Category Archive for: radikalchick.lit

radikalchick.lit

the street of my childhood

is victory avenue, quezon city. where a big house still is, owned by family but barely, a space i haven’t seen in years, a street i haven’t even gone into in as long.

but on that street where i grew up, my notion(s) of the world began to be formed. between the padlocked gate, and the poverty beyond it; the old beetle that we played around and not within, and the huge garden that Lola loved; between the death of a rock star and my own cousin found hit and almost dead by one of our trusted impoverished neighbors beyond that padlocked gate; between who we were there, within family and the strangest kind of love, and what we became when we left, with all our things, a time that i remember clearly.

i would later find out that in fact the move was about the daring to strike out elsewhere, on our own as a nuclear family.

seeing this street of my childhood as i was getting P200 pesos worth of gas, because that’s all my wallet had; coming from many things and emotions of the past two years, but literally from five hours of volunteer work in a public school in one of those streets i will forget soon enough; worrying periodically about money and consistently refusing to worry; with much love, too much in fact, for the world; in between celebrating a birth and a death in the three and a half months of every year since 2008.

this street, a full two decades after, has to be serendipitous.

as it is a challenge, showing me what i want, what i need to do, where i must go, and how it shall be done. as it is about the past, even more so about the future. and the now of knowing to see the possibilities of daring.

that street is exactly where i’m at.

radikalchick.lit

no money, no Muji

or meeting my middle class self at the Muji Manila opening

There was much talk about a Muji Store opening in the Philippines, and it would only be a couple of days before opening day that it would be announced as a truth: it was here, the brandless brand from Japan, the one that will bring us the best of Japan’s home and office supplies. And I kid you not, I loved it. And yes it was more expensive, but that’s to be expected, and on this opening night it didn’t really seem like the rich of this country cared.

The middle class forewarned

My friend A warned me, that’s going to be filled with the rich, Ina, and of course I was prepared – or so I thought. Now the thing with events like openings and such, for arts and otherwise, is that I’m reminded of how middle class I am, and yes I am proof positive that the middle class exists. And I enumerate:

1. I have a car (broken as it was) to drive to Bonifacio High Street with (which is inaccessible via public transport unless it’s an expensive cab ride).

2. I knew of Muji before it arrived here, have been to Japan once in my life, when there was money to spare, when Papa said that I needed to see Japan, because he worked there when I was a little girl, it would be good for me to experience it.

3. I followed what the invite said: wear a touch of white. And yes that means I had options in my closet.

I mean I understand the argument that the middle class doesn’t exist, but really, let me be myself and insist that I am, just because I live it every day, much like the effect of skin whitening sold by women to women must be seen as mine to talk about (and you can’t convince me otherwise, kahit tunay na lalake ka pa). I was forewarned with the notion of the rich as well because my friend knows of my middle class self, and how I will see it and feel it, my difference from this rich. She had put me in my place without knowing it.

Exclusivity and yayas

So I enter and realize there’s a guest list, and remember that I invited my friend B to come follow me to the opening, there’d be free food and nerdy shopping for school and office supplies. I refuse to worry about it, wanting to get to the merchandise and see how cheap they were and what pens I could buy for Mama who had said she wanted Muji pens, without really knowing what they’re like.

But the store was being prepped for what was “the opening of doors” and we were all crammed and cramped outside the store with endless wine and champagne and vodka sprite and Japanese inspired finger food. I thought I was in heaven, social class notwithstanding. It’s so middle class of me. And I enumerate:

4. I sold this event to my friend in relation to free food. In relation to nerdy supplies, yes, but to the free food too (haha!) and it sure was good fancy Japanese food.

5. I thought the merchandise would be cheap, i.e., Japan cheap, where 1 yen stores exist, spaces that I thought were different versions of heaven. I also thought there would be some free stuff for the press/media, but then again, sometimes good food and drinks are enough. See number 4 above.

6. When I say social class notwithstanding, I don’t just mean me vis a vis the rich and the celebrity. I mean me and the number of yayas in uniform, feeding their alagas, who had obviously been brought by their parents for a Friday night out with family. And yes, some of those alagas were Japanese – how’s that for assimilating into our culture via household help. *hay*

No money, no Muji

And then the doors opened, and we all went up to the second floor of the GAP Store where Muji Store Manila now stands, and it was this peculiar kind of heaven that I love because it is monochromatic. I’m such a Capricorn, really, for being inspired by just blacks and whites, and wood and glass and navy blues. And I was in love with this store, thinking of pens for Christmas gifts, thinking of how cheap it would be when it went on sale, thinking of it as a cheaper (and better!) alternative to Banana Republic because it has nice cotton tops and dresses, with embroidery and ruffle details, and very simple beautiful merchandise. Thinking of bringing Mama the next time we have cash to spare for nice clothes.

