Today, as I was walking to the Graduate Life Center, the oddest event occurred… a completely black cat crossed my path. As soon as I saw the cat, I immediately started saying, “No, don’t”. Upon me addressing the cat, it paused, looked into my eyes then continued on its way, crossing directly in front of my path. The cat then ran over a large pile of snow to continue on its way causing other students and faculty more bad luck.
I never used to be superstitious, but I have grown to become so. Maybe it’s just coincidence that whenever bad things happen to me, they happen after one of those mysterious instances that everyone deems a “bad luck” situation. Not to say that something bad happens to me whenever one of those instances occur, but bad things tend to only happen after those instances.
I suppose most of my superstition comes from my mom. She always used to tell me the symbolism behind almost everything. She once told me the mole on my right temple meant that I was smart and that it was bad luck to put shoes on a table. I suppose it is part of the culture in the Philippines, but I never asked.
I remember once I was in one of the houses of my mom’s friend and I didn’t know about the whole shoe on the table thing. Needless to say, I was little and put my shoe on the table and was yelled at for like 10 minutes for that. For some reason, bingo is a really big thing with Filipinos and it seems like for them everything is based on luck. I once remember one of my mom’s friends telling me to go outside because I was bad luck and she kept losing bingo. It’s kind of funny growing up in that environment.
In reality, superstition has no real basis. It is completely irrational. I somewhat believe in it because of experience, but it’s like when early civilizations had no explanation for certain events and they would just blame it on some higher being. I hope I make it through the next 17 hours without bad luck… THAT DARN CAT!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Observation
Audience: Americans; age 15-30
Vicenta walked leisurely through a park in suburbia; this was probably the first time since she arrived in the United States that she felt somewhat at peace. The bustling of the city often had her uneasy and it did not do anything beneficial for her current state of mind. Of late, she had been feeling somewhat sick; she attributed it to the lack of sleep and homesickness.
It did not help that she didn’t know English very well and she had trouble connecting with others. She had been somewhat quiet when she lived in the Philippines, but her lack of proficiency with English only increased her awkwardness. Vicenta was awkward in mannerisms; she didn’t like to dance, partake in social events, or even swim. She did not like water in general; she had a near death experience while swimming when she was a child. She did not even like kiddie pools.
I still don’t understand why she accepted her current position. She never really liked people and she could make the same money being a waitress, but here she is babysitting this child in suburbia. I suppose children are different than adults; they are pure and innocent, untouched by the evils of society. I usually sit in the park, watching my own children play and wonder about her. Most of the things I have told you are assumptions. I don’t even know her real name or anything really substantial about her. She just strolls in the park with the child in one of those strollers and sits on the bench on the other side of the sidewalk.
It’s kind of funny the things you notice about a person you don’t really know. I do know several facts from observation; the only person she speaks to is the child she is nanny to; of late, she has said some phrases in passing like she has been learning English slowly; and she is very protective of the child she watches. She observes everything like I do. She learns by watching and listening to the people around her. I think sometime soon I will gather up enough courage and speak to her. Maybe I will find out if the story that I have made up for her is true.
Vicenta walked leisurely through a park in suburbia; this was probably the first time since she arrived in the United States that she felt somewhat at peace. The bustling of the city often had her uneasy and it did not do anything beneficial for her current state of mind. Of late, she had been feeling somewhat sick; she attributed it to the lack of sleep and homesickness.
It did not help that she didn’t know English very well and she had trouble connecting with others. She had been somewhat quiet when she lived in the Philippines, but her lack of proficiency with English only increased her awkwardness. Vicenta was awkward in mannerisms; she didn’t like to dance, partake in social events, or even swim. She did not like water in general; she had a near death experience while swimming when she was a child. She did not even like kiddie pools.
I still don’t understand why she accepted her current position. She never really liked people and she could make the same money being a waitress, but here she is babysitting this child in suburbia. I suppose children are different than adults; they are pure and innocent, untouched by the evils of society. I usually sit in the park, watching my own children play and wonder about her. Most of the things I have told you are assumptions. I don’t even know her real name or anything really substantial about her. She just strolls in the park with the child in one of those strollers and sits on the bench on the other side of the sidewalk.
It’s kind of funny the things you notice about a person you don’t really know. I do know several facts from observation; the only person she speaks to is the child she is nanny to; of late, she has said some phrases in passing like she has been learning English slowly; and she is very protective of the child she watches. She observes everything like I do. She learns by watching and listening to the people around her. I think sometime soon I will gather up enough courage and speak to her. Maybe I will find out if the story that I have made up for her is true.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Happiness is a State of Mind
This past weekend was Military Ball, which you would think would be a big deal for cadets, but really is not. As cadets, we were all expected to attend and I wore the ugliest uniform on the face of the planet… Mess Dress. This female uniform is a floor length, black skirt, worn with black pumps and a white, ruffled shirt worn with an equally atrocious white blazer with overhanging maroon shoulder boards, giving the affect of a 1930s waitress. I call it Birth Control Bag.
Besides the horrible uniform, each freshman training company also paints a banner. Unfortunately, each company tends to only have one artist and end up painting the night before the event. Even more unfortunately, I was one of the few that stayed up the entire night, finishing the banner at 8:30 that morning.
It’s sort of funny because the upperclassmen make such a big deal about this event and I only ended up staying an hour. Military Ball is the event which marks the start of the final phase of freshman training, which also marks the receiving of some privileges. (Yay!)
