept was baloney/hogwash/bulls**t, I've always been a little intrigued by it. If alien abductions were real though, why hasn't anyone bothered to kidnap someone from my country? Maybe the aliens figured we could always just migrate illegally to their planet.

My First Tornado

Being Filipino, I'm no stranger to storms. Typhoons batter our country on a regular basis. So yesterday, when I started to hear thunder and see lightning, I wasn't worried. I was even excited when I saw a 5-minute hailstorm. I'd never really seen that before. I'd seen a smattering of hail in the past in my country (mostly it seemed like someone was just throwing two ice cubes out the window), but an actual nonstop downpour of dime-sized hail- I thought it was great!

Today though, I got worried. A friend called me at four in the afternoon while I was taking a nap and asked if I knew what to do when the tornado hit Columbia. She said the town was under a tornado alert of some sort. That woke me up quickly! I flicked the TV on, and sure enough, all the weather people on local television were having their 15 minutes of fame with their own dire predictions of destruction.

I switched from channel to channel, and they all had useful instructions about getting into the basement, hiding in a ditch, staying away from windows, sitting in the bathtub, etc etc to be safe when the tornado hit. I had no basement and lived on the second floor, and my bathtub was near a window, so I just decided to... bring out my camera. I figured my apartment was unsafe anyway, so I might as well try to get some video of the tornado.

While watching the weatherman tell me at exactly what time the tornado was going to hit, the power went out, the town siren began to wail, and I started to hear the pounding of what sounded like good-sized hail to me. When I dared to peek out my window, I saw that they were the size of pingpong balls. I'm not going to lie, I was scared of what was going to happen while listening to the hail. I called my brother in California for comfort, but got his voicemail instead (Ack!). So to distract myself, I took some video of the hail through the window. When the hailstorm stopped (after five minutes or so), I began to relax.

I have to admit I felt uneasy that the power was out. This was America! They should NEVER have power outages! Well, I guess it happens to best of us. I had light around 30 minutes later, and I was relieved. All is right with the world!

I thought about why I, proud veteran of supertyphoons, was worried about this whole experience. First of all, I'd never been anywhere near a tornado, so I didn't know what would happen (my only gauge was the movie Twister, but that wasn't very comforting). But I think I was more worried about whether my apartment could stand any onslaught. Houses back home were built for storms, and the ones here looked like they could easily be sucked up and torn apart.

One part of me wanted to pooh-pooh the whole experience when it was over, and dismiss the weather people's predictions as the usual media sensationalism. After all, the tornado was just half a mile wide, and nowhere near Columbia. But I realized that tornados really can and do kill people. It's really all a matter of (bad) luck as to whether you get directly hit by one. My apartment COULD just as easily have been hit by it as any other area in the vicinity.

If there's one thing you should never underestimate, it's the power of Mother Nature.
Next time, I'll sit in my bathtub.

Crash and Burn

I watched "Crash" today during a potluck lunch held by my International Women's Support Group. It was a movie worth watching, though I wouldn't watch it again. The experience ended up feeling heavy for me. The movie tackled racism and stereotypes, which is always interesting. There were a lot of lessons to be learned, and maybe the problem was that there were too many. I felt somewhat emotionally battered by the movie (partly because of its very Hollywood treatment), and this tired me out. If they had fewer stories or issues, maybe I wouldn't have felt that way. Generally, I enjoy escapist movies, and this definitely wasn't one of those. I'm not going to say any more about the movie, just that it left me emotionally drained. That's a warning for those who haven't seen it yet. It's a good movie, but it's not a feel-good one.

More on Bringing Your Own Booze

Last Friday, my fellow Convergence Journalism majors (yes, I'm staying on in the program) decided to have a wine and cheese party. I've already mentioned how strange the concept of BYOB is to me, at least as far as I've seen it practiced here. As I said, I understand the concept of everyone bringing their share of alcohol, especially when the party is being held by undergraduates who may not have so much disposable income.

What I find bizarre is how the alcohol you bring isn't really meant to be shared; that it's really just for your own consumption. One guy brought a bottle of wine to the party, and made pretty darned sure no one else was going to share it. How did he do this? He simply brought around his wine bottle in his jeans pocket, that's how.

