JT in AD

Justin Timberlake in 36 days.
Here in UAE.
And I thought it's gonna be another boring Christmas in this part of the world.
I've been good. Santa loves me.

happy anniversary

Around this time last year, I was onboard the flight going to Dubai via Cathay Pacific.

 

Has it really been a year since the ‘airport scene’ when my classy and sassy friend Rod proved to be jologs when he sang Gary V’s Babalik Ka Rin in front of a multinational audience as a goodbye number for me?

 

Who woulda thunk it? I’m still here in Dubai!

 

Sluggish, restless and impatient as ever, but still, hey I’m thriving at kicking some Arab ass—correction: not just them Arabs, also Indians, Pakistanis, Russians, Germans, British, Koreans, Chinese, Africans… Americans? There are around 2 or 3 around Dubai.

 

See, 99 percent of the UAE are expatriates. Yes, UAE. Dubai is IN UAE. UAE is NOT Dubai. Dubai is only ONE of seven Emirates here. Yes, there ARE other Emirates. GOD made them. NOT the Sheikh. No pun intended.

 

Sorry, I’ve gone robot mode. I’m just sick and tired of explaining to people back home about Dubai… things like, it’s NOT a whole country per se, that it’s only about as big as Manila, that it’s not part of Saudi Arabia…

 

Anyway, see, I learned something about Geography! Anyone who knows me well would know that I care for Geography as much I care about, uhm, let’s see… a boxful of soiled toilet paper in the middle of the desert.

 

And this is only one of the several things I’ve come to discover here. Indeed, so many things have happened in a year!

 

Let’s see here a rough list: changed jobs (not too ordinary for fickle me), changed residence (three times!), changed hair color (but not Lindsay Lohan-frequent)…

 

I’ve discovered things about myself that I wouldn’t have contemplated on lest I’d be faced with truths, such as I am domesticated (HA!)—in terms of cooking, that is. I can actually prepare a decent meal—take your pick: Filipino, Chinese, Italian, American AND Arabic! Really, if someone had told me last year that he can see me cooking for a group of people, I would’ve laughed incredulously.

 

Not only that, I’ve learned to value my independence! Life has a way of happening when you find that you have to fend for yourself or die of hunger … or shabbiness. Having said that, I’ve come to appreciate that independence does not encompass the need for TRUE friends. I can’t imagine life here in Dubai without two of my bestest best friends. JJ: Jen and Jat.

 

Also, I’ve realized that silence is actually good. It is. And that silence is not only a by-product of mindless pigging out.

 

I also discovered that alcohol is alcohol and should NOT be taken in as water. Because of the scarcity of alcohol and the inconvenience of going to a bar before legally getting to drink beer, I’ve kicked the habit of binge-drinking like there’s no tomorrow.

 

I’ve always liked the fact that I come from an English-speaking race—but never realized its many advantages until I got here. I’ve discovered that Filipinos are smart, witty, humorous and very likeable compared to most people of other races—not because we are better than them, but because we are able to express what is in our minds. Filipinos communicate well. And I’m proud of that. I love it that I’m Filipino.

 

Being here in Dubai has taught me how the Philippines, even with its ‘third-world’ state, is very advanced in terms education. In the Philippines, courteousness is a norm—a reflection of higher education and good upbringing. Here, courteousness is a rarity and seen as a sign of weakness. For a place boasting of modernization, Dubai breeds a primitive lot of peoples with barbaric tendencies.

 

For all my years of complaining about having been born in the Philippines where the government is a joke and the weather is just a boring mix of rainy and sunny, I’ve realized how lucky I am not to have witnessed violence and bloodshed up-close—unlike most people here from other Arab countries. That the only thing I know of mass murders and bombs and beheadings are those from TV and Carlo J Caparas movies.

 

So, there. To sum it up, being here in Dubai has taught me a lot. I’m complaining less now about life and its intricacies. So, yes, I feel I’ve grown up a bit. Oh, and this thing with that Syrian guy? It has moved from being transitory to become a work in progress. But that’s another story. Let’s see till my 2^nd anniversary, perhaps?

a language thing

Perhaps it started when I was around 8 years old...

See, my father used to send tons of VHS tapes from the US of movies he recorded in HBO – yes, Tatay is the original pirate.

I remember one title vividly now as if reading it on the side of the tape, with Tatay’s neat hand-writing in blue square-tipped marker: Shinning Through.

I remember my siblings and I – all 6 of us – gathered around the balikbayan box, savoring the ‘smell of abroad, trapped inside’ the package, and laughing our asses off because of Tatay’s shenanigans.

“Diba Shining Through?” one of my sisters asked.

