JRL

Three years ago, I looked out of an MRT window, saw a huge public library building, and was filled with the hunger to live in a place where public libraries were a thing, where they were as much a part of the people's lives as places of worship, shopping malls, and schools. My family and I were just heading home from a day at the Science Centre, and I was already awed at the fact of the Science Centre, the fact that people lived, worked, and played in a place with such a Science Centre, and the fact of the public transport one could ride to and from it, when that building came into my field of view.

It rose over the pale grass on that hot day. There was construction on one side and nothing remarkable on all the other sides, but it was there. Here we were on the less developed, more industrial, and possibly poorer side of the country, and it had one of the biggest public library buildings I'd ever seen.

I loved the public library system in our short years in the US, and I've been extremely lucky to have gone to Philippine schools with good libraries. But back home, once school was over, my life with libraries was over.

I saw that building and remembered, realized everything I was missing. The day I saw that building was the day I realized that people didn't have to live the way I was living. Public libraries were definitely a thing. They were in people's lives. People could live around them. I wanted to live around them. I wanted it so bad, and that want was a pit that buried itself inside me, took root, and started giving me ideas about the future — ideas that led me here.

Today, I finally got to walk into that building for the first time. I stayed for nearly five hours, working on a project, and I didn't realize how long I'd been there until I got up to go. On the surface, there wasn't anything wondrous about my going there; I was just another student at the local library, going about my business and then going home. And that, the very ordinariness of it, was what made it special. I was there, in the library, like all the other people there. Maybe it was even the first time I felt I might belong here, if I'd like to.

It smelled like peaches.


P.S. – I also found the place where my family and I got lost on our way to the train station. We had to walk through apartment blocks, a hawker center, and a small tiangge. There are malls and corporate centers now, but the hawker center and tiangge are still there. Passing through that same corridor was like time travel. I'd never expected to be back there or to even be able to recognize it, and then suddenly, there I was. Maybe the fact that we were lost there made it stand out to me.

I miss everyone.

Cabinets and Street Maps

The [research] suggested that every time we think about the past we are delicately transforming its cellular representation in the brain, changing its underlying neural circuitry. It was a stunning discovery: Memories are not formed and then pristinely maintained, as neuroscientists thought; they are formed and then rebuilt every time they're accessed. "The brain isn't interested in having a perfect set of memories about the past," [neuroscientist Joseph] LeDoux says. "Instead, memory comes with a natural updating mechanism, which is how we make sure that the information taking up valuable space inside our head is still useful. That might make our memories less accurate, but it probably also makes them more relevant to the future" (Lehrer, 2012).

--

I read this just as I'm asking myself why I happen to remember you right now, and why the remembering doesn't feel the way it once did. What anger is left is small and hard, no bigger than a fist. What pain is left is more cerebral; You don't feel angry because he, that person in particular, treated you that way, I tell myself. You feel angry because no one deserves to be treated that way. No one. Definitely not you.

For some reason, though, I can't help remembering now the way you fudged details. Three specific, related incidents stand out in my memory:

1. "I think your friend had a crush on me back then," you once said to me, and we both laughed.
2. "Her friend was in love with me," you once boasted, and your friends laughed.
3. "I was surprised when he started going out with her. I kept getting the feeling he had a crush on me," my friend said, and the two of us shrugged.

Was it your memory, or something else?

--

Once you start questioning the reality of memory, things fall apart pretty quickly. So many of our assumptions about the human mind—what it is, why it breaks, and how it can be healed—are rooted in a mistaken belief about how experience is stored in the brain. ... We want the past to persist, because the past gives us permanence. It tells us who we are and where we belong. But what if your most cherished recollections are also the most ephemeral thing in your head?

...

Some changes were innocuous—the stories got tighter and the narratives more coherent—but other adjustments involved a wholesale retrofit. ... Over and over, the act of repeating the narrative seemed to corrupt its content. ... "What's most troubling, of course, is that these people have no idea their memories have changed this much," [psychologist Elizabeth Phelps] says. "The strength of the emotion makes them convinced it's all true, even when it's clearly not" (Lehrer, 2012).

