My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
As I write this it is the fourth night of Hanukkah. Thus far I have made latkes out of 5 pounds of russet potatoes. Go ahead, tell me I used the wrong potato. Or I should add onions (frankly, I prefer shallots). And if you tell me to use Mott’s apple sauce one more time (of course I make them from scratch), I will throw the entire jar your way.
I have to confess: if I touch or see another potato in the next 24 hours, I am going to start singing, “Silent Night”. You should see my hands and fingers, they are so dry from frying all those patties I look like I have eczema or worse, psoriasis. Quick, hand me the Eucerin or the Oscar for Outstanding Performance by a Shiksa in a....comedy.
People make so much of the December Dilemma. That’s the term (must have been made-up by an atheist, agnostic, or Buddhist) conjured for the emotional and mental conflict interfaith families endure during this time of year. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a spike in therapy visits.
All I can say is: been there, done that. I’ve moved on and made my peace. It hasn’t been easy, occasionally I slip and plummet into emotional depths I might as well be a spelunker, but eventually, you come up for fresh air.
My dilemma has less to do with the spiritual than with the temporal: what is the best sauce for dipping latkes? Apple sauce is great but that’s if you don’t know any better. You should try vinegar mixed with minced garlic, sea salt, red pepper flakes and sliced onions. Or Thai sweet and sour sauce. Soy sauce works. And my all time favorite, fish sauce, freshly squeeze lime juice and fresh cilantro. As they say on tv, “Priceless!”
Go ahead, have apple sauce. December dilemma? I’m dipping my latkes elsewhere.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
How Do You Do It?
How Do You Do It?
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....
I am often asked, How do you do it?
You mean, how do I make chicken adobo? Easy...In a pot, throw in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, black pepper, bay leaf, sea salt, chicken (or pork for the really hard core), stew until chicken is tender, serve.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I keep my girlish figure? Easy...taebo two, three times a week, power walk around the park, pilates, eliminate all processed starch (not eating rice is a real bummer!), no soda, no chocolates unless it’s from Payard.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I get my cut orchids to last so long? Easy...change the water every day and snip the bottoms of the stems. Not too much. Just so.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I throw a party for fifty without using paper plates or plastic knives? Easy...you either buy enough china and flatware. Or there are rental places that will deliver and pick-up. You don’t even have to rinse them. It’s on the Internet.
No, no, how do you, a Catholic, raise a Jewish family?
Easy...you do it the Nike way: Just do it!
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....
I am often asked, How do you do it?
You mean, how do I make chicken adobo? Easy...In a pot, throw in soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, black pepper, bay leaf, sea salt, chicken (or pork for the really hard core), stew until chicken is tender, serve.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I keep my girlish figure? Easy...taebo two, three times a week, power walk around the park, pilates, eliminate all processed starch (not eating rice is a real bummer!), no soda, no chocolates unless it’s from Payard.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I get my cut orchids to last so long? Easy...change the water every day and snip the bottoms of the stems. Not too much. Just so.
How do you do it?
You mean, how do I throw a party for fifty without using paper plates or plastic knives? Easy...you either buy enough china and flatware. Or there are rental places that will deliver and pick-up. You don’t even have to rinse them. It’s on the Internet.
No, no, how do you, a Catholic, raise a Jewish family?
Easy...you do it the Nike way: Just do it!
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
I Don't Sound Like That
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila....
When Glen and I got married and began having children, I wondered in what order (and how quickly) my kids would come to realize that one, the color of their parents’ skin was different from each other (I am brown, Glen is white): two, we came from different cultures; three, observed different religions; and four, spoke different languages though we spoke English at home.
I was therefore unprepared (and surprised) to discover that of all the differences they could possibly find in our family structure, it was my accent that got a major share of their attention. Yes, my accent. Not my skin color, my belief system or that unlike their father who did not eat animal flesh, I ate every thing except road kill. Out went my prepared speeches on race, diversity and tolerance. In its place came explanations for why I spoke and sounded the way I did.
You see I don’t sound like my children or any of their friends’ parents. Actually, I don’t sound like anyone in Brooklyn. I have lived in this country for more than twenty years yet I still sound like the person who lived in the Philippines. My Rs tumble around my tongue like tennis balls inside a dryer. Vowels stay as long as they want and every syllable is accounted for. My sentences are spoken in cadence, in tones that go up and down depending on how excited I get. I don’t speak through my nose or my ears. I yell at jaywalkers in my native tongue.
And to my children and their ever-widening circle of friends, I sound funny. A curiosity if you will in my own home, to be mimicked and aped at will. Of course, I find none of this amusing.
Back in Manila, one’s accent was a barometer of one’s station in life. The more American you sounded, the more educated, classier, and therefore, superior you were. A fine example of colonial mentality at work. The British accent did not count. That accent only made you sound pretentious--a try hard--as one unfortunate friend discovered after spending two months in the British Isles and came back sounding more British than the Queen. Why would anyone want a British accent? Didn’t they lose the empire? The poor woman never opened her mouth again.
But what the natives back home don’t realize however is that there is no single accent in America, even if everyone speaks English. In the state of New York alone, a Staten Island accent should not be confused with a Long Island or Brooklyn one under pain of losing a limb.
From the start, I made a conscious decision not to change my accent and sound like someone from...Brooklyn. For what? Just so I can have bragging rights to being Stateside? No thanks. But my children (and occasionally Glen) won’t leave my accent alone. It has made me more determined to sound Filipino; I find that my accent has even gotten thicker over time. Quite frankly, I’m rather proud of it. Of course, whenever my sense of humor and patience fails me, I fight back.
“I don’t sound like that,” I yell at them in my language. They have no idea what I’m saying and that’s too bad.
They stop.
When Glen and I got married and began having children, I wondered in what order (and how quickly) my kids would come to realize that one, the color of their parents’ skin was different from each other (I am brown, Glen is white): two, we came from different cultures; three, observed different religions; and four, spoke different languages though we spoke English at home.
