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!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
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.
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