--

All this time, I've been slightly panicked over memory. I have to remember this, I tell myself at important moments. I have to cast this in metal and then store this behind a bulletproof glass cabinet. It must remain intact, for me to view whenever I want, whenever I need it again.

If only I'd known, reviewing only sometimes polishes but also often destroys. Memory can be destroyed by the very act of remembering.

I think of the green of the leaves back home, the sight of my old house from my best friend's backyard, the carpet of yellow petals on the old driveway, the position of a plastic glow-in-the-dark Orion on my cabinet door—if families pack up and move, if buildings get old and fall down, if new buildings are put up in their place, if trees grow taller and bushes grow thinner, if photos fade or get deleted, and not even my own memory can be trusted, then what have I got left? What have I got left when remembering risks a horrible, grossly unintended self-betrayal?

I just want to remember.

--

This is a link to "Paris, at Night," by Sung. J. Woo. It is my favorite story about memory and possibly my favorite short story of all time. I think about it whenever I think about memory.

--

"Memory is like a million little houses" (Woo, 2009).

I don't want my neural neighborhood to change. I want to be able to recognize the streets and the people who live there. I'm only 24; this should be the worry of a 60-year-old lady at risk for Alzheimer's, but it isn't.

--

This is the Natividad Building on Escolta, in old Manila. It used to be green.

This is the Regina Building, also on Escolta. It used to have just three stories, wooden revolving windows, and an open-air corridor on top.

And still, I want them preserved.

###

Lehrer, J. (2012). The forgetting pill erases painful memories forever. Wired Magazine, vol. 20 no. 3. Retrieved from http://www.wired.com/magazine/2012/02/ff_forgettingpill/all/1

Woo, S.J. (2009). Paris, at night. Retrieved from http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/PariNigh735.shtml

30 Days of Books: Honorable Mentions

After a while, I started to get tired of that 30 Days of Books meme. I kept mentioning the same books and authors over and over because they seemed the best fit for those categories, but that meant not writing about a lot of other books that I've also enjoyed. It also seemed really limited to YA books or books I'd read growing up, because those still have the strongest memories.

So, here's a list of some books I've read in the last two or three years, plus the categories I'd invent just for them.

"A Visit From the Goon Squad," by Jennifer Egan
A trendy book I liked more than I thought I would (I loved it)

"The Martian Chronicles," by Ray Bradbury
Favorite short story anthology

"The Lathe of Heaven," by Ursula K. Le Guin
Sci-fi novel I wish I could emulate

"White Oleander," by Janet Fitch
Realistic novel I wish I could emulate / A book that reminds me of a place from my childhood (California)

"Persepolis," by Marjane Satrapi
A book that makes me homesick

"Einstein's Dreams," by Alan Lightman
Framework I wish I could pull off

"Shopgirl," by Steve Martin
A book that exceeded my expectations / Favorite melancholy book

"The Napoleon of Notting Hill," by GK Chesterton
Favorite old fantasy

"The Lady or the Tiger, and Other Short Stories," by Frank R. Stockton
A book I'm saving for my children (one of many, really)

"Good Omens," by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman
Favorite religion-related book / A book that reminds me of childhood

"The Little Prince," by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
A book that helps keep me in check

"The Know-It-All" and "The Year of Living Biblically," both by AJ Jacobs
Favorite contemporary autobiographies / Books in the style I'd probably use if I ever got around to writing an autobiography

"Stargirl," by Jerry Spinelli
Protagonist I wished I was more like as a teenager

"Shabanu" and "Haveli," both by Suzanne Fisher Staples
Favorite YA realistic fiction

"Brief Lives," by Neil Gaiman
Favorite graphic novel in a series of graphic novels

"Ang Mundo ni Andong Agimat," by Arnold Arre
Graphic novel I wish I could emulate

"The Graveyard Book," by Neil Gaiman
Favorite YA book that I first read after I'd already turned 20

30 Days of Books: Day 23 - Why Bookstores Hurt

The entry for Day 23 got so long that I decided it should get this post all to itself.