I was therefore unprepared (and surprised) to discover that of all the differences they could possibly find in our family structure, it was my accent that got a major share of their attention. Yes, my accent. Not my skin color, my belief system or that unlike their father who did not eat animal flesh, I ate every thing except road kill. Out went my prepared speeches on race, diversity and tolerance. In its place came explanations for why I spoke and sounded the way I did.
You see I don’t sound like my children or any of their friends’ parents. Actually, I don’t sound like anyone in Brooklyn. I have lived in this country for more than twenty years yet I still sound like the person who lived in the Philippines. My Rs tumble around my tongue like tennis balls inside a dryer. Vowels stay as long as they want and every syllable is accounted for. My sentences are spoken in cadence, in tones that go up and down depending on how excited I get. I don’t speak through my nose or my ears. I yell at jaywalkers in my native tongue.
And to my children and their ever-widening circle of friends, I sound funny. A curiosity if you will in my own home, to be mimicked and aped at will. Of course, I find none of this amusing.
Back in Manila, one’s accent was a barometer of one’s station in life. The more American you sounded, the more educated, classier, and therefore, superior you were. A fine example of colonial mentality at work. The British accent did not count. That accent only made you sound pretentious--a try hard--as one unfortunate friend discovered after spending two months in the British Isles and came back sounding more British than the Queen. Why would anyone want a British accent? Didn’t they lose the empire? The poor woman never opened her mouth again.
But what the natives back home don’t realize however is that there is no single accent in America, even if everyone speaks English. In the state of New York alone, a Staten Island accent should not be confused with a Long Island or Brooklyn one under pain of losing a limb.
From the start, I made a conscious decision not to change my accent and sound like someone from...Brooklyn. For what? Just so I can have bragging rights to being Stateside? No thanks. But my children (and occasionally Glen) won’t leave my accent alone. It has made me more determined to sound Filipino; I find that my accent has even gotten thicker over time. Quite frankly, I’m rather proud of it. Of course, whenever my sense of humor and patience fails me, I fight back.
“I don’t sound like that,” I yell at them in my language. They have no idea what I’m saying and that’s too bad.
They stop.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
I Just Can't Win
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
Just when I thought I had a place in this society, I was resoundingly put in my place to make sure I didn’t forget where I came from. It doesn’t matter by whose pronouncement it happened; it did.
I was under the impression that by virtue of my marriage to Glen (my good Jewish egg of a husband), I--a gentile, a Catholic and every possible non-Jew name you can call me--was a shiksa. I knew, understood even, what the word meant. What its implications were. By embracing its usage, I thought I was removing its ability to hurt me. It is a slur after all in certain circles. Among Catholics, it would be called self-flagellation but that's okay. At least I'm using my own whip on myself, no one else's.
Except that I don’t look the part. What did people expect? I am the girl from Manila, not Ipanema. Just when I thought I could have a say on how people viewed me by openly declaring myself a shiksa, it turns out that I cannot claim the name for my own. The name simply doesn’t fit. And if it doesn’t fit, presumably, you’ve got to quit.
Ethnic. That’s what I am I was told. This I already know. I can see my reflection through the grimy windows of my home. Back where I came from, that's what we were called. It was also interchangeable with native, as in aboriginal, as in tribal. Pygmy was another one but deemed too harsh and inappropriate in polite society. Eventually, it was dropped from the lexicon of everyday vocabulary.
Okay so I’m not white. Not blonde either. I get that too. But just this once I wanted to hear something I didn’t already know. How hard could that be? Apparently, too hard.
Just when I thought I had a place in this society, I was resoundingly put in my place to make sure I didn’t forget where I came from. It doesn’t matter by whose pronouncement it happened; it did.
I was under the impression that by virtue of my marriage to Glen (my good Jewish egg of a husband), I--a gentile, a Catholic and every possible non-Jew name you can call me--was a shiksa. I knew, understood even, what the word meant. What its implications were. By embracing its usage, I thought I was removing its ability to hurt me. It is a slur after all in certain circles. Among Catholics, it would be called self-flagellation but that's okay. At least I'm using my own whip on myself, no one else's.
Except that I don’t look the part. What did people expect? I am the girl from Manila, not Ipanema. Just when I thought I could have a say on how people viewed me by openly declaring myself a shiksa, it turns out that I cannot claim the name for my own. The name simply doesn’t fit. And if it doesn’t fit, presumably, you’ve got to quit.
Ethnic. That’s what I am I was told. This I already know. I can see my reflection through the grimy windows of my home. Back where I came from, that's what we were called. It was also interchangeable with native, as in aboriginal, as in tribal. Pygmy was another one but deemed too harsh and inappropriate in polite society. Eventually, it was dropped from the lexicon of everyday vocabulary.
Okay so I’m not white. Not blonde either. I get that too. But just this once I wanted to hear something I didn’t already know. How hard could that be? Apparently, too hard.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
The Hyphenated Life
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…
A hyphen is a small bar that looks like a minus sign. The dictionary further describes the hyphen as a punctuation mark used to divide or connect two words; to describe a person who performs more than one function; to describe a unit of mixed or diverse backgrounds.
To me the hyphen is all that. For something no bigger than a period, it means so much more. It describes the life I lead: a life that straddles two worlds, the tight rope that connects me to both, maintaining the delicate balancing act between the life I had before and the life I have now.
At times the shiksa life can be confusing. It gets so confusing at times that I swear I can’t keep my life straight. It’s that neither here nor there feeling. Like that. Then it really gets more complicated when other people try and do it for me. With the best of intentions of course. People always have the best of intentions even when the outcome is bad.
The other day I went into a Judaica store in search of a spice box. No, not for oregano, silly. For Havdallah at the end of Shabbat. Right now, all we use is an oval stainless steel tea strainer that looks like an egg with holes. You probably own one just like it. It’s the kind you’d buy at Broadway Panhandler or Crate and Barrel. The one we have preceded me so I wouldn’t be surprised if Glenn bought it at some JobLot before it went out of business. He can’t be bothered with details like that.
