Celebrating Introversion

If you google the definition of introvert, you will immediately be lead to a small box of description that reads: "(1) a shy, reticent, and typically self-centered person,  and/or (2) a person predominantly concerned with their own thoughts and feelings rather than with external things. Oxford defines the term almost exactly my google friend had put it, but specifies #2 as described in psychology.
 
Back in the day, I participated in labor union rallies along with other bravehearts of a telecom company as we lobby our concerns to authorities in the mid-90's. In 2002, I joined a group of American advocates of pro-life on their campaign against abortion and women's rights in the heat of RH Bill proposal into law. We were on the road for several days; went to a few key remote areas in the Philippines to promote culture of life. Before I became a writer and a teacher, I practiced corporate training for a good 7 years in 2 fashion retailer giants. I was constantly learning and delivering new programs with expectations on ROI.
 
Having said that, you might be inclined to think that I'm this tough, hard-shelled, highly confident woman, when in reality I'm NOT. 

I've always been more reserved than others--growing up and as an adult. For the most part, I don't open up at once to a stranger or a person that I just got acquainted with, or even to those whom I have become friends or familiar with eventually. It's just not my thing. I'd rather listen than talk. I carefully think and analyze things before I speak (softly). I'd kick myself in the butt everyday if I said something foolish.   Don't get me wrong, I'm neither particularly nor acutely shy at all. I can talk to people quite easily almost anything under the sun (except for US SBA), but I won't engage in trivial matters of social small talk. I find it very uncomfortable and self-depleting--not because I don't have the wit--but simply because it's self-violating. I couldn't wait to go home and be myself again.   I remember a conversation with my husband's cousin from India last night. She told me to speak a little louder so I can be understood better--firstly because my accent is very different from them, and secondly, both our English are comparatively varied. The latter is totally understandable--and doable! Except the former. I told her if I were to speak louder than my normal voice, I would develop hernia! (Pardon the pun).   I love to read. I've been a bookworm for as long as I can remember. When I was young, since allowance was as elusive as my father, I found satisfaction in photocopying all the pages of a borrowed book from the library. I don't do that now thankfully. But, I still feel sad putting down a book once I've read it from cover to cover.   These days, writing has become my most valuable and enjoyable form of solitude. I feel more energized as I become deeply introspective as opposed to standing and drinking cocktails in a party. Writing is the by-product of the mind and emotions fused together resulting to, at times, significant articles. And that's what makes it all fulfilling to me. You see, when I want to be alone, it doesn't mean I'm depressed. I find it more rewarding to spend time with myself and my family. I'm happy in my seclusion because I'm at my most productive state when alone. I'm aware of my strengths, and I'd like to think I make better choices on who I want to be around with. I'm proud and content to be an introvert.

Hafu

"Mom! Mom!" yelled my 6-year-old as she saw me at the lobby of the karate center. She strutted along with her other friends toward the place where parents wait, and gave me a whale of a hug!
 

"Ali, who is she?" asked a very curious little guy next to her.

"She's my mom." Alisha replied.

He looked at me as if sizing me up, scratched his head, and told me his name. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Banerjee." (What a nice little fella!) As though an ice breaker, his mother and I began to speak to each other. We spoke briefly about some motherly stuff, and a few minutes later went our separate ways.

I can't count the number of times I've been asked by children and adults alike whether I am the parent or nanny of my daughter. I used to be overly sensitive and would cringe inside as I grit my teeth while thinking why they would even ask. These days I've learned to incorporate humor in the scenario. I juggle between "As far as I know" and a straight forward "yes or no." Some stutter and leave themselves open to correction, hence, try to  retract their words. I can't blame them though. We live in the Middle East where majority of Filipinos are known to be  domestic helpers--including nannies, drivers, cooks or all-around helpers. Don't get me wrong. I have so much respect for these people who chose to work in this field. I don't pass judgment on them. Most of them are educated, some less, and come from good family backgrounds, but for one reason or another, chose to support their families back home in this way.