But many things became clear to me after I filled a basket with supplies, and at some point I found I could let my basket go. Why let go of Muji products on Muji night? Because there was no discount for opening night, and it didn’t make sense to fall in that long line just to get the products ahead of everybody else, as my friend B agreed. At that point this opening night barely made sense to me, as everything else in that space began making sense. I enumerate my middle class thoughts:

7. This wasn’t for me, obviously, who had no money, therefore no Muji. I could’ve used my credit card, but that would mean this was an urgent and necessary expense. The latter is true for pens and their function in my life, but I wouldn’t be able to defend the former if my life depended on it.

8. This was for the rich who were there, the ones who could spend without thinking, the ones who knew of Muji elsewhere and thought it the best thing that it was now in the Philippines, and were ready to spend. They were in line and leaving the store with bags and boxes to prove it, too.

9. Muji was for me too, who looked at that merchandise and remembered too much of a visit to Japan three years ago, long enough to have forgotten, but easy enough to rewind and rewrite with proper erasures and revisions.

10. I become friends with the Kuya/Manong waiters in events like this so at some point they’ll bring me the dessert(s) that I want, or just keep giving me alcohol. I’ve never wondered why, I always thought it was because I’ve got my Papa’s rockstar blood in my veins: he who will talk to everyone, walang masamang tinapay. At this Muji Store opening, it was suddenly clear: no one ever made the waiters chika. No one.

There was a joy to Muji still, my lack of money notwithstanding. There was something special about looking at that merchandise and seeing so much of what I used to have, things I had given away, let go of, released to the world. There was a feeling of freedom here, the kind that allowed me to see these things and thank heavens that I could be there and have no memory at all of when it was it was that I first encountered Muji.

Instead I saw these: teeny tiny staplers and cutters, small sticks of glue and tape and scissors, the kinds that can fit in any kikay kit for fashion emergencies. I saw these for that supply kit that should always be in every person’s car. I saw the containers and thought of all the things I might need or have lost a container for: pills and tablets of all shapes and sizes, lipsticks and eye glasses, creams and soap and cologne. Many of these things are obviously for travel, but too, they are for the working girl Pinay, the ones who commute every day or live out of their cars like me.

And the pens – oh my heart! – I had filled my basket with every kind, choosing the colors very carefully just because I couldn’t afford all of it. This basket I had let go of, knowing I would just come back when it was time. Which is to say when there’s money, and middle class as I am that might not happen any time soon.  Oh heart, poor heart.

kultura

relevant RockEd culture: notes on contemporary Pinoy rakenrol

The noise is overwhelming. SaGuijo isn’t made for long conversations with friends, not even when you’re all outside sitting at the farthest table from the entrance, having drinks and cigarettes. The truth is you’ve been here since dinnertime when it was empty and bright. You almost forgot it was the place of noise and crowds and youth, the one you hadn’t gone to in a while.

It had been a long day and, both emotionally and literally, food was what you needed. You also wanted to get eating out of the way while it was quiet enough to have a meal. The bagoong rice, salpicao and tokwa’t baboy, and ice-cold San Mig Lite seemed about right. Except that it was already noisy in your head, the kind of noise that apparently can’t be erased by a filled stomach. You came from the Maximum Security Compound of Bilibid Prisons in Muntinlupa, and after two years met an old friend—one who’s been there for almost a decade, the one for whom freedom is such a remote possibility, you cannot even see it.

The NGO Rock Ed was reason for that visit to Bilibid. Every Wednesday of every week, a bunch of prisoners expect Gang Badoy to arrive and teach them some creative writing.

the rest is up at pulse.ph!

radikalchick.lit

fete dela musique, elsewhere

You were dancing to music you couldn’t understand at all, but isn’t that what music should be able to do? You were there with a boy you barely knew now, but whose life seemed intertwined with yours. He says this is the real fete de la musique, and you smile. Here? In this park? It’s practically empty.

Cue memory number 1: crowds at El Pueblo in Ortigas, to the sound of music overlapping with each other, sweat sweat sweat the name of the game, knowing who’s with the band the rule not the exception. This may be free you think, but there sure ain’t a lot of freedom here.

Bastions Park, in Geneve, Switzerland, seemed to be all about freedom. It wasn’t cordoned off in any way, and without streamers announcing the event or tarpaulins with sponsors and advertisements, it was farthest from your sense of what a commercial event should look like. Make thatcommercialized event. Because as it turns out, elsewhere in the world, closer to France where the fete de la musique began, freedoms are about the lack of capitalist intent.

read up at the music + culture spanking site of Pulse.ph!

radikalchick.lit

paris, without

To go where books and movies brought you, and to find it lacking. Not even art and its contingent romance(s) would allow for the overwhelming. Tell the boy who traveled through three countries to see you that you might cry when you see the Mona Lisa. Four hours after, inside and in tears for reasons beyond catholic art at the Sacre Couer, he whispers, “Buti na lang hindi ka sa Mona Lisa umiyak.”

finally up, in a new space for writing. :) the rest is here.