I’m the exact opposite; I’m all about details. If you’re going to do something, do it right, or don’t bother. Glenn just rolls his eyes whenever I say things like that. It’s a quality of life issue for me; he starts tabulating how this will dent our household budget. A spice box? Yeah, right.
Like I said, I walked into a Judaica store on Coney Island avenue. It’s not like I’ve never been to one before but this is the first one I went to by myself. It was a recent recommendation and I just happened to be in the neighborhood so I figure, why not?
I go in and look around. No one looks up. No one comes near. This is good. I am left alone. I don’t like it when sales associates come too close and trail me around as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Honey, I may look like this but I know what I’m doing so leave me alone. But that’s not a nice thing to say and I don’t.
I take my time going around. I’m not one of those grabbers who pounce on the first thing that catches their eyes. It needs to knock me off my feet for me to do that. I see some really nice Seder plates except that I already own one. There are several good-looking menorahs. We own three, in addition to the ones the kids made at their pre-school. I am happy just checking things out. It’s what I love to do whenever I go into a store. I get into my Zen, meditative mode and have a good time. There’s no rush. Something will pop at me and then I’ll know when it’s time to buy. Until then, I will just go from one display to another, floating in and out of space.
Suddenly I feel like I am being followed. I turn and there just behind me is an elderly man. He says politely, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
“Just looking,” I respond brightly. Then, “Actually, I’m looking for spice boxes. Where would they be?”
He doesn’t answer immediately but just stands there looking at me. Sigh. I recognize this look. I get this all the time whenever I come to places like this. I should have come with Glenn; they’d never give him that look. But he never has time plus I wanted this to be a surprise. I could have invited my friend, Miriam. They wouldn’t dare give her that look. Plus she’d look right back at them.
“You don’t look Jewish,” he says. I am not offended; he is right. Still.
“I’m not,” I reply evenly. In my head I add, I know what I’m doing even if I look like this. It would have been unkind to actually say them. Nothing would change. Plus he wouldn’t get it. So we stand there face to face, the two of us unsteady on our feet. I shouldn’t have worn heels.
He steps aside and with a slight bow, points to a certain direction. As I make my way he adds, “Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. Call me if I can help.”
I may look like this but you bet I know what I’m doing. But I say no such thing because the old man saw me and knew.
A hyphen is a small bar that looks like a minus sign. The dictionary further describes the hyphen as a punctuation mark used to divide or connect two words; to describe a person who performs more than one function; to describe a unit of mixed or diverse backgrounds.
To me the hyphen is all that. For something no bigger than a period, it means so much more. It describes the life I lead: a life that straddles two worlds, the tight rope that connects me to both, maintaining the delicate balancing act between the life I had before and the life I have now.
At times the shiksa life can be confusing. It gets so confusing at times that I swear I can’t keep my life straight. It’s that neither here nor there feeling. Like that. Then it really gets more complicated when other people try and do it for me. With the best of intentions of course. People always have the best of intentions even when the outcome is bad.
The other day I went into a Judaica store in search of a spice box. No, not for oregano, silly. For Havdallah at the end of Shabbat. Right now, all we use is an oval stainless steel tea strainer that looks like an egg with holes. You probably own one just like it. It’s the kind you’d buy at Broadway Panhandler or Crate and Barrel. The one we have preceded me so I wouldn’t be surprised if Glenn bought it at some JobLot before it went out of business. He can’t be bothered with details like that.
I’m the exact opposite; I’m all about details. If you’re going to do something, do it right, or don’t bother. Glenn just rolls his eyes whenever I say things like that. It’s a quality of life issue for me; he starts tabulating how this will dent our household budget. A spice box? Yeah, right.
Like I said, I walked into a Judaica store on Coney Island avenue. It’s not like I’ve never been to one before but this is the first one I went to by myself. It was a recent recommendation and I just happened to be in the neighborhood so I figure, why not?
I go in and look around. No one looks up. No one comes near. This is good. I am left alone. I don’t like it when sales associates come too close and trail me around as if I didn’t know what I was doing. Honey, I may look like this but I know what I’m doing so leave me alone. But that’s not a nice thing to say and I don’t.
I take my time going around. I’m not one of those grabbers who pounce on the first thing that catches their eyes. It needs to knock me off my feet for me to do that. I see some really nice Seder plates except that I already own one. There are several good-looking menorahs. We own three, in addition to the ones the kids made at their pre-school. I am happy just checking things out. It’s what I love to do whenever I go into a store. I get into my Zen, meditative mode and have a good time. There’s no rush. Something will pop at me and then I’ll know when it’s time to buy. Until then, I will just go from one display to another, floating in and out of space.
Suddenly I feel like I am being followed. I turn and there just behind me is an elderly man. He says politely, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
“Just looking,” I respond brightly. Then, “Actually, I’m looking for spice boxes. Where would they be?”
He doesn’t answer immediately but just stands there looking at me. Sigh. I recognize this look. I get this all the time whenever I come to places like this. I should have come with Glenn; they’d never give him that look. But he never has time plus I wanted this to be a surprise. I could have invited my friend, Miriam. They wouldn’t dare give her that look. Plus she’d look right back at them.
“You don’t look Jewish,” he says. I am not offended; he is right. Still.
“I’m not,” I reply evenly. In my head I add, I know what I’m doing even if I look like this. It would have been unkind to actually say them. Nothing would change. Plus he wouldn’t get it. So we stand there face to face, the two of us unsteady on our feet. I shouldn’t have worn heels.
He steps aside and with a slight bow, points to a certain direction. As I make my way he adds, “Well, you look like you know what you’re doing. Call me if I can help.”
I may look like this but you bet I know what I’m doing. But I say no such thing because the old man saw me and knew.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
X Marks the Spot
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..
