Happiness

It’s just another ordinary Turesday night, I sat down in front of my computer after a long day’s work to check my e-mails, pay bills, see what new tv episodes to download, and hang-out on facebook for a while to surreptitiously and overtly catch up on friends’ status updates, whereabouts and goings-on.

I came upon a link posted by an FB friend who I shared a class in musical theater several years ago. It was a song from the musical You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown entitled “Happiness” where Charlie Brown and the rest of the Peanuts gang sang about simple things that made them happy. Simple things like having two kinds of ice cream, learning to whistle, climbing a tree, or sharing a sandwich.

That FB friend posted the link on his wall because he misses musicals. I listened to it and missed just being happy.

Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m living a sad sorry life where every single minute is just gloom and doom. I still have happy moments. There are still a lot of things going on in my life that I am happy about and very thankful for. It’s just that that general feeling of genuine happiness don’t come just as easy for me anymore. I don’t think it has for a very long time.

I go out to shop. I scour for great deals on the net and on flyers, and as soon as I buy them, I’m all excited to go back home and try them on. Sure, that makes me happy. I guess that’s true for almost everyone. But it isn’t like the genuine happiness I felt when, back in Manila and in my first couple of years having a job, I would scrimp on my meager salary and buy the simplest of things that I can afford and give them as anytime gifts for my family.

I’ve taken trips, vacations to different places, different countries, sometimes with friends, sometimes by myself and I have all these moments captured in photos. And, I’m sure anyone can relate to this, being able to save up enough money and reward yourself to go on far-off vacations is undeniably fulfilling. Was I happy during these trips? Of course. Can’t you tell by the smiles I have on my travel photos? But if I were to pick a memory when I felt just as happy or probably even moreso, it was those times when, as a kid, my mom would take me and my brothers, not to Disneyland or any place outside the country where we can’t afford, but just out to a nearby park, watch a movie, and share slices of pizza in an old pizza parlor. And you can tell that this memory must be really old because really, who uses the term “parlor” anymore?

Nowadays, the feeling after getting your paycheck is not as much fun as getting that red envelope from your Ninang (Godmother) on Christmas with a crisp 10 peso bill inside. Sure, there’s no contest in the disparity of the amount, but likewise, that raw innocent happiness does not even begin to compare. 10 pesos, for a child with nothing on his mind but toys or candies, and with nary an idea that it can only buy so t reason to get together and enjoy each other’s company, there must be some party happening. Blame it, I guess, on how busy, as adults, we are now and that we can’t just “waste” precious time for no good reason. I know because more often than not, I’d rather stay home and just spend “me time” to relax and de-stress from work.

Oh and I enjoy, yes, I feel happy, when I eat a juicy steak or indulge in a McDonald’s upsized meal. But the guilt that follows is just not worth every bite of happiness I’ve just had. Happiness, I find, is now, almost always, associated with impending guilt.

Just as that “Happiness” song suggested, I am now asking myself why I can no longer be happy with just having “two kinds of ice cream” or “climbing a tree.” Or “sharing a sandwich” and “learning to whistle.” (And yes, my whistling is a measly airy howl at best).

I may not know the answer right now. And I can always easily attribute it to growing old, becoming jaded, and having more to worry about than a simple arts and crafts assignment that’s due the next week or getting enough allowance to spend on the arcade.

But here’s my theory, as dumbed-down as it is, maybe pure genuine happiness is just a myth. An imagined feeling, as much believed by kids as Santa Claus, who comes down the chimney and leaves presents at Christmas. Just as real as the tooth fairy, who trades in your milk tooth with coins (which is really a creepy thought, if you ask me). Perhaps happiness is like the cute and cuddly Mickey Mouse, who, realistically, is just a squeaky hairy ugly pest that we draw out and hope to kill with poisoned pellets. Or a broom.

I’m a Racist

Yes, I am.

And I never really thought about it until it was pointed out to me by a friend at work.  She’s Filipina but born and raised in Canada so she’s got that perfect knowledge of both the Filipino quirks and the Canadian culture.

I was pointing at another Canadian co-worker from afar and was telling my friend that this co-worker only comes to work once every week to tidy up the brand name displays.  And I kept saying another person’s name.  My friend corrected me and said that I was talking about another person.  I insisted that I was right until I eventually realized that I was indeed talking about another co-worker and pointing at a different lady.

She said, “You think all white people look the same, don’t you?  You’re racist!” in a faux mocking tone.

And just as quick as a snap of a finger, I knew it is true.  Some Caucasian people do look the same to me.  Just as some Asian people look quite the same to Caucasian people too, I guess.

I’d say that maybe it’s because I have only been here in Canada for a few months which is why I am still trying to get used to working in an environment where your co-workers are of different ethnicities, races, and backgrounds.