Earlier posts in this meme: Days 1-7, Days 8-14, and Days 15-21. See you tomorrow.

--

Day 23 – A book you wanted to read for a long time but still haven’t

(28 July 2011) I'm between yearnings at the moment. I've either read or lost interest in unread books that interested me, and I haven't been interested in anything else lately.

I think I'm going through what Martin calls book fatigue, though my definition is probably different. I hear about something interesting--a series, comics, "serious" "literature," "fluff," science nonfiction--maybe see it on a bookstore shelf, read the blurb, think of the books that are like it, think of the books I already have, think of the books people will probably write in a similar vein, and then ask myself, "Well, what's the point of getting this one, then?"

I'm a bit worn down, too, by the feeling that I have to catch up with what everyone else is reading--ridiculous and bad for the self-esteem, but there it is--especially when film adaptations are forthcoming. It's similar to the feeling that I'm missing out by not having read all the "important" books that my language teachers' language teachers insisted one had to read to be considered cultured.

It's wonderful having access to all Manila's well-stocked bookstores today, and it's nice having a salary that would afford me several new books a month if I wanted. That's the thing, though; I don't want any, and that makes me sad. It's been about a year, I think, since I simply wandered into a bookstore, saw something interesting, and knew I just had to have it--that book was "The Arrival," by Shaun Tan--and I really miss that kind of obsession.

Part of me wants to go back to that point in my life when there were no decent stores for miles around. I would save my allowance for the occasional trip to Davao, where we would go into the only National Bookstore outlet in three or five surrounding provinces--how tiny that place looks now--and I would squat in front of the YA shelf for hours, agonizing over which would be the one book I'd get to take home. It often happened that I hadn't saved enough, so I'd have to wait until the next trip to Davao, during which I'd be hoping against hope that no one else had wanted that book while I was away.

If I couldn't buy books, I depended on rereading what I already had; on the school library, which was really good for a place so isolated; on friends like Mariel, who somehow always managed (and still does) to get her hands on good stuff--it was thanks to her that I read about Claidi and Harry Potter; and on birthday and Christmas gifts from people who knew how much I loved to read. I don't think my parents or grandparents know how much their gifts meant to me; I don't think I really did, either, until I was older.

Having grown up that way, that hungry, I felt a great rage, like a terrible injustice had been done to me as a child, when I walked into the new Fully Booked in my birthplace last year.

And knowing that I was once so starved for good things to read makes my current aversion to acquiring new books even more disturbing. Maybe I can make the highly dubious claim that today's books aren't as great. Maybe I've been letting others' literary chatter get to me, and I can no longer pick something without wondering whether people are talking about it on Twitter. Maybe I just got so stingy growing up that having thousands more choices today makes buying a new book even more difficult.

Yeah, I bet that's it. Books have entailed such huge personal (and not entirely financial) investment for so long that I'm afraid of making the wrong choice out of all possible choices--that's why the giant Fully Booked in Fort Bonifacio terrifies me. Even if my wallet can now afford it, my twelve-year-old heart still can't.

I guess until I get over that, I'll wait for something to seize me the way "The Arrival" did, piercing through all those layers of fear and getting to the little twerp who read because reading itself was awesome, and stories were just plain good.

--

All that said, I recently started reading George R. R. Martin's "A Game of Thrones," and I like it so far. That counts as something interesting I haven't read yet, right?

A Reintroduction

This is more for myself than anyone else.

I was born in General Santos City, South Cotabato in 1987. My father was (and still is, really) an engineer at Dole Phils., Inc., and my mother, a homemaker overqualified for the local job market at the time.

I went to Dole Philippines School, which some people remember as an international school (it isn't anymore) and others think is in Bukidnon (which I will always rebut, and often vehemently).