February 21 was Ash Wednesday and I dutifully went to church to do what I’ve always done for more than four decades—I had ashes placed on my forehead. It was nine in the morning and there was a relatively large crowd, mostly people about to go to work, making sure that they observed this Holy Day of Obligation before life got in the way. Frankly, it would have been just another Wednesday had Glenn not reminded me the night before, “Don’t forget your ashes.” He’s good in that way. He always makes sure that I do not miss or forget rituals and services. He could almost be my mother except that they stand on opposite sides of the Cross. Plus he has more hair than she does.
Normally, when I get my ashes, I proceed with the rest of my day and think nothing of it. By the early afternoon and without any intervention on my part, the black mark begins to fade and what is left on my forehead is nothing more than a smidgen, like bad mascara that got smudged before it had a chance to dry.
But this particular day was different: I found myself receiving more than my usual quota of stares in a way that left me feeling uncomfortable. The quality of the stare was particularly disconcerting as it didn’t begin in the way I was accustomed to: the sudden look in mid-stride by whatever it was that caught their eye and the moment of clarity that illuminated whatever it was that caught them by surprise. In most cases, it was over as quickly as it began.
Not this one. It began with a pair of eyes carefully focusing on my face, not quite fixing on a point but searching for one just the same, unabashedly, then upon finding it, lingering, and lingering some more. Was my nose out of joint? Did I apply too much foundation on one side of my face? Were my eye bags sagging down to my knees? Were my roots showing and were they, heaven forbid, trying to estimate my true age? Then a polite acknowledgement of something I already knew. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”
I almost let it pass until I caught my reflection in a mirror and was horrified to see how huge and black the mark was. A helicopter could have landed on my forehead, it was that big. In the past, the mark was nothing more than a smudge, like a Nike swoosh, pressed in a hurry because there were others on line and there were trains to catch. You couldn’t even tell it was a cross. But this one labeled me very clearly and there was nothing I could do. Because of it, I felt singled out. I didn’t like it.
I don’t go around telling people my religious affiliation nor do I discuss the depth of that connection. I don’t talk about my rosary collection or the saints to whom I pray the Novena. My religion is a very private and personal matter and I prefer to keep it that way. It is not a topic of conversation at cocktails. People who know and understand this about me know when not to overstep their boundaries because when they do and some of them have, I go for the jugular.
The ash on my forehead marked me in a way that didn't make me feel good or special. Instead, I felt exposed, marginalized and diminished. I found myself walking around with a heavy heart and an even heavier head sitting on my shoulders. Suddenly, my religion felt like a burden rather than a blessing. Seeing others like me, with their foreheads sullied by that big, ugly mark didn’t change that feeling.
And it wouldn’t come off.
February 21 was Ash Wednesday and I dutifully went to church to do what I’ve always done for more than four decades—I had ashes placed on my forehead. It was nine in the morning and there was a relatively large crowd, mostly people about to go to work, making sure that they observed this Holy Day of Obligation before life got in the way. Frankly, it would have been just another Wednesday had Glenn not reminded me the night before, “Don’t forget your ashes.” He’s good in that way. He always makes sure that I do not miss or forget rituals and services. He could almost be my mother except that they stand on opposite sides of the Cross. Plus he has more hair than she does.
Normally, when I get my ashes, I proceed with the rest of my day and think nothing of it. By the early afternoon and without any intervention on my part, the black mark begins to fade and what is left on my forehead is nothing more than a smidgen, like bad mascara that got smudged before it had a chance to dry.
But this particular day was different: I found myself receiving more than my usual quota of stares in a way that left me feeling uncomfortable. The quality of the stare was particularly disconcerting as it didn’t begin in the way I was accustomed to: the sudden look in mid-stride by whatever it was that caught their eye and the moment of clarity that illuminated whatever it was that caught them by surprise. In most cases, it was over as quickly as it began.
Not this one. It began with a pair of eyes carefully focusing on my face, not quite fixing on a point but searching for one just the same, unabashedly, then upon finding it, lingering, and lingering some more. Was my nose out of joint? Did I apply too much foundation on one side of my face? Were my eye bags sagging down to my knees? Were my roots showing and were they, heaven forbid, trying to estimate my true age? Then a polite acknowledgement of something I already knew. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”
I almost let it pass until I caught my reflection in a mirror and was horrified to see how huge and black the mark was. A helicopter could have landed on my forehead, it was that big. In the past, the mark was nothing more than a smudge, like a Nike swoosh, pressed in a hurry because there were others on line and there were trains to catch. You couldn’t even tell it was a cross. But this one labeled me very clearly and there was nothing I could do. Because of it, I felt singled out. I didn’t like it.
I don’t go around telling people my religious affiliation nor do I discuss the depth of that connection. I don’t talk about my rosary collection or the saints to whom I pray the Novena. My religion is a very private and personal matter and I prefer to keep it that way. It is not a topic of conversation at cocktails. People who know and understand this about me know when not to overstep their boundaries because when they do and some of them have, I go for the jugular.
The ash on my forehead marked me in a way that didn't make me feel good or special. Instead, I felt exposed, marginalized and diminished. I found myself walking around with a heavy heart and an even heavier head sitting on my shoulders. Suddenly, my religion felt like a burden rather than a blessing. Seeing others like me, with their foreheads sullied by that big, ugly mark didn’t change that feeling.
And it wouldn’t come off.
Friday, February 16, 2007
What's In A Name?
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..
I was recenty googling my name to find out what exactly was an amapola. Turns out that amapola is a member of the hibiscus family, the hibiscus mutabilis to be exact, which is grown in rural areas of the Philippines for both its ornamental and medicinal value. The amapola grows as an erect, branched shrub or small tree 2-4 meters in height. Another entry for amapola, also on Google, says that it (now known by its Americanized name as poppy) is the state flower of California. That’s quite a leap from amapola to poppy but then again you could say the same of Governor Arnold.