Canada, as I learned, is what multi-culturalism is all about.  It encourages individuality as well as respecting each other for and in spite of their differences.  I know this for a fact because everyday, I take the bus to commute to and from work, and more often than not, there would be at least an Asian, a Caucasian, an Aboriginal, a mid-Easterner, and an African in that bus.  Indeed, it is a microcosm, a good representation of the Canadian society.

But I digress.  Maybe it is really just what it is.  Some people, white, brown, black, do have a tendency of looking the same.  But it’s not like we consciously keep them indistinguishable from each other.  Like the hundred shades and hues of blue can be hard to tell apart when placed side by side, unless you place them beside a red or a yellow, then all of them becomes just “blue.”

Racism is a touchy subject, in general and, except for the extremists who commit hate crimes against specific races, for some, what they would call “racism” could very well be just a personal preference with little or no relation to biases or prejudices.

I know a guy who prefers to queue his grocery cart in a counter with a Filipino cashier just because he has a hard time expressing himself in English and would feel much more comfortable dealing with a countryman so that he can be understood.  Comparing this with another guy who would rather have his purchases rung up by a Caucasian just because by experience, some Asians he said, especially new immigrants, would often make mistakes in check-out counters, like accidentally double scanning items.  Between the two, who’s worse than the other?  Either acting based on necessity or experience, can both even be faulted for their preferences?

Everyone has surely told a joke or two about the amusing inherent traits of various races but that can only mean that we acknowledge the fact that every race, just as every person is different.  We may find the quirks and differences of every individual funny but that doesn’t necessarily mean that we are judging them as less of a person, or in this case, a lesser race.  Besides, it is not just by their race, but a lot of other factors like family, environment and education, define a person.

Racism is a serious and tricky thing.  The United Nations doesn’t even provide a definition for the word but would rather acknowledge “Racial Discrimination” as the bigger concern.  Dictionary.com, however, provides the following definition:

“a belief or doctrine that inherent differences among the various human races determine cultural or individual achievement, usually involving the idea that one’s own race is superior and has the right to rule others.”

If only for the first half of this definition, I would agree.  There are indeed differences among the various human races that may determine cultural or individual achievement.  But injecting the idea that one’s own race is more superior is just wrong and the world only knows too well how this has caused irrational and unwarranted racial persecutions.  After all, regardless of skin color and accent, don’t we all shed blood, sweat and tears to survive and make meaning of our lives?  We are all human, after all.

So yes, I’m a racist.  I believe that we all have undeniable similarities and differences.  I am a racist because I believe that there is one superior race that has the ability to think, reason, speak, and act better than any other creatures.  And that is the human race.

My Untold Love Story

Let me tell you about my most recent love story.

The last time we met was over a decade ago and the romance was shortlived. But just last year, from out of nowhere, she entered my mind again. And I realized that I terribly missed being with her.

As time went by, and as more and more stress, frustrations and disappointments piled up at work, my longingness for her intensified. So, early this year, when I found out that my immigration application was approved, I immediately wrote a letter professing how I wanted, no, needed to be with her once again. And she accepted with no less than open arms.

After so many years, we were together again.

The first morning I woke up with her, it felt like heaven. It’s like I have always known, yet have also forgotten how it felt to have her close to me.

On nights, we’d stay up until the wee hours, never running out of things to do. And on mornings, we’d stay lazy in bed almost always until noon. We would do anything we wanted, spent the day anyhow we wished, go anywhere our whims took us.

I was, after so many years, living life again.

But ultimately, at the back of my mind, I knew that this whirlwind of a romance was bound to end. For I knew I was going to leave soon and start my life anew without her.

So as I counted down the months as they turn into weeks, and the weeks turn into days, until the day came when I had to fly off, we said our goodbyes, holding on to the memories of the last couple of fun-filled months that we shared. I still wanted to be with her yet I knew, for my sake, I had to end it.

But I couldn’t.

After a little over a month in a new country that’s 8,158.49 miles away from home, we’re still virtually together.

Everyday for the past month, I have tried every way to break up with her but I always end up unsuccessful.

She would constantly remind me of what my life is like being in a relationship with her, and though I admit that it was fun while it lasted, the thought of continuing on that kind of life now scares me because I won’t be able to keep up with it.

Being with her now causes me lethargic mornings, anxious days, and sleepless nights.  The stress and the frustrations, the reasons why I sought her out in the first place, have crept back in.

I am almost at the end of my rope and I need her gone. Soon.

My love story with her has yet to end as I write this journal. But I wrote this so that you could take note of one of life’s biggest lessons. “Be careful what you wish for for it just might overstay its welcome.”

