Don't Fake The Funk

Accents

"Fashion of The Christ"

All Filipinos have a tendency to switch "v" and "f" with "b" and "p." Even I do it unconsciously and I grew up in the states. Recently I made a reply to a Singles For Christ website post about a fashion show for charity that's being organized in New York City. I called it "Fashion of The Christ." I think it was a funny play on words considering the aforementioned penchant of Filipinos to switch-pronounce certain letters.

Some SFC members became angry. They believed I was poking fun at how Filipinos mispronounce English words. I would not go so far as to call it "mispronounciation." Yes, this is merely semantics, but how can we call it mispronounciation when this isn't even our own language? Unlike most people I do not consider my accent, or anyone else's, to be a subject of derision. In fact I consider accents a badge of pride in someone's culture.

"Prench pries? But you're already bery pat."

Sure, when my mom says things, my brothers and I bring to her attention how Americans would say them. "French fries" and "very fat." But heck, she's lived and worked here for 35 years and she still has an accent. And she promptly disregards any "correction" to her pronounciation that her sons provide. To my mother, there is a certain dignity to the way she speaks. (Of course, my mom has a certain dignity of presence in all things she does.)

"Say 'hippopotamus' again, Lola."

We Fil-Ams joke and rib our friends and relatives about their accents. But it's the good-natured ribbing more apt to strengthen bonds than to break them. All people joke around and it's as much the responsibility of the joker to not go too far as it is for the jokee to not be so sensitive.

I've noticed that Fil-Ams sometimes affect a stronger Pinoy accent when talking to elder Filipinos. Some may consider that disrespect. Some consider it funny. I know I did when I was growing up and I would hear Michelle and Cathy Prego, neighbors of mine who were both born here, talk to their grandmother with a Filipino accent. But what I realize now that I didn't then was this: talking like someone else helps communication. If you talk like someone, on some level, you start to think like them and it becomes easier to convey ideas to each other.

"You from New Yawk? I'm from Sta-en Islan'."

I grew up on Staten Island. For reasons such as racism and typical teenage angst, I learned to dislike the way people spoke, and I unconsciously trained myself to have no accent. But in the past few years I realized some things. When I speak to another Staten Islander or Brooklynite I affect a stronger New York accent. I thought it was odd until 9/11 when I realized that I was proud to hear New York accents on T.V. and when I travelled to different parts of the world. My accent became a badge of honor, a New York City i.d. more meaningful than a mere driver's license.

Affecting another person's accent isn't poking fun at them. To me, I am adjusting to the person I'm talking to as a sign of respect and empathy and, of course, to expedite the exchange of ideas more efficiently.

Jesus who?

Incidentally nobody that was angry at me about the whole "Fashion of The Christ" thing seemed to be upset that I might be making fun of Jesus.

2 All Bf Patiz Sp Saws Letus Chiz...

My dad is in the hospital because he had a stroke.
I just watched the documentary "Supersize Me."

And oddly enough I've suddenly got this intense craving for McDonald's.

8k Training Tip #1

Move Over Che

Drop The Remote and Step Away From the ESPN

So they just moved my dad out of the ICU into the rehab wing of the hospital. Now I don't know if this a coincidence or not but he also stopped asking me about the Yankees.

The way I see it is now that dad's not in danger anymore, he stopped worrying about the important stuff. ;)

I'm glad he can't watch the Yankee games at the hospital. Even though they won today against the Red Sox he'd have been yelling and screaming anyway and that's not good for his health.

Kuya and I were talking about getting him the NBA League Pass on cable but now that I think about it, he'll yell just as much watching basketball games. Probably more. We ought to just revoke his sports-watching privileges all together, huh?

Nightmares

Just woke up from a nightmare. Can't really remember it now because it's already fading. But for some reason I feel like there's somebody standing outside my bedroom door. Crazy I know. It's all this stuff that's going on lately. The hurricane completely destroying New Orleans, my dad in the hospital, Gilligan. (Ah well, with Gilligan out of the picture who's going to console Ginger and Mary Ann? Heh heh heh.)

My dad's been complaining about a bad headache so the doc scheduled him for another CAT scan. His left leg is looking all banged up too. Probably from the fall during his stroke, but they're gonna do an ultrasound on it just to make sure there's no clot.

I'm sure the nightmares I had are from worrying about my father.

A father, to his child, symbolizes strength and self-reliance and the ability to handle adversity and provide not just for himself but for his wife and his kids. Growing up, my dad was the perfect example of this. So to see my father laid low by a stroke and to see him in pain in a hospital bed is very disturbing for me.