Definitions aside however, I wasn’t deliberately named after a flower although it would have been a nice gesture. Truth be told, my parents didn’t have the imagination or the patience to find a suitable name for me. They waited for seven days, unheard of in this day and age, caught in a naming stalemate, unable to agree on their choices, neither of them speaking to the other in case one spoke out of turn. I was literally called Baby Girl Batungbacal during those seven days. For non-speaking Tagalog readers, batungbacal is a contraction of two words, bato meaning stone and bacal meaning metal. Here I was, only seven days old and already the implications of my name weighed heavily upon my deformed cranium.
The breakthrough moment happened during a visit by my grandmother who was gravely disturbed by the lack of a name for me, her first grandchild. “Anak ng amapola,” she screamed, blurting out amapola instead of some smelly, body part which was what people over there usually said when they were pissed. It was a class thing; women like her just never spoke with a foul mouth. And that’s how I got my name.
By the time I was ready to get married, I was determined not only to marry a man whose name had fewer syllables than mine, I was also going to be prepared when the time came to name our child. Glenn and I eagerly bought every naming book we could find, acutely aware of the fact that since this child would be a cross-breed, it had to be a name that would feel and sound natural in both cultures. It was also important for me to hear how the name would roll off my tongue when I’m cooing or yelling at the child. It’s like naming a dog but without the emotional or college investment.
Glenn and I also agreed not to share the process with other people but you know how friends and family are, especially family. They just won’t leave you alone. At a particularly memorable gathering—Passover I believe it was at my MIL’s (mother-in-law)--both our relatives suddenly decided to amuse themselves by shouting out possible names in the interregnum between the main meal and reading from the Haggadah. Orville! Cleopatra! AmyBeth! Charlton!
This was all amusing if not somewhat irritating and I was praying for it to end. It did when someone (and I’m not going to say who) had a flash of inspiration and yelled, “Lucifer!”. End of story.
I was recenty googling my name to find out what exactly was an amapola. Turns out that amapola is a member of the hibiscus family, the hibiscus mutabilis to be exact, which is grown in rural areas of the Philippines for both its ornamental and medicinal value. The amapola grows as an erect, branched shrub or small tree 2-4 meters in height. Another entry for amapola, also on Google, says that it (now known by its Americanized name as poppy) is the state flower of California. That’s quite a leap from amapola to poppy but then again you could say the same of Governor Arnold.
Definitions aside however, I wasn’t deliberately named after a flower although it would have been a nice gesture. Truth be told, my parents didn’t have the imagination or the patience to find a suitable name for me. They waited for seven days, unheard of in this day and age, caught in a naming stalemate, unable to agree on their choices, neither of them speaking to the other in case one spoke out of turn. I was literally called Baby Girl Batungbacal during those seven days. For non-speaking Tagalog readers, batungbacal is a contraction of two words, bato meaning stone and bacal meaning metal. Here I was, only seven days old and already the implications of my name weighed heavily upon my deformed cranium.
The breakthrough moment happened during a visit by my grandmother who was gravely disturbed by the lack of a name for me, her first grandchild. “Anak ng amapola,” she screamed, blurting out amapola instead of some smelly, body part which was what people over there usually said when they were pissed. It was a class thing; women like her just never spoke with a foul mouth. And that’s how I got my name.
By the time I was ready to get married, I was determined not only to marry a man whose name had fewer syllables than mine, I was also going to be prepared when the time came to name our child. Glenn and I eagerly bought every naming book we could find, acutely aware of the fact that since this child would be a cross-breed, it had to be a name that would feel and sound natural in both cultures. It was also important for me to hear how the name would roll off my tongue when I’m cooing or yelling at the child. It’s like naming a dog but without the emotional or college investment.
Glenn and I also agreed not to share the process with other people but you know how friends and family are, especially family. They just won’t leave you alone. At a particularly memorable gathering—Passover I believe it was at my MIL’s (mother-in-law)--both our relatives suddenly decided to amuse themselves by shouting out possible names in the interregnum between the main meal and reading from the Haggadah. Orville! Cleopatra! AmyBeth! Charlton!
This was all amusing if not somewhat irritating and I was praying for it to end. It did when someone (and I’m not going to say who) had a flash of inspiration and yelled, “Lucifer!”. End of story.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Heart Smells Sweet
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila…..
It is Valentine’s Day and instead of being outside, enjoying the wintry chill as I contemplate an appropriate gift for the flip side of my heart, I am trapped indoors, watching the snow come down, hearing it pelt the skylights on the top floor of my house. The noise is a distraction and keeps me from thinking romantic thoughts. Instead, I keep wondering when the glass will shatter and bury me in shards of jagged glitter. I suppose there are less messy ways to exit this life. I hope that my face is recognizable when they finally find me.
I don’t look forward to snow the way most people do, including Glenn who pants for the next super aerodynamic sled that will bring him down faster than a Nike swoosh on the slopes of Prospect Park. Oh please. It’s just snow. In the Philippines, we don’t do snow. For me to be sitting inside wrapped in layers of silk, cashmere and wool when I should be splayed on a chaise sipping mojitos under the searing heat of the sun is enough to break my heart.
The truth is, I am guilt-ridden because I didn’t get anything for Glenn. Not for lack of time because I always have time. I can always make time. Not for lack of inspiration because there’s plenty of stuff out there to suit every budget, imagination, and taste. But that’s it: it’s all stuff. Just one more thing to display on a mantle, his desk, or his dresser. Just another item to add to the clutter. Another tchotchke to dust.
Who needs it when we have each other.
But I am a creature of habit, a fool for the marketing pressure of advertisers, and a stickler for ritual. I am also fiercely stubborn and don’t like to be told how or what to do. It makes my Filipino-fish sauce-infested blood boil when I think that unless I have something wrapped in red, this Valentine’s Day will be a major disappointment.
This shiksa is in a bind!
Rather than agonize over this dilemma, I do what I always do best when faced with a problem: I confront it.
I pick-up the phone and call Glenn.
“I’m sorry but I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day.”