By the way, her name is unemployment.

And she’s one hell of a bitch to shake off.

Just My Imagination

I remember a television commercial sometime in the late 80’s in which a man was sitting on the front steps of the Lincoln Memorial building, supposedly in a somber mood, when he suddenly sees his wife and daughter running down the steps towards him.  He looked around and found himself transported in front of the Manila Post Office, the façade of which, quite resembling that of the Lincoln Memorial building.  After a brief moment of hugs and smiles with his family, he realized that everything was just in his imagination.

The commercial evoked feelings of loneliness and longingness (if there’s such a word) in presenting the emotional state of Filipinos who are abroad and are away from their families.  That PLDT commercial was so memorable that I can still play it in my head after all of these years, even though I could not relate then, being only in my teens and far from such a situation.

Fast forward to the present and I am amazed to realize how much truthful and probable such a scene could be because… it’s now happening to me.

I’m a new immigrant in Canada and the circumstances of why I decided to leave the Philippines for good is another story altogether.

This is not the first time I left the country.  I’ve experienced being away from my family for a couple or several months at a time.  I’ve lived for several months in Tokyo, gone backpacking for a couple of months in the States, and have been to Canada for a visit for several weeks.

I was confident that when I get here to Canada to stay for good, I would never feel the pangs of homesickness.  I mean sure, I’d miss my mom, my brothers, my dog (!), my cousins, aunts, uncles, sisters-in-law, nieces, nephews, and everyone back home but not to the point of I’m-so-sad-I’d-cry-every-night-and-think-of-going-home kind of homesickness.  After all, with the advent of technology, everyone back home is just a text, e-mail, Skype call, phone call, and webcam away.  With Skype especially (I am, by the way, not getting paid for advertisement.  Though I wouldn’t mind…), just taking the time zone difference into account, I can call my mom for as trivial a reason as “did I leave a piece of sock behind because I’m missing half a pair in my luggage.”

So having been here for a couple of weeks, I was still, quite frankly, enjoying myself and excited with the infinite possibilities in starting over in a foreign land.

Little did I know that the feeling of longingness (again, if there is such a word) creeps up on you when you least expect it and for a moment, douses you with the cold reality that you sorely miss your life back home.

It started when I decided to go out and explore the streets of Winnipeg a couple of days ago.  I was excited at the prospect of familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of the city where I was going to be living in for the next couple of years of my life.  As I was idle at home, having reached my daily quota of sending out application letters and resumes to different companies, which, by the way, I never thought could be quite tiring, and frustrating too, I decided to break the monotony of my first week and watch a movie at the nearest theater.  After researching the bus schedule, bus routes, and movie screening times, I went out and saw a movie on my own.

After the credits have rolled, with nothing in mind but remnants of the story of the movie I just saw, I went out of that dark theater unconsciously expecting I’d come out to the lobby of Glorietta cinemas.  A place I know all too well, because it is where I would usually watch movies with family and friends.  So coming out of the theater, and that sudden realization that I was not in Makati, and I was not with my mom or cousins or friends, and I am instead a thousand miles away on my own, was enough to make me stand still, let out a short sigh and pause for a couple of seconds.

Another instance was with my Uncle’s cute pomeranian, Trixie.  While I was on the computer, Trixie approached me and lied down by the feet of my chair while keeping his gaze intently on me.  Those beady little eyes were half-begging and half-commanding me to take my foot off my sandals and gently scratch her tummy with it.  So I did and I can tell she was happy for it as she tried her best to lick my toes.  I withdrew my foot from her belly after a couple of minutes and, with my focus on the computer’s screen, I felt her two tiny front paws perch on my lap.  I suddenly remembered and missed how my beagle, Miggy would always do that when he demanded attention.  I half-imagined those two tiny paws as large as my Miggy’s and scratched Trixie’s head half-imagining it was his.

Early this afternoon, we were cooking barbeque with my cousin, his girlfriend, my uncle and aunt, when, for a brief moment I imagined my brother Jeigh, in his tacky-looking apron, fanning the grill with an improvised fan from an old cardboard box and my mom looking over, asking him if it’s nearly done so she can prepare the dining table.

Three barbeque sticks, a grilled sausage, and a heaping serving of rice later, I am here in front of my computer writing about these unconscious, unexpected moments of reminiscence.  I realize that no matter how much I confidently proclaim to everyone that I am not feeling homesick, it is I who actually needed convincing.

Sure, although everyone is just a text, e-mail, Skype call (I really should be paid for this), phone call or webcam away, at the end of the day, what I really miss is the company of friends, the soft paws of my dog, and the warm comforting physical presence of my mom and the rest of the family.

As of right now, I can admit that to myself and admittance is always the first step to moving on.