Sure, my dad's had two heart attacks and this family isn't new to ERs and ICUs and stuff. But the first time my dad had a heart attack, I was a kid and Kuya and I had no idea of the danger. In fact when we heard my mom say "ambulance" we took out our toy fireman helmets with flashing sirens and put 'em on my parents' bed posts and pretended we were abulance drivers. Hmm, I won't say we pretended. We picked up on my mom's demeanor and we were as serious as a first and third grader could be. The second time my dad had a heart attack my brothers and I were angry. We were pissed at my dad for smoking behind our backs even though he should have quit after the first heart attack. We were also angry at ourselves, especially Kuya and me, because we both knew my dad was still smoking but we were too afraid to confront him with it.

So this stroke, for me, is the first time I'm really scared for my father's health. I would do anything for my father. I pray to God to help me lend my father some of my strength and my health. I'll stay at his bedside so my mom can rest. You know all those things I just mentioned are lofty, idealistic and altruistic offers of help.

But the most difficult thing to do for my father is shaving him. Not that I am unable to do it -- it's not like tying a necktie on another person where everything is semi-backwards and you really have to think about how to tie the knot. Shaving people is easy. I've done it for Lolo, too. It's just that shaving my father is hard because it's disturbing. He's my father. He taught me how to tie a necktie and he taught me how to shave. So for me to have to shave him... it's just disturbing. I don't know how else to describe it.

--

Beth just text-messaged me from the Philippines. She told me to go to bed and she's hugging me in her mind right now and I should do the same. How simple a message that is! Yet how comforting. Thanks Beth. I love you for chasing the nightmares away.

Tennis

Andre Agassi just beat Jeff Blake today. It was a great match that went all the way down to the wire. Good tennis, too. You can tell Agassi is a wily veteran by the way he lured Blake to the net with a soft hit and then blew it by him with the next shot. Awesome. Just awesome.

Just freakin' awesome.

But you know what's not awesome... the way people in the crowd "shh" each other when it gets too noisy. Or do they hire professional shh-ers? I guess it doesn't matter who is doing the shh-ing. It just makes tennis seem so pompous. They gotta kill the shh-ing and let the players play in noisy arenas and maybe even let them trash-talk.

USTA Street. Somebody call EA Sports!

What's with the weird-ass graphics? You know, where they show where the ball hits near the line? Whatever happened to replay footage? The graphics don't tell me anything. I mean, I don't know who's controlling those graphics. Could be anybody, but the announcers are always going "ooh that was close" like they're looking at tape of the actual match. It's too video-gamey these graphics.

On second thought, hang up the phone and don't call EA Sports.

ICU Conversations

Love In The Emergency Room

My father had a stroke yesterday.

There's so much I could talk about, so much I can describe, so many impressions of yesterday's events that have stuck in my mind. I walked into the emergency room and looked at my father weaker than I've ever seen him and the first thing he said to me was that he may have a lead for a job for me. I could talk about how alert and observant my dad was during the stroke, how he was at once laughing at his co-worker's reaction and frightened by the reality of almost dying. Again.

You see, my dad is no novice to emergency rooms, or the ICU. But this time is different. My dad said to me today that as he was lying in his office he kept thinking that if he died at that moment he would not reach the age of 64. His birthday is in two months. As he said this I kept thinking that he still has his own father beat by decades. And I realized that his dad never got to meet his four grandkids, all boys; and there's a chance that my own father won't see his grandkids either.

This brush with death is also different in the way my dad is dealing with it. His faith, his belief in the Lord, remains unshaken. And he is showing his talent for observation, and his ability to think clearly even in the most dire of circumstances. Even more telling is my dad's sense of humor, which -- despite being a leader in Couples for Christ -- is a bit earthy and "street." In the emergency room, a doctor asked him to show him two fingers with his left hand. So my dad gave him a thumbs up... and then gave him the middle finger, all the while laughing.

There's so much more I could talk about but there's really only one thing that sticks in my mind with complete clarity:

I was sitting in a chair outside the curtained area of my dad's bed in the ER. My mother was at his bedside holding his left hand in hers. She reached around his head with her right arm and leaned foward to kiss him and whisper in his ear. He said something to her. I couldn't hear either of them. But with my heart I could sense in that short moment the bond between my mom and dad. Those few seconds where their heads were close was a private, loving moment in the middle of markedly un-private location during a time of extreme stress.

Intellectually I know my dad loves my mom, and vice versa. But you don't see moments between your own parents like this very often, and I consider myself lucky that I could witness the manifestation of their love in the emergency room.