“Neither did I.”
“Oh.”
“Are you angry? Because I can if you really want me to.”
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s just Valentine’s Day.”
“And you are my Valentine.”
We hang-up after I manage to elicit a promise that he will at least try to come home early. Then I grab one of my Jo Malone bottles and spritz the nectarine blossom and honey scent all over his clothes. Glenn is mine after all and he better not forget it.
It is Valentine’s Day and instead of being outside, enjoying the wintry chill as I contemplate an appropriate gift for the flip side of my heart, I am trapped indoors, watching the snow come down, hearing it pelt the skylights on the top floor of my house. The noise is a distraction and keeps me from thinking romantic thoughts. Instead, I keep wondering when the glass will shatter and bury me in shards of jagged glitter. I suppose there are less messy ways to exit this life. I hope that my face is recognizable when they finally find me.
I don’t look forward to snow the way most people do, including Glenn who pants for the next super aerodynamic sled that will bring him down faster than a Nike swoosh on the slopes of Prospect Park. Oh please. It’s just snow. In the Philippines, we don’t do snow. For me to be sitting inside wrapped in layers of silk, cashmere and wool when I should be splayed on a chaise sipping mojitos under the searing heat of the sun is enough to break my heart.
The truth is, I am guilt-ridden because I didn’t get anything for Glenn. Not for lack of time because I always have time. I can always make time. Not for lack of inspiration because there’s plenty of stuff out there to suit every budget, imagination, and taste. But that’s it: it’s all stuff. Just one more thing to display on a mantle, his desk, or his dresser. Just another item to add to the clutter. Another tchotchke to dust.
Who needs it when we have each other.
But I am a creature of habit, a fool for the marketing pressure of advertisers, and a stickler for ritual. I am also fiercely stubborn and don’t like to be told how or what to do. It makes my Filipino-fish sauce-infested blood boil when I think that unless I have something wrapped in red, this Valentine’s Day will be a major disappointment.
This shiksa is in a bind!
Rather than agonize over this dilemma, I do what I always do best when faced with a problem: I confront it.
I pick-up the phone and call Glenn.
“I’m sorry but I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day.”
“Neither did I.”
“Oh.”
“Are you angry? Because I can if you really want me to.”
“Nah, it’s okay. It’s just Valentine’s Day.”
“And you are my Valentine.”
We hang-up after I manage to elicit a promise that he will at least try to come home early. Then I grab one of my Jo Malone bottles and spritz the nectarine blossom and honey scent all over his clothes. Glenn is mine after all and he better not forget it.
Friday, February 9, 2007
The Shiksa and Her Mother-In-Law's Friends
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila….
I don’t want to talk about my mother-in-law. I want to talk about her friends. Once a year, usually in the summer, my MIL hosts a barbecue out in Long Island where we jointly own a country house on the North Fork. The BBQ is for MIL’s former colleagues at Queens College where they were all professors at one time or another but have now since retired. It’s usually the same crowd, most of them in their 70s, endowed with varying degrees of physical health but still mentally agile and alert.
Having teachers under one roof is like being in elementary school all over again. They assume that anyone who isn’t in the business is an empty, hollow vessel begging to be filled. Conversation tends to be one-sided (mostly theirs) and they speak in a voice and language more appropriate for a 3-year old. No matter how bright or successful you think you are, you are reduced to nothing around them. Just when you think you’ve managed to be at your smartest best, they come back with a perfectly aimed zinger that hits right between the eyes.
At these events, Glenn and I prefer to remain in the background, calling ourselves “the hired help”. My MIL is a delightful hostess but panics at the sight of a match which makes me wonder why she does this (and she does this every year) considering that the first rule of entertaining is at least knowing where the can opener is kept.
We gamely don our aprons, quietly do our work, including the occasional appearance to serve more tortilla chips, fill up the wine glasses, or in Glenn’s case, oversee the grill. Sometimes he will find himself responding to a polite query, “How much longer before we serve?” We rarely socialize with the guests because, by tacit agreement, our place is behind the counter and not in front of it. Also, our instinct for self-preservation runs deeper than our need for social acceptance.
Occasionally however, escape is not possible and when that happens, it is best to simply accept the inevitable with grace, dignity and most of all, a sense of humor. Barring that, knowing where the nearest exit also helps.
Which is how I find myself seated next to Martha on a particularly blustery afternoon when temperatures have dipped into the 60s, a highly unusual number for this time of year. The entire party is forced to move indoors and huddle by a crackling fire I had made just moments before.
Ever the good sport, Glenn remains outdoors making sure that the chicken doesn’t burn, bundled in a polar fleece vest that his mother had thoughtfully thrown over his shoulders just before she went in. I had offered to take his place at the grill but he knew what I was up to and refused.
Martha, who has been married to Robert for over 50 years, is of Irish extraction and rather proud of it. He, not her, used to be an English professor. Several years ago, he took early retirement to look after Emma who has always been fragile of health. She’s been through one bypass, cataract surgery on both eyes, and two mastectomies. She is also diabetic and at some point in the day will disappear into the bathroom to inject herself with insulin. Despite her frailties however, she and her husband have raised four children, each with families of their own.
In all these years, Martha and I have probably exchanged no more than a total of five sentences--usually when one of us was going to and from the kitchen--about the kids and how quickly they were growing up. These exchanges were just enough for neither of us to consider the other rude.
Despite her infirmities, Martha is a woman with boundless social energy, always ready with amusing anecdotes to share, and a honed sense of timing and delivery while she’s at it. Her manner is always dry, her voice a raspy monotone, her eyes neither laughing nor crying no matter how funny her tales are. She is at her funniest when sharing an embarrassing detail, usually about her husband who doesn’t seem to mind that he is usually the punchline for most of her stories. She once described in great detail her husband’s circumcision at the age of 60 to correct a blocked urethra.