After I finished first grade, my dad got a transfer to the Dole Fruit & Nut Co. in Fresno, California. We lived there for three years.

I often wonder if that time period is too brief for me to still have an accent, but there were other factors:
- English was my first language.
- Even before we left for the States, most of my playmates were Americans and/or English-speaking Filipinos.
- No one else my age spoke Filipino when we went to the States, not even the kids at the Filipino church we attended (where the service was in English).
- The three years abroad were what child development folks consider part of a person's formative years.
- When we returned, it was to a place where few people spoke Filipino/Tagalog; the local vernacular was either Bisaya or Ilonggo.
- When we returned, Americans and/or English-speaking Filipinos were the ones who were most friendly to me. I quickly associated the vernacular with bullies and so wasn't keen to be like them.
- All of the young adult books in our school library were in English.
- The only teacher who gave me one-on-one help in learning the national language was my Grade Five teacher, the first Filipino teacher I had upon returning to Kalsangi--which is probably why my grasp of the language is still Fourth-Grade-level.
- I wasn't an attentive student. Sometimes, I would look away from the board for a moment and then look back, only to find that it had completely changed--plus 20 minutes had gone by. I was really more interested in library books, computers, and imagining pulpy stories than in studying for any subject, much less Filipino.
- I was consistently in the top three of my class (I usually was and eventually graduated #3), so I didn't really feel pressured to work any harder.

We came home. When I wasn't out with friends or holed up somewhere reading, I was outside--biking, hiking, climbing trees, and swimming.

In my senior year of high school, I read a spare copy of "The Purpose-Driven Life" lying around the house and gave my life to Jesus.

I went to the Ateneo de Manila University for college. The greater brains, talent, and/or initiative shown by many of my batchmates there made me feel worthless. Church, prayer, journalling, blogging, books, philosophy and theology classes, shifting out of the School of Management, and joining the school's literary publication put me back on my feet.

In senior year, I became disenchanted with the church I was attending and frustrated that it didn't have adequate answers to my questions.

I read an essay by a guy I hadn't met yet and, under some compulsion, had an imaginary conversation with him while alone in my dorm room that night.

I graduated from college and got my first job at a different church, for two reasons: I was getting desperate, as there weren't many job openings that weren't outsourcing- , broadcasting- , or sales/marketing-related, and I wanted to see if this church might have the answers I sought.

After one year, I left, also for two reasons: I wanted to write more, but more importantly, my beliefs had become increasingly liberal. It was clear to me that my beliefs (and questions) didn't fit in with the teachings and culture of that church--or any other I had attended thus far--and that my employers deserved someone who truly shared their vision. I left as quietly as I could, without telling anyone there of my second reason, because I was afraid of being judged.

Between graduation and early this year, my self-esteem went up and down in what's fashionably known as a quarterlife crisis but could generally be described as me feeling wasted and rootless. I missed home with my family, fresh air, grass you didn't have to keep off, trees, insects, nearby sea, and big sky. I also fidgeted for something to keep me busy outside of books and writing (I've been too drained by work), until I found a craft I could really enjoy.

Also between graduation and early this year, I was reintroduced to the guy who wrote the essay I'd read and, over the course of the next few weeks, heard the other half of that imaginary conversation. We've been together two years, four months, and six days. Among many good things, he's helped me to believe in myself again.

A few months ago, I went to Singapore for a week with my family, and for some reason, I'm still not over it.

I have been working at this company for nearly two years (full come September). Last month, I was promoted to assistant editor.

Today, I'm bracing myself now for more changes at work. I'm looking forward to catching up with my brother and moving to a bigger apartment. I'm taking things with Martin as they come. I hope to get better at my new craft. I'm still unchurched, but secure in my faith. I still miss home or long for places like Singapore, but it doesn't get to me as it used to. I try not to regret my "wasted" youth, because it isn't over yet.

All things considered, I am happy, and thankful.