Being biracial is not a new phenomenon. We now live in a generation where there are more kids born to parents with different ethnicities. Alisha is one of those great kids. She has indistinguishable Indian features. She didn't get anything from me except the straight hair and the not-flat nor high-bridged nose. Those big round eyes, long lashes, thick brows, and beautiful caramel skin are all from her dad. My mom would always tell me, as if a broken record, "Alisha is a little Indranil." I would laugh because it's true. And I'm glad she is. 

She had taken her father's citizenship since birth, so she's holding an Indian passport ever since. Whenever we travel outside Bahrain, the passport and security control officers from here and the Philippines don’t quite get it. They look at me and my daughter, from my daughter’s passport to mine to hers and then back to mine again, and try to figure out how my daughter is related to me and why she is with me at all. Every summer vacation to Manila, I would always be held longer for more questioning, like, ""Why are your last names different?" And, "Who is her father?” And, "Can I see her father's passport copy?" And, “Where is her father?” And, “Do you have a letter from the father saying you can leave the country with her?” (Consulate services here require a no-objection letter from the father in obtaining tourist visa to the Philippines. Please don't take offense. I’m uber glad and thankful they do check rigorously, for kidnapping reasons. They do quite a great job in that aspect.)

Alisha had been asked, too, by many on different occasions, what her citizenship is. She'd reply without hesitation, "half-Indian, half-Filipino." Every now and then people would further probe which food she likes best, which country she likes to visit most, and push a little further more if she had more Filipino friends than Indian friends. I mean, c'mon, guys. My child is aware she can have the best of both worlds! Chicken Biryani one day, Chicken Adobo the next. We, Filipinos, at most, eat six meals a day. My husband being a Bengali and a foodie himself, doesn't mind adopting that concept at all. Alisha enjoys variety just as much as her dad does. It's actually a surprisingly, comfortable set up. As to how many friends Ali has...a lot! She has no problem mixing with different kids of different nationalities at school.

There are many layers that make up a culture. And that makes both my husband and I unique on our own. What we bring to the table as far as our family is concerned are set of values that are centered at the solidarity of our family.

People are interesting. I will never try to attempt to change how people think nor what they should expect or accept. I choose to have it easy.

Welcome to Apartment Life!

My family and I have been urban-dwellers for the past 9 years. We have transitioned to new countries integral to my husband's job offer, and have lived in a variety of apartments over the years--except for one posting which was in Ghana where we enjoyed this huge space and privacy of a villa. It's a pretty sweet life. Really.

 

Anyway, there are a lot of advantages living in a tower block. No driveways to clean, no lawn to mow, no need to worry about maintenance, and, the best part, housekeeping service once a week. The gentleman does a good job with this domestic science. No complaints at all.

 

But there are drawbacks, too. The noise.

 

I probably have mentioned a lot of times in my blog about me suffering from insomnia. I have a problem falling asleep, and if at all I did, there's a bigger problem staying asleep. A faint rustle of sound alerts me like a megaphone would to a large crowd. That's how pathetic it is!

 

So, this recent hoo-ha that kept me up all night was another one of those nights where top floor neighbors didn't care much whether they live in a make-believe rowhome  or sound proof wood floors. Beginning with a pleasant noise as a party probably started; came guests, then it became too loud too late for a little girl past her bedtime. The boisterous laughter turned into almost shrieking, then to raunchy. You knew a few more girls joined in. Ah! It was aweful!

 

There will be elephants above your apartment. It's a given.

 

Ultimately, we called the watchman of our "luxury" apartment, and reported the loud noise upstairs. But, just like any other day, his promise of action is another written in the sand.

Only now did I notice in scrutiny the fire evacuation layout posted just opposite our door. The building actually has fire escapes at each unit, so it's likely there is no fireproofing between floors, and hence no sound barrier. The building has thicker walls, but thinner floors. (No, I'm not that smart. I read it somewhere).