So when Martha suddenly turns to me to strike up a conversation, I think nothing of it. But then she begins to talk about the wedding anniversary preparations that her children are organizing for her and her husband. I am delighted to talk about a subject other than my children or the health travails of senior citizens, a favorite topic in this crowd. I offer my congratulations on her good fortune.
And then she takes over.
“I am so relieved that all my children married their own kind. None of them married outside their faith. I think that would have been too much of a challenge. It may be okay for some but not for me.”
As I sit there, still smiling because I don’t know what else to do with my face, I feel the warmth that usually comes with it turning cold. Their own kind has the burning sting of ice on my skin. Didn’t the cataract procedures correct her vision? Did she become color blind instead? Isn’t my MIL her friend? Glenn and I just happen to represent the kind of union that would be “challenging” for her.
But Martha is just warming up.
“My only daughter has been divorced for a long time. She has single-handedly raised her only son who is now in his 20s. She has a nice, important job at a bank but I wish she’d get married. I want someone to take care of her.”
“It looks like she hasn’t done too badly for herself,” I say politely referring to her daughter’s profession.
This time Martha takes my hand and leans closer as if I was a confidante.
“I want her to go and get herself hitched to a wealthy, Jewish man.”
I am stunned. My MIL is nowhere to be found; Glenn is still manning the grill. Let those chickens burn! My MIL was widowed at 36 when her sons were 7 and 3, and despite her modest professor’s salary, was able to provide for her boys. This she did by herself, without ever the need for a man to take care of her, Jewish or non-Jewish. My MIL simply took care of things, herself.
By the time I turn to Emma, she is gone from my side, talking to the others. I want to warn them to run for cover but they all seem to be having a good laugh. I leave and take my place behind the counter instead.
I don’t want to talk about my mother-in-law. I want to talk about her friends. Once a year, usually in the summer, my MIL hosts a barbecue out in Long Island where we jointly own a country house on the North Fork. The BBQ is for MIL’s former colleagues at Queens College where they were all professors at one time or another but have now since retired. It’s usually the same crowd, most of them in their 70s, endowed with varying degrees of physical health but still mentally agile and alert.
Having teachers under one roof is like being in elementary school all over again. They assume that anyone who isn’t in the business is an empty, hollow vessel begging to be filled. Conversation tends to be one-sided (mostly theirs) and they speak in a voice and language more appropriate for a 3-year old. No matter how bright or successful you think you are, you are reduced to nothing around them. Just when you think you’ve managed to be at your smartest best, they come back with a perfectly aimed zinger that hits right between the eyes.
At these events, Glenn and I prefer to remain in the background, calling ourselves “the hired help”. My MIL is a delightful hostess but panics at the sight of a match which makes me wonder why she does this (and she does this every year) considering that the first rule of entertaining is at least knowing where the can opener is kept.
We gamely don our aprons, quietly do our work, including the occasional appearance to serve more tortilla chips, fill up the wine glasses, or in Glenn’s case, oversee the grill. Sometimes he will find himself responding to a polite query, “How much longer before we serve?” We rarely socialize with the guests because, by tacit agreement, our place is behind the counter and not in front of it. Also, our instinct for self-preservation runs deeper than our need for social acceptance.
Occasionally however, escape is not possible and when that happens, it is best to simply accept the inevitable with grace, dignity and most of all, a sense of humor. Barring that, knowing where the nearest exit also helps.
Which is how I find myself seated next to Martha on a particularly blustery afternoon when temperatures have dipped into the 60s, a highly unusual number for this time of year. The entire party is forced to move indoors and huddle by a crackling fire I had made just moments before.
Ever the good sport, Glenn remains outdoors making sure that the chicken doesn’t burn, bundled in a polar fleece vest that his mother had thoughtfully thrown over his shoulders just before she went in. I had offered to take his place at the grill but he knew what I was up to and refused.
Martha, who has been married to Robert for over 50 years, is of Irish extraction and rather proud of it. He, not her, used to be an English professor. Several years ago, he took early retirement to look after Emma who has always been fragile of health. She’s been through one bypass, cataract surgery on both eyes, and two mastectomies. She is also diabetic and at some point in the day will disappear into the bathroom to inject herself with insulin. Despite her frailties however, she and her husband have raised four children, each with families of their own.
In all these years, Martha and I have probably exchanged no more than a total of five sentences--usually when one of us was going to and from the kitchen--about the kids and how quickly they were growing up. These exchanges were just enough for neither of us to consider the other rude.
Despite her infirmities, Martha is a woman with boundless social energy, always ready with amusing anecdotes to share, and a honed sense of timing and delivery while she’s at it. Her manner is always dry, her voice a raspy monotone, her eyes neither laughing nor crying no matter how funny her tales are. She is at her funniest when sharing an embarrassing detail, usually about her husband who doesn’t seem to mind that he is usually the punchline for most of her stories. She once described in great detail her husband’s circumcision at the age of 60 to correct a blocked urethra.
So when Martha suddenly turns to me to strike up a conversation, I think nothing of it. But then she begins to talk about the wedding anniversary preparations that her children are organizing for her and her husband. I am delighted to talk about a subject other than my children or the health travails of senior citizens, a favorite topic in this crowd. I offer my congratulations on her good fortune.
And then she takes over.
“I am so relieved that all my children married their own kind. None of them married outside their faith. I think that would have been too much of a challenge. It may be okay for some but not for me.”
As I sit there, still smiling because I don’t know what else to do with my face, I feel the warmth that usually comes with it turning cold. Their own kind has the burning sting of ice on my skin. Didn’t the cataract procedures correct her vision? Did she become color blind instead? Isn’t my MIL her friend? Glenn and I just happen to represent the kind of union that would be “challenging” for her.
But Martha is just warming up.
“My only daughter has been divorced for a long time. She has single-handedly raised her only son who is now in his 20s. She has a nice, important job at a bank but I wish she’d get married. I want someone to take care of her.”
“It looks like she hasn’t done too badly for herself,” I say politely referring to her daughter’s profession.
