My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
Parents like to talk about their children.
Moms love to gossip about theirs.
We especially love to gossip about...
how they’re doing in school,
their social life,
their clothes,
their friends,
their friends’ allowances
their friends’ curfew,
their friends’ parents,
their friends’ parents’ jobs
their friends’ parents’ homes
their friends’ parents’ vacation homes
their cars,
their favorite junk food,
their test scores,
their grades,
their teachers,
their crushes,
the 4 bases,
the best deodorant,
the best tampons,
the best house for smoking pot,
the best beer,
the worst beer,
the best way to get high,
the worst way to get high,
the coolest mom,
the coolest dad,
the most boring mom,
the most boring dad,
the worst mom,
the worst dad,
the worst child,
and of course, the best child.
Usually mine. Always mine.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
At Your Service. Not!
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
I was out sweeping the stoop, one of those annoying domestic rituals attached to the seasons. In the winter, I shovel; in the spring, summer, and fall, I sweep the stoop. It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that when the weather is warm, the pollen gets to me, thanks to a pin oak tree in front of my house. There is a nametag nailed to the trunk in case anyone was interested. My preference would have been for a warning sign instead: Danger! Danger! Tree sheds. Tree spreads pollen. Sometimes, the pollen is so bad I can barely open my eyes. There are days when I look like Rocky and that’s on a good day.
But someone’s got to sweep and that someone is me.
So I’m going about my business when I notice the caregiver of a neighbor, two doors down, smiling at me. Until today, we’ve done nothing more than exchange nods. The smile is a change from our routine. She starts to walk in my direction, pushing a stroller with baby Lucca in it. Well, he isn’t exactly a baby anymore but he is in the stroller.
I smile back and go about my business when I begin to feel that I am being watched. In fact, the caregiver is now standing in front of my house.
“How long have you worked here?”
OMIGOODNESS! People, this is very grating to my delicate ears. I can feel the sweat oozing out of nipples.
I understand it’s a case of mistaken identity but why couldn’t I possibly be the “owner” of the house instead of the cleaning lady? Given that I was wearing rubber gloves, an apron, and clogs covered in handpainted flowers, the mistake was unintentional if inevitable. But the gloves were made by Casabella and the clogs were from a Swedish catalogue called Hannah Anderson. In this instance, the details escaped her because what she saw instead was, like her, I was a person of color. In her mind, I couldn’t be anything other than....
But lady, I was wearing pearls! Huge, lustrous, South Sea pearls on my ear lobes. Perfect spheres the size of marbles. Anyone who knows pearls would know they weren’t from Carolee.
And there’s the rub: she knew nothing about pearls. Sigh. Next time, I will wear a tag that says, “Owner.” Now, let’s see if she can read.
I was out sweeping the stoop, one of those annoying domestic rituals attached to the seasons. In the winter, I shovel; in the spring, summer, and fall, I sweep the stoop. It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that when the weather is warm, the pollen gets to me, thanks to a pin oak tree in front of my house. There is a nametag nailed to the trunk in case anyone was interested. My preference would have been for a warning sign instead: Danger! Danger! Tree sheds. Tree spreads pollen. Sometimes, the pollen is so bad I can barely open my eyes. There are days when I look like Rocky and that’s on a good day.
But someone’s got to sweep and that someone is me.
So I’m going about my business when I notice the caregiver of a neighbor, two doors down, smiling at me. Until today, we’ve done nothing more than exchange nods. The smile is a change from our routine. She starts to walk in my direction, pushing a stroller with baby Lucca in it. Well, he isn’t exactly a baby anymore but he is in the stroller.
I smile back and go about my business when I begin to feel that I am being watched. In fact, the caregiver is now standing in front of my house.
“How long have you worked here?”
OMIGOODNESS! People, this is very grating to my delicate ears. I can feel the sweat oozing out of nipples.
I understand it’s a case of mistaken identity but why couldn’t I possibly be the “owner” of the house instead of the cleaning lady? Given that I was wearing rubber gloves, an apron, and clogs covered in handpainted flowers, the mistake was unintentional if inevitable. But the gloves were made by Casabella and the clogs were from a Swedish catalogue called Hannah Anderson. In this instance, the details escaped her because what she saw instead was, like her, I was a person of color. In her mind, I couldn’t be anything other than....
But lady, I was wearing pearls! Huge, lustrous, South Sea pearls on my ear lobes. Perfect spheres the size of marbles. Anyone who knows pearls would know they weren’t from Carolee.
And there’s the rub: she knew nothing about pearls. Sigh. Next time, I will wear a tag that says, “Owner.” Now, let’s see if she can read.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
I MUST CONFESS
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
About two months ago, I decided to go to Confession after an absence of, oh I don’t know, so many years. I did not have anything particular to say or confess. I had not committed any mortal sin that would have warranted my presence in the Confessional. It’s true that my mind wasn’t exactly fallow for all that time, preoccupied as it was with all sorts of adulterous, murderous, gluttonous thoughts but they don’t count.
I wish I could explain the impulse that possessed me to go but I can’t. Just did.
I chose to go in the afternoon when I assumed there were would be fewer people. I like walking into an empty church and having this big, voluminous space all to one’s self. Including me, there were nine others waiting their turn.
I felt awkward, nervous even. Like that nine-year old all over again kneeling before the sliding panel, waiting for it to open with a sharp noise, and seeing the silhouette of a man who could see me, all of me, but not the other way around. A man who usually came with a double chin and a voice that seemed to have risen from Hades. I remembered feeling trapped and claustrophobic, of not being able to escape, of being swallowed alive by my sins and this man.