“Baka The Shinning!” another countered.

“Gago, The Shining yun!” another said.

“Meron bang word na ‘shinning’?” somebody asked.

And every time a box-full of goodies from Tatay would arrive, we would always poke around for the VHS tapes first – just for kicks, I suppose.

Another sample title: Nightmare on St. Elmo’s Street.

You get my point, right? Jimmy Santos step aside.

Oh, but I love my Tatay so!

I never did care that he couldn’t spell. Or couldn’t get movie titles right.

More than the language thing, it’s a heart thing.

L-O-V-E is never spelled with words, really.

It’s beyond grammar.

Still, I grew conscious of the ‘significance’ of language skill.

English language skill, that is.

Communication and communicating well became my thing.

I believe I was the youngest proofreader.

Yes, shallow as it may seem, growing up, I’ve frowned at ‘potential’ crushes, or boyfriends who did not have a good grasp of the English language.

I would always prefer an ‘Inglesero.’

It’s top three on my list of ‘must-haves in a guy’ – just after ‘good teeth and ‘nice breath’ (synonymous, in my book); and ‘nice eyes.’

And now, as if fate is taunting me, I’m dating a guy who doesn’t know the difference between ‘P’ and ‘B’.

He doesn’t recognize ‘P’. Beriod.

And as much as he acknowledges that the English language is important, especially in an international commercial hub like Dubai, it doesn’t acknowledge him back.

The Syrian guy is worse than Jimmy Santos.

And being part of a race that places too high a regard on ‘speaking correct English,’ I don’t take it too well that my so-called boyfriend has ELDS (English Language Deficiency Syndrome).

“Can you carry these for me, please?” I asked him one time, handing out paper bags to him.

“Of course, habibi, I care for you!”

“I said CARRY – what the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Oh, ok.”

I’m such an ass.

After looking at his face, all red and mortified, I wanted to kick myself.

The man just said he cares for me, and sincerely so, too, and what do I do?

Shout and say ‘fuck’.

Nice going.

But more than anything, I felt like a fool.

When did I ever equate having correct grammar to being intellectual?

And every day, I’m astounded at how much I don’t know about the world.

And I learn it all from him – the Syrian guy who speaks worse English than Jimmy Santos.

When did I become such a snob?

Then I recall all those times I laughed at Melanie Marquez, Erap, and basically anybody who fumbles at speaking English, and think – oh, who am I kidding? – it still sounds funny!

“Habibi, sometimes you are ‘nose up’.”

This, after I laughed so hard when he told me I’m beautiful…

Especially now that my hair “is growing up.”

But no longer do I think I’m better.

Or smarter.

Because I’m SO not.

“I deduct this song to you, Lachelle.”

How sweet.

I wonder if it will come out in my pay slip.

The root of all things nice

I led a boring childhood – because it was a happy one.

Nothing tragic happened except for the time when one of my sisters dropped me face down on pure, concrete, jagged flooring when I was a few months old.

That tragedy bore two bumps on my forehead, which, if you look closely, appear to be where the mythical she-devil horns come out.

Thankfully, these bumps are only obvious when I frown – which unfortunately, and ironically enough, is my default face.

 

But, really, I was a happy kid.

Not that I resent it.

It’s just not too good a background to use as material for a teenage-writer-wanna-be.

 

Then I grew aware of the people around me apart from my family, and realized I was lucky.

Darn it!

Happy and lucky – how do you suppose I could win a Palanca now when I don’t have even one dysfunctional component in the foundation of my being?!

Where do you heave the emotion, the angst, the passion?

I was doomed.

 

I’m the youngest of six siblings.

The eldest was 17 when I was born.

And the youngest, up until I came, was 9.

Oh, yes, I was an accident.

 

Be that as it may, I was loved.

Ew.

Really, I had no chance on drama from the start.

 

Blame it on my Mother.

 

She is generosity personified.

She makes upright hip.

She is witty enough to laugh at her mistakes, but is decent enough not to laugh at others’.

She is strong-willed, but has the softest of hearts.

She upholds smarts, but applauds integrity.

And above all, she makes love come easy.

 

And we – my Father, my siblings, and I – are just prototypes of her character.

Or we try to be.

See, she is the root of all things nice.

And her essence ties the whole family into one big… happy thought.

 

SHE is my ultimate happy thought.

 

And today is her birthday.

If it weren’t for her I wouldn’t be what I am now – a pseudo Drama Queen with no real childhood-related tragedy in her portfolio… and I can’t thank her enough.

 

So, cheers, Nanay.

Here’s to the celebration of your eternal kindness and wisdom.

I would be happy (and lucky) to become even half of the person that you are.