This time Martha takes my hand and leans closer as if I was a confidante.
“I want her to go and get herself hitched to a wealthy, Jewish man.”
I am stunned. My MIL is nowhere to be found; Glenn is still manning the grill. Let those chickens burn! My MIL was widowed at 36 when her sons were 7 and 3, and despite her modest professor’s salary, was able to provide for her boys. This she did by herself, without ever the need for a man to take care of her, Jewish or non-Jewish. My MIL simply took care of things, herself.
By the time I turn to Emma, she is gone from my side, talking to the others. I want to warn them to run for cover but they all seem to be having a good laugh. I leave and take my place behind the counter instead.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
The Good Egg
My name is Amapola and I am the shiksa from Manila. Twenty years ago I married Glenn Gold. A good egg. He’s the Jew. We have two kids and a dog. We live in Brooklyn, New York city. Glenn and I agreed to raise the kids Jewish; I continue to remain Catholic. Yup, I eat the wafer every Sunday; don’t drink before 5 unless I’m in a brasserie sipping mimosas. Glenn and the kids go to Shabbat services every Friday much to the chagrin of child Number One who thinks he has better things to do other than be at Temple for an hour and a half. Number Two is catching up with grumblings of her own but must come up with better excuses as Number One has preempted most of them. I have every confidence that, in time, she will.
By mutual agreement, Glenn and I decided to keep the dog unaffiliated. She’s so screwed-up, she’s beyond redemption. Of course, I could sneak over to the church two blocks from my house where I am friendly with the parish priest and have him sprinkle Holy Water on the puppy. I’d have to time it though so that it looks like we got caught in the rain. No one would ever know. Dogs don’t talk. They just bark. Come to think of it, I could have done the same with Numbers One and Two but Glenn would know. He always knows these things. Besides, children talk.
Before I married Glenn, I had no idea what a shiksa was or that there was a term for someone like me who married someone like him. I thought bride and groom were it. In the Philippines, practically every one would be considered a shiksa except for the sprinkling of Muslims clustered around south of the archipelago. I found out what a shiksa was on the day of my wedding, at the reception no less, when one of my mother-in-law’s friends called me that to my face. Since I didn’t know the meaning of the word (and she had a big, fat smile as wide as the JFK runway), she walked away with her face intact. Obviously, now I know better.
I don’t mind being called a shiksa. Really. People will call you whatever they want so you might as well get used to it. Frankly, it sounds sexy. I love the way your tongue elongates at the first syllable then drops suddenly when you utter the last. I feel like I am putting on lipstick whenever I say the word.
Besides, of the many words that can be used to call me, it is hardly the worst. Trafe. Born-Again. Un-kosher. Jewannabe. Maid. Words like that. Heard them all.
For the record, I didn’t mean to deliberately get myself a Jew. I did not lurk around corners and grab one out of synagogue. It was not my intention to contribute to the diminishing numbers of the Jewish people. Just happened that way. Asking a person’s religious affiliation is hardly dinner conversation, especially not on a first date and certainly not until you’ve had sex more than three times.
Glenn and I were introduced at a bar somewhere in SoHo if memory serves me right, long before Old Navy, Staples, and Dean and Deluca moved into the neighborhood. I thought he was funny and witty in a quirky, absurd way. Later on, I liked the way his lower lip curled around mine whenever we kissed.
Twenty years. Man, that’s some run. My parents weren’t even married that long. I know very few people my age who’ve been married that long. Can’t complain. Of course we have our moments, besides arguing over how much our American Express bill was this month. But after all these years of sleeping together, does it really matter?
Here’s another definition for shiksa: a person who straddles two worlds while belonging to neither.
By mutual agreement, Glenn and I decided to keep the dog unaffiliated. She’s so screwed-up, she’s beyond redemption. Of course, I could sneak over to the church two blocks from my house where I am friendly with the parish priest and have him sprinkle Holy Water on the puppy. I’d have to time it though so that it looks like we got caught in the rain. No one would ever know. Dogs don’t talk. They just bark. Come to think of it, I could have done the same with Numbers One and Two but Glenn would know. He always knows these things. Besides, children talk.
Before I married Glenn, I had no idea what a shiksa was or that there was a term for someone like me who married someone like him. I thought bride and groom were it. In the Philippines, practically every one would be considered a shiksa except for the sprinkling of Muslims clustered around south of the archipelago. I found out what a shiksa was on the day of my wedding, at the reception no less, when one of my mother-in-law’s friends called me that to my face. Since I didn’t know the meaning of the word (and she had a big, fat smile as wide as the JFK runway), she walked away with her face intact. Obviously, now I know better.
I don’t mind being called a shiksa. Really. People will call you whatever they want so you might as well get used to it. Frankly, it sounds sexy. I love the way your tongue elongates at the first syllable then drops suddenly when you utter the last. I feel like I am putting on lipstick whenever I say the word.
Besides, of the many words that can be used to call me, it is hardly the worst. Trafe. Born-Again. Un-kosher. Jewannabe. Maid. Words like that. Heard them all.
For the record, I didn’t mean to deliberately get myself a Jew. I did not lurk around corners and grab one out of synagogue. It was not my intention to contribute to the diminishing numbers of the Jewish people. Just happened that way. Asking a person’s religious affiliation is hardly dinner conversation, especially not on a first date and certainly not until you’ve had sex more than three times.
Glenn and I were introduced at a bar somewhere in SoHo if memory serves me right, long before Old Navy, Staples, and Dean and Deluca moved into the neighborhood. I thought he was funny and witty in a quirky, absurd way. Later on, I liked the way his lower lip curled around mine whenever we kissed.
Twenty years. Man, that’s some run. My parents weren’t even married that long. I know very few people my age who’ve been married that long. Can’t complain. Of course we have our moments, besides arguing over how much our American Express bill was this month. But after all these years of sleeping together, does it really matter?
Here’s another definition for shiksa: a person who straddles two worlds while belonging to neither.
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