 

At this point, I reckon it isn't still that bad, really. I hear them now and then, but it's not like they're doing anything other than living and enjoying life. I'm only asking for a little consideration so we can co-exist peacefully. They wouldn't want us cause them the same amount of stress, would they? Besides, I love this apartment. It's the most beautiful and most spacious flat we've ever moved in.

 

However, I know it's just a matter of time a loud party like that would happen again. I guess, it's best to consider moving out. As Albert Einstein said, "Beauty is but skin deep, ugly lies the bone; beauty dies and fades away, but ugly holds its own." Awkward metaphor. I know.

My Little Praying Angel

"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it."-- Proverbs 22:6

I asked my daughter three nights ago if she could lead the prayer that time because of my throbbing head brought about by insomnia. She politely obliged, and was quiet for a while. I figured she wasn't quite sure of what to say, so I suggested she can tell the Lord anything her heart wants to --including what she feels and what she knows.

As if a big weight was lifted instantly, she began praying, "Thank you, Lord, for this day--for our food, our house, our car, our fridge, our shoes, our clothes, my dad's job, my mom. Please forgive us for the bad things we've done. Please help my mom sleep tonight because she needs to cook a lot of food for me and my dad. I also like her to have a good day after that.

Whoa! Wait! I was really surprised to hear that. I thought it was so sweet and well-timed because insomnia has just had its rebound for the nth time. It felt really nice to be prayed for.

By the way, Lord, thank you for the Eiffel Tower--wherever country it is--because it's really beautiful. Thank you for these huge curtains that shield me from the bright lights of that hotel in front of my room. For the birds that wake me up in the morning, for the big blue sky, for the animals in the wild, for the dinosaurs that lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago because I would have died early if we lived together...

I can almost hear a hint of our Lord's laughter while she's praying all these. It just went on and on, until, "Thank you for loving me and protecting me as I sleep, Lord. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen."

I was touched to hear all of it. I thought it was a beautiful prayer.










God Be Praised!

"I am the Alpha and the Omega--the beginning and the end," says the Lord God. "I am the One who is, who always was, and who is still to come, the Almighty One." --Revelation 1:8

 

In 2010 I was wheeled into emergency care three times on different dates due to hypertension. My blood pressure shot up to 160/100 on the first episode while my husband was out of Bahrain. I was given nitroglycerin, baby aspirin, a shot in the arm, fitted onto my chest some electrodes for ECG test, put me on oxygen, and sent me home with 2 weeks of meds 2 hours later when my blood pressure was stabilized.

 

Five days later, I checked myself in to the hospital due to dizzy spells and tension on the chest. My blood pressure registered to a dangerous level of 190/100. I was administered the same procedures, and, thus, saved me from that life-threatening stage. I was sent home stable the same night with new sets of drugs.

 

A few days later I came back to the hospital for some required lab tests. Results revealed that I had blocked arteries that required 6 months treatment of cholesterol-lowering drug (the brand I forgot) along with Concor (beta blocker) 5mg once daily to target two issues: (1)  high blood pressure, and (2) angina pectoris. My doctor said to me that my heart was "tired", and has been working so hard for some time. That, I guess, I can attest to because prior to my first emergency care, I could hear my heart beating outside my shirt even while my body was at rest.

At the back of my mind I knew then my body was telling me something was wrong, and I didn't pay attention to it at all. As a mother and wife, I have set priorities that were (and still are) more important outside of myself, so anything that discomforts me and can inconvenience others does not raise a red flag--and that has always been my nature.

 

The third time I had to be wheeled in back to the hospital was due to dull headaches, cold and numb fingers and toes, and chest tension. The latter was so intense to a level that I thought I was gonna die. My blood pressure was again high at 160/90 despite regular medication. My doctor  increased the dosage of Concor to 10mg--5 mg in the morning, 5 in the evening. He told me, too, that the feeling of "going to die" is one of the symptoms of panic attacks apart from other physical manifestations such as shaking and palpitations. He discussed a prescription drug that can help alleviate  it can potentially cause a patient to be physically or psychologically dependent on it. I refused to take it, simply because I didn't want to go through another horrid process of painstaking recovery after recovery.