In China, Honesty Is the Best Policy

My Chinese friend Yuying was in my house yesterday, and she saw a framed picture of me in the Philippines on my desk.

She picked it up and said, "Wow, you look very charming in this picture!"

Before I could thank her for what I thought to be a compliment, she looked at me and innocuously added,

"You really don't care how you look here in the US, do you?"

The Real Reason Why I Don't Attend Pinoy Parties in Columbia

During my first semester here, I didn't really meet too many Filipinos. Gil (the other Filipino Fulbrighter in Columbia) on the other hand seemed to have a radar for Pinoys, and managed to track down each and every one within a 20-mile radius, all within a week of arriving in town. And there are apparently a LOT of them.

In true Pinoy fashion, there were always parties being held for this or that occasion. Gil would sometimes invite me to go to some of them, even if I wouldn't know a soul in these gatherings (he of course knew everyone). I actually went to one, but I felt so out of place since I didn't know anyone. So I didn't go to other parties anymore. Months later, I discovered that feeling out of place would be the least of my concerns when I ventured to attend another party.

Early this semester, I was again invited (through the Pinoy grapevine) to a party. I was told it was being held by our host Mr. C, to get to know the Filipino students and welcome them to the community. The four students were Gil and I, Rollin, and Rene, a Jesuit priest (and as it would turn out, only the first priest in this story). Rene had told me the party would be a small dinner, just the four of us and our host.

So, off we went to the Missouri Country Club. (You might already suspect at this point that the reason I went to this dinner in the first place was the prospect of free food.) We were directed to a function room which 78-year-old Mr. C had reserved for the party. I was surprised to see that we were 15 in all, but I could handle that number well enough. The bigger surprise for me was that there were three other priests in the party, one of them a Monsignor. So, that made the gathering a little more than 25% Catholic priests. I spoke to each of them and they were nice enough, so I relaxed a little, despite my unease at being around so many men of the cloth. (Some background information: I'm what you could call a lapsed Catholic. I was brought up Catholic, but after a few years, my membership to the community seemed to have expired.)

Our host announced that dinner was to be served, and I was again surprised to see that we had place names, and with my luck, I was seated between our host Mr. C and one of the priests. Talking to the priest was easy; I asked him mostly about his life as a priest, since he was ordained only nine months before. THEN Mr. C turned to me and asked a question that I had sort of been expecting all evening with a touch of dread.

Mr. C: "So, Gidget, where do you go to mass?"

Me: (thinking for a moment of lying and blurting out some church's name, then realizing I didn't know the name of any of them)

"Uhmmm, well, uh, (voice volume uncharacteristically low)... I don't."

Mr. C: (Shocked that a pagan was partaking of his free food)

"Are you Evangelical?"

Me: (Not really knowing what that was, but not liking the sound of it either)

"Uhmmm, no...."

Mr. C: "Are you Muslim?"

Me: (considering for a split second saying yes to end the conversation)

"Uhmmm... no". (thinking "How do I get out of this?")

"Actually, I'm Catholic (well, that's what it says on my birth certificate, anyway), but I don't really go to mass."

(As if that would shut him up.)

The priest on my right side is of course now very interested in the topic at hand.

Adjacent Priest: "May I ask why you stopped going to mass?"

Me: (Squirming in my seat and thinking... AAAARRRRGGHHHH!!!!)

Before I could come up with an appropriate response that would not entail having to defend myself before this panel of priests (including a Monsignor, don't forget), Mr. C actually saved me by saying something that ended the priest's line of questioning.

Mr. C: (With conviction) "Don't worry, Father, we will get her back into the fold!"

After this uncomfortable exchange, I just concentrated on eating my dessert and avoiding topics of a religious nature. The rest of the evening's conversation however was interspersed with Mr. C's declarations that I will be going to mass sometime soon.

We said our goodbyes, and thanked our host for the evening. Mr. C turned to me and said, "We'll see you in church soon!"

As I went home, I remembered why I didn't go to Pinoy parties. The very simple question "Where do you go to mass?" is inevitable, and consequently, stressful for me. Of course I knew it. It's classic Pinoy small talk. I guess I thought I could handle it; then again I had no way of knowing that so many priests and "Katoliko-sarado"s would be in the party.

Oh well, never again will I let the thought of free food cloud my judgment.
(The chocolate dessert WAS pretty good though...)