Toy Stories

We caught "Toy Story 3" last Friday, and while I enjoyed it, I have to say that I still like the previous two movies better. I think it's the months of hype that pushed my expectations so high. I should sit down and watch it again when it all dies down--that's always how I best enjoyed the previous two movies, anyway: on the living room floor with my brothers, surrounded by their toys.

The movie did get me thinking about my own toys, though; the ones that are still stashed somewhere in my room at home and waiting for me to have kids so they can come out again. This is a list of the ones that stand out in my memory. (I wish I had pictures, but I'm not home right now to take them.)

Faded pink teddy bear. I stubbornly held on to this one, not because I actually had any strong attachment to it--I didn't even play with it that much--but because something in the back of my mind told me, "You have to have something that you've had since nursery school. All the life stories you've heard have someone holding onto something they've had since nursery school."

Sparkly purple teddy bear. Kind of itchy and not even that soft. I remember this because it was one of the first toys my parents got me when we'd first moved to the States. We were still living in the San Joaquin Hotel and our stuff hadn't arrived yet, so my brother and I picked out a few toys from the Salvation Army.

Big box of Lego. My brother Mikko and I shared this toy, also since our San Joaquin days. The space in front of the TV where we watched Nick Jr. (I still know the words to that "Red, red, red ball" song) was littered with these pieces. He liked to build his own stuff while I liked to copy the models on the box's cover. It became kind of a tradition between the two of us to play with these Legos on Christmas mornings while waiting for our parents to wake up. Over the years, though, the bricks were assimilated into the rest of my brothers' Lego collection.

Polly Pocket. I collected a lot of these, getting some of them as gifts and buying the rest with my weekly $1 allowance. My favorites were a small purple horse trailer with a saddled chocolate-colored horse that Polly could ride, the babysitting playset, the school, the mansion, and the ice cream parlor. A recurring storyline involved the floppy brown-haired one turning evil, taking over the town, stealing Polly's boyfriend--the only male figurine in my entire collection--and making everyone wear cement clothes.

Barbie. No girl's toy list is complete without this chick. I had several of the older model, before they adjusted her vital statistics to make her body more realistic. I also had the flat-chested, Skipper who didn't smile. To be honest, I didn't care how small her waistline or how big her boobs were; I just liked giving Barbie things to do in the wooden dollhouse my parents gave me. She had mostly G-rated adventures, until an older playmate took things to soap opera proportions one afternoon by introducing a teen pregnancy storyline for Babysitter Skipper. I feel somewhat traumatized on my dolls' behalf because of this.

Not really a toy: four ballerina figurines. Because they looked alike, they were sisters in my stories. The protagonist was a sitting ballerina (explained by a crippling injury), the least maarte-looking of the four. She was in love with a yellow yarn marionette I'd made. I later made a red one to play the part of lecherous antagonist.

Paradisa Lego sets (the girl-oriented Lego). I'd steal some of my brothers' bricks and male minifigs to stage pirate raids on the Paradisa resort. I had a heroine on a jetski. I was always annoyed with my youngest brother for messing up my playspace, so when I got older, I let him have the Paradisa pieces. I kind of regret this whenever I go home, go to his room, and see them gathering dust on his bookshelf.

Brown stuffed rabbit. My favorite stuffed toy to hug. Mom got him from the thrift store and was supposed to donate him along with a bunch of other toys, but I "borrowed" him from the pile and never gave him back. When I left for college, he and many other toys were hidden in the cupboard above my closet so my mom wouldn't give him away.

a Bratz Jade doll. Jade was the last doll I ever got. I was already in high school, so this cool-looking teen doll with a gang of equally cool friends appealed to me. With her sneakers and casual outfit, I made Jade out to be the athletic girl-next-door and got one of the male Bratz, Dylan, to play her fun boyfriend. But I lost all interest when the Bratz makers put out all those outrageous themed outfits and ditzy movies where Jade was a fashionista, her friends were all screeching caricatures, and Dylan was a useless goofball.