But, you know what, I went back to him and asked for the prescription meds. He gave me on limited basis, since the drug can't be issued liberally. He discussed to me that it's important, on the onset of the panic attack, to stop understanding what's going on. He taught me that palpitation is not necessarily contingent to an alarming high blood pressure. And that it can be caused by caffeine or foods I eat. Education and lifestyle change were key.

 

He told me to reduce its severity, I should eliminate stress out of my system slowly or by force--mentally. In other words, I should decide to take my life back, not how but when. And it's solely dependent on me.

 

It was a difficult task to embark on especially at a time when my husband was still mourning the death of his father. It would be impossible for someone to reach out from a black hole of despair. He himself was broken. I will never have understanding of sheer depth of grief losing a parent because mine are still living. Therefore, I allowed him to transition at his own pace.

 

Braving the path to recovery, I have had tremendous ups and downs along the way. It was never easy because I had a little girl to take care of with my limp body. I tried my best to be as attentive and as nurturing to her as I possibly could. Upon seeing my struggles, my husband hired domestic help to take care of the things I couldn't while recovering.

 

Some days were good. Some days weren't as much. The physical side effects of medicines altered my lifestyle, and worse, perspective. I felt weak in almost all areas of my life. I got scared of stepping out of the house or riding the car. Astonishingly, the most intense fear was when the day turned to dusk. It felt like, to me, the sun was not going to shine--ever. Irrational! Totally irrational fears! I would succumb to this useless fear as if there was a deadline to death. I would cry out, "Jesus, Jesus, help me!"

 

One night I heard Joyce Meyer on TV saying, "The One that is in you is greater than he who is in the world." I was stunned. It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on me. The times that I thought I could rely on my own strength was a failure. God is in control!

 

She further quoted Revelation 1:8, "I am (Jesus) the Alpha and the Omega--the beginning and the end," says the Lord God. My heart pounded, not because I was having another panic attack, but because I knew the Lord was speaking to me! It meant so personal. Jesus has the first word and the last word about my health, not my doctor (as wonderful as he is). I searched the bible and discovered verses after verses of God's word telling me not to be afraid. Psalm 27:1, "The LORD is my light and my salvation-- whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life-- of whom shall I be afraid?"; Psalm 118:6, "The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?"

 

Day after day I would write down on pieces of paper other great scriptures that talk about courage, healing and restoration. I would tuck them in my book, put them inside my pocket, paste it on my journal, so I could read them and be reminded of how good the plans of our Lord is to me. I owned each promise to myself. Visualized myself healed and free. The more I read the bible, the closer I get to my healing. Within 2 months, I was totally free from panic attacks. Glory to God!

 

As I was being restored back to health, God has already been blessing me with unlimited opportunities to join and teach in CBSE, British and American curriculum schools in various degree of successes. What a gift!

 

I'm happy to tell the world that my blood pressure has been  stable even before Christmas of 2010, and never fluctuated under any circumstances since. My God is faithful:-)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rio

Five days ago we said goodbye to Rio, my 6 year-old daughter's hamster pet. He was only 7 months old. We thought he'd be around longer to love him and play with. 

 

Rio was such a cute Syrian hamster. He was very shy at first when we brought him home, but didn't take long for him to be comfortable with us--especially Alisha. He liked lettuce and carrots, and enjoyed his brown bread with low-fat yogurt once a month. He enjoyed cage clean up time because it allowed him enough ground play. Like any hamster, he's nocturnal, but once up, he'd be very active running around his 3 storey cage. Alternately, he'd be busy constructing his borrow despite the fact that his cage is indestructible; chomp on his cage bars, and vacillate riding his wheel with full rodent might. He was Alisha's bundle of joy.

 

Rio looked flaccid and acted differently earlier that night. He used to greet us with his Jagger move every time we'd visit his cage, but it was amiss. We knew something went awry. A few minutes later my husband declared Rio died of choking.