What was I doing here?
I was up next. In the time it took me to walk over to the Confessional, I could have turned around just as quickly and left. But I’d gotten this far. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open...
...and stepped into a brightly lit cubicle the size of an airplane stall. Inside were two chairs next to each other, and on one of them, sat my parish priest whose eyes popped out as soon as he saw me. He looked like he really wanted to fall off his seat but there was no room. So instead, we giggled and chuckled as he invited me to take my place next to him as if we were old friends enjoying a quick cup of tea, knee to knee.
I know I was there for no more than ten minutes yet I could have stayed there forever. I wanted to keep on talking, saying every thing I had kept to myself all these years, no matter whether I made sense or not. Father M. sat there with his eyes closed, listening, nodding, smiling and not saying anything particular or meaningful in return.
By the time I left, the line had gotten longer. And I still couldn’t remember what brought me there in the first place.
About two months ago, I decided to go to Confession after an absence of, oh I don’t know, so many years. I did not have anything particular to say or confess. I had not committed any mortal sin that would have warranted my presence in the Confessional. It’s true that my mind wasn’t exactly fallow for all that time, preoccupied as it was with all sorts of adulterous, murderous, gluttonous thoughts but they don’t count.
I wish I could explain the impulse that possessed me to go but I can’t. Just did.
I chose to go in the afternoon when I assumed there were would be fewer people. I like walking into an empty church and having this big, voluminous space all to one’s self. Including me, there were nine others waiting their turn.
I felt awkward, nervous even. Like that nine-year old all over again kneeling before the sliding panel, waiting for it to open with a sharp noise, and seeing the silhouette of a man who could see me, all of me, but not the other way around. A man who usually came with a double chin and a voice that seemed to have risen from Hades. I remembered feeling trapped and claustrophobic, of not being able to escape, of being swallowed alive by my sins and this man.
What was I doing here?
I was up next. In the time it took me to walk over to the Confessional, I could have turned around just as quickly and left. But I’d gotten this far. I took a deep breath, pulled the door open...
...and stepped into a brightly lit cubicle the size of an airplane stall. Inside were two chairs next to each other, and on one of them, sat my parish priest whose eyes popped out as soon as he saw me. He looked like he really wanted to fall off his seat but there was no room. So instead, we giggled and chuckled as he invited me to take my place next to him as if we were old friends enjoying a quick cup of tea, knee to knee.
I know I was there for no more than ten minutes yet I could have stayed there forever. I wanted to keep on talking, saying every thing I had kept to myself all these years, no matter whether I made sense or not. Father M. sat there with his eyes closed, listening, nodding, smiling and not saying anything particular or meaningful in return.
By the time I left, the line had gotten longer. And I still couldn’t remember what brought me there in the first place.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
HELP: The Shiksa Dispenses Advice
My name is Amapola Gold and I am the shiksa from Manila...
I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer.
“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them.
“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”
I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.
Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction.
The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.
OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.
Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?
I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all.
*not their real names
I received a call from a family friend asking for my help on an impending engagement between a couple who, as you might have guessed, stand on either side of the Cross. I was flattered but wasn’t sure I had anything to offer.
“Please, maybe the bride-to-be can talk to you. You and Glenn have made your marriage work.” People assume that because Glenn and I have been together for years our marriage is without potholes which is a fallacy because in fact we have our fair share. Our marriage works because despite their presence, we have become adept at adapting to them or simply learned to ignore them.
“Marla and Jake* have been living together for several years and have recently decided to make it official and get married. The problem is Jake’s grandfather. Oh, I forgot to mention that Jake is Jewish but he doesn’t come from an observant background and Marla is Catholic and still goes to Mass. The grandfather, an Orthodox Jew has threatened to disinherit Jake if he proceeds with the marriage. I told Marla that she should probably talk to you because you and Glenn have made your marriage work.”
I never heard from Marla or from the family friend again after that call. Either the problem worked itself out, the grandfather dropped dead, Marla and Jake broke off the engagement, or Marla and Jake eloped and moved to Canada. I don’t know.
Here’s what I DO know. Holding a relationship hostage, especially a relationship of this nature, is problematic for me. Had Marla called, I would have told her to simply lose the boyfriend. End of story. Who cares about the money or whatever 24-carat carrot grandpa chose to dangle over Jake’s head? The relationship between two people, especially two people contemplating marriage and a lifetime commitment, should not be confused for a business transaction.
The fact that Jake even raised the subject with Marla was an indication that perhaps the marriage was already on precarious footing to begin with. He had apparently also suggested that she might consider converting which apparently she was open to since her mother was less likely to disinherit or renounce her. Which raises another problem because any conversion that is not sincere, i.e., based on a belief system, is not genuine.
OMG! If Glenn had asked me to sign a Prenup or asked me to convert, I would have been out of there so quickly he wouldn’t have known what hit him. But not without knocking him out cold first.
Frankly, if Jake had any gumption (okay, cojones!), he should have stood up to grandpa and while he was at it, flipped him the bird. Seriously. Which may have induced cardiac arrest in the old man but at least he got to stand up for Marla. If Jake couldn’t stand up for her now, what makes her think that he will stand up for her later on when they’re married and all the exits have been boarded up?
I am relieved that I never got their call because clearly I wouldn’t have been of much help to them at all.
*not their real names
Friday, December 7, 2007
Double Life
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.
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.
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.
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