Although the military event was a “let-down”, my weekend was not without its fun. I pulled an all-nighter on Friday, but because I did, I bonded more closely with one of my buds who I did not know as well. After I left Military Ball Saturday night, I hung out with one of my female buds and we went to Starbuck’s while doing laundry, hung out in the civilian dorms and made a random Wal*Mart run at midnight. After getting back to the dorms at 2:00 in the morning, we had a fun party in my room, where we cooked the frozen foods we bought from Wal*Mart.
The point is although we encounter crappy situations, most of us tend to only dwell on the bad stuff that happens to us and not the good. I would say that overall, my weekend was awesome. It is in my opinion that we choose to be. Happiness is a state of mind; if you want to be happy, you will be. It doesn’t matter what actually happens; what is important is what you choose to remember.
Besides the horrible uniform, each freshman training company also paints a banner. Unfortunately, each company tends to only have one artist and end up painting the night before the event. Even more unfortunately, I was one of the few that stayed up the entire night, finishing the banner at 8:30 that morning.
It’s sort of funny because the upperclassmen make such a big deal about this event and I only ended up staying an hour. Military Ball is the event which marks the start of the final phase of freshman training, which also marks the receiving of some privileges. (Yay!)
Although the military event was a “let-down”, my weekend was not without its fun. I pulled an all-nighter on Friday, but because I did, I bonded more closely with one of my buds who I did not know as well. After I left Military Ball Saturday night, I hung out with one of my female buds and we went to Starbuck’s while doing laundry, hung out in the civilian dorms and made a random Wal*Mart run at midnight. After getting back to the dorms at 2:00 in the morning, we had a fun party in my room, where we cooked the frozen foods we bought from Wal*Mart.
The point is although we encounter crappy situations, most of us tend to only dwell on the bad stuff that happens to us and not the good. I would say that overall, my weekend was awesome. It is in my opinion that we choose to be. Happiness is a state of mind; if you want to be happy, you will be. It doesn’t matter what actually happens; what is important is what you choose to remember.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Escaping Through a Window
Windows fascinate me in a strange sort of way. Like a fly to a light bulb, windows draw me in. Sometimes people walk into the room when I am looking through them and I find some excuse to be near that corner. Sometimes, windows are stained, geometrically shaped, or pictures made from different shapes and stains. I have never understood their true purpose; they let in light, but that is really their only practical use in the 21st century.
I remember once looking through a window for 10 hours straight. That particular window was not shaped like an octagon or stained bright colors. It was a plain, rectangular window. Maybe, it had curtains, but I don’t remember, probably because I was nine years old at the time. What did I remember about this one, simple window? This window took me away for 10 hours from the misery that filled the house I was trapped in.
That was the day my mother died. Unlike everyone in the house, I did not cry when I was told. Instead, I walked around the house and was drawn to the window, where I sat down and simply looked out. I watched everything: the wind blowing through the small trees, the cars going by on the main road, the neighbors outside mowing the grass and yelling when the mower ran out of gasoline, the sky turning orange and pink, then slowly fading to darkness. All of which seemed so beautiful to me.
When I turned from the window and looked around the room, all I saw was an empty living room and kitchen. The table was covered with those ridiculous meat platters that people buy when someone dies because for some reason, people think you forget how to cook over the course of a day or they can’t say, “I’m sorry” and they need to make some big gesture of feeding you. My mother usually occupied the kitchen, cooking Filipino dishes that would fill the room with their delicious smells. All I saw then was… emptiness and continued to look out my window, escaping to the outside the only way I was allowed to.
Some look at windows and think the ornate ones are the most beautiful, but I think different. It’s not what the windows look like that matters, it’s what you can see through them. I think that seeing beauty in simple things is the most important thing in life. Looking through a window, I can see the beauty of living. It makes me feel free in a strange sort of way. My body may be stuck in a room, doing some menial task, but I can see and think beyond my physical boundaries.
I remember once looking through a window for 10 hours straight. That particular window was not shaped like an octagon or stained bright colors. It was a plain, rectangular window. Maybe, it had curtains, but I don’t remember, probably because I was nine years old at the time. What did I remember about this one, simple window? This window took me away for 10 hours from the misery that filled the house I was trapped in.
That was the day my mother died. Unlike everyone in the house, I did not cry when I was told. Instead, I walked around the house and was drawn to the window, where I sat down and simply looked out. I watched everything: the wind blowing through the small trees, the cars going by on the main road, the neighbors outside mowing the grass and yelling when the mower ran out of gasoline, the sky turning orange and pink, then slowly fading to darkness. All of which seemed so beautiful to me.
When I turned from the window and looked around the room, all I saw was an empty living room and kitchen. The table was covered with those ridiculous meat platters that people buy when someone dies because for some reason, people think you forget how to cook over the course of a day or they can’t say, “I’m sorry” and they need to make some big gesture of feeding you. My mother usually occupied the kitchen, cooking Filipino dishes that would fill the room with their delicious smells. All I saw then was… emptiness and continued to look out my window, escaping to the outside the only way I was allowed to.
Some look at windows and think the ornate ones are the most beautiful, but I think different. It’s not what the windows look like that matters, it’s what you can see through them. I think that seeing beauty in simple things is the most important thing in life. Looking through a window, I can see the beauty of living. It makes me feel free in a strange sort of way. My body may be stuck in a room, doing some menial task, but I can see and think beyond my physical boundaries.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