 

Alisha was shocked and in disbelief initially. She tried to deny Rio's death by doing pranks with me and her father. She called out on her pet a number of times as she would normally do when feeding or playing. She clowned around for a while until it was sleeping time.

 

As I was tucking her in, she told me her heart was broken into tiny, tiny pieces. Her eyes filled up with tears. She loved Rio. He was her friend. She told me how Rio was helpful in exam time or when she's having a bad day. "Rio listened to me all the time, mom." She started sobbing. She was overcome with a great sense of loss. As a mother, I couldn't think of any word that can possibly console her. I just cried with her.

 

The next day Alisha seemed composed, but quiet. Going to the kitchen she couldn't avoid notice the empty cage. She looked at it for a while. Regaining her focus, she went about with breakfast clamped up on the couch. Loneliness was drawn all over her face. It's heartbreaking to watch.

 

Grieving is not exclusive. Some mourn openly, others mourn in private. There is no right or wrong way to grieve, no set time to end it. Most importantly, it is absolutely OK to grieve the loss of a pet.

 

Our lives settled into a normal pattern a couple of days later. We signed up Alisha to a karate class in the hope of keeping her mind off Rio. She's enjoying new set of skills in martial arts and seems happier.

 

Did she forget about Rio? Of course, not. She told me it's impossible to forget her pet, but she has accepted the fact that he's gone. At least this time, she calls this out with ease sans the tears.

 

"Hamster, hamsterrrr...You hungry? Naughty, naughty, Rio. Where are you? There you are!"

The Labeling Game



Photo by Joanne Wellington

"My feeling is that labels are for canned food. I am what I am--and I know what I am."--Michael Stipe

We all know we can't change the past. The irony though is the predilection of people toward it, and their seemingly insatiable feat to throw labels at you the way they remember you years ago. Oh! Their audacity!

 

In an attempt to curtail my apparent tendency to dwell on the affect of opinion of others, I've opted to put the language on paper--in this case, my blog. As the saying goes, pain is inevitable, sufferring is optional.

 

There's a thin line that separates foolishness from naivety, and that to me is a misguided youth. Parents who don't rebuke or lack the initiative to guide their children other than exasperating them for the responsibilities supposedly their own, create rebels in their own home. I was one of those kids--young and parochial, almost apathetic. I had an obdurate impression of life as a young child that poverty was the root of all evil. 70's and 80's were the most turbulent years in the Philippines economically. My parents impressed on me at a young age to work and labor. And that's all I knew growing up.

 

I have relatives who were born to privilege, and I feel there is something sacrilegious about it because it blindsides them of the sufferring of others. Actually, I'm confused whether their wealth or personal hubris made them feel superior. Nonetheless, they were the object of my envy. Poverty was the source of my rebellion, and yet it became the very source of my awakening, too. 

I struggled a lot in my childhood until early adult years. While I finished college for free through scholarship, the daily provision for transport and food were the main problems. Therefore, I did odd jobs to cover living expenses and school projects in college. In my country, one of the ramifications of being born to a poor family could mean denial of education. I didn't want to be a part of the statistics, so I tried very hard to balance work and school at the same time.

I did the unorthodox in a society where norms and values contradict each other. Coming back home past 10pm from school was anomalous to some. They didn't know I had to work from 6am to 3pm prior to that. I was labeled many names. To their dismay, I graduated with honors 6 years later. My life changed drammatically ever since.

The drudgery of my everyday struggles was seen as culpable to many who wanted to put me in a box. I was always criticized. I was deeply hurt, but the most machiavellian response I could afford was plain silence. As young and as callow as I was, how would I know how to frustrate their ill judgement?

The world offers a generous number of shrewd people who finds pleasure in criticizing and labeling people. Thing is, I hardly would have thought that such labeling has the power to wound a person this long a time. I think people label others to cover their own insecurities. As for me, I can't keep on burying them under the sand because the ground will eventually shake underneath me. They all have to go--for good! Even if it means severing ties.