Category Archives: Fashion

Living creatively stylishly

A Poem a day

Posted on by

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?
– Virginia Woolf, English novelist, essayist, and modernist literary figure of the 20th century, from Orlando: A Biography

Yes, you can wear a cropped top. I prefer wearing it with a high-waisted faux leather skirt, which elongates short frames.

Yes, you can wear a cropped top. I prefer wearing it with a high-waisted faux leather skirt, which elongates short frames.

I’ve been struggling to get everything that I want to get done on my personal to-do list, especially as I try to multi-task to speed the check-off process. Whereas in the past I would have argued that multi-tasking does indeed work, I have to admit that you aren’t fully invested in the current task when your thoughts are leaping toward the next task, which leaves you dissatisfied, especially with respect to any meaningful, quality writing. As a result, the e-mails that I need to get out are not coherent and the blogs posts end up as drafts without souls that are piling up unpublished.

A desperation began to set in as I wondered if I would ever complete a task that I had started. Every weekend for the past several weeks, I stared at my list in paralysis. Research and send out query letters for the first novel. Resist or give in to the urge to edit and revise the first novel one more time. Go back to researching and note-taking and outlining for the second novel. Read and read some more. Blog twice or at least once a week.

In the last several months, I’ve not had to work late nights or weekends – though an exceptional late night has been scattered here and there, and my days are packed with meetings and tasks with end-of-business-day deadlines. So I asked myself why I felt as if I were more stressed now with work, with everything, versus when I was burning the proverbial midnight oil for the last several years. I recalled the months of revising the first novel while keeping up with my grueling work schedule and being on top of my kids’ various extracurricular activities. I didn’t have an answer, which made me flip the switch for turbo multi-tasking.

So I sat myself down and looked at my “free” time. People don’t believe me when I insist that I’m a lazy person at the core and I need structure to keep me on the straight and narrow. Now was the time to incorporate that structure. As awful as it may sound to free spirits, especially creative free spirits, I wrote out a schedule, barring school and other meetings, extracurricular activities, kid sporting events, and so on. Weeknights I either read a novel from the huge stack I’ve created for myself of must-reads (I don’t like to read online; I insist on the joy of turning real pages) or do research for my second novel. Weeknights I find myself less able to write, so understanding this weakness I gave myself things I could achieve with a greater degree of success.

Friends tell me my top is as soft a cashmere. Surprise - it's from Target, and faux leather skirt is from Zara.

Friends tell me my top is as soft a cashmere. Surprise – it’s from Target, and the faux leather skirt is from Zara.

I devote my weekends to writing, either my blogs or exercises in poetry and prose to keep my writing crisp and muscular. While I read novels both for the pleasure of being immersed in a fictional world and examining the structure and character revelation, I realized I needed to read more poetry to keep the musicality of words in my head. Read more poetry. Every day. What made me come to that realization?

I came across a poem by American poet Christine Kemp that reminded me how much I admire poets’ ability to capture the largeness and the small moments of humanity and present it to us in a thimble. Every word is precise. Every word, every line, every thought carries the weight of so much more.

The poem that captured my attention is Kemp’s “The Things That Keep Us Here,” which I offer the first two stanzas (since I can’t print the whole poem out per copyright laws; Google the title to read the rest of this gorgeous poem):

I wouldn’t call them dream times exactly,
those moments when the wind finds you
folding clothes or putting the milk away.
And all that was no longer is.

As if you stepped out from another life
you lived just moments ago. It’s the small
of the closet or the strain in that sonata
you listened to yet never heard till now.
But it isn’t now anymore.

Kemp really captured the ordinariness of everyday life. And elevated it. Shined a light on it that made those acts startling. You are caught off-guard and yet this is your life. The here and now. The yesterday, which will never be again. The present that you can be in and yet feel it rushing away from you like water, sand, and wind. Never to be recaptured whole. And there you stand being in the present. Helpless. Amazed. In awe.

An edgy palette: gray, navy and silver. Michael Hickey reclaimed vintage necklace (Sugarcube, Philadelphia), Sundance stack of rings, Angela Cummings sterling silver sculpted ring (Urbanity, Berkeley, CA), Carmela Rose earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), sterling silver Hill Tribe cuff (Se Vende, Portland, ME), and Boutique 9 pumps.

An edgy palette: gray, navy and silver. Michael Hickey reclaimed vintage necklace (Sugarcube, Philadelphia), Sundance stack of rings, Angela Cummings sterling silver sculpted ring (Urbanity, Berkeley, CA), Carmela Rose earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), sterling silver Hill Tribe cuff (Se Vende, Portland, ME), and Boutique 9 pumps.

I marvel at poets, their ability to pack so much in each word. Someone once said that if they knew where poems came from, they’d go there. I surely would. Poems are mysteries to me. They are a foreign language that I am struggling to speak and understand, which is something I once told, in exasperation, to the late Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Karl Shapiro, who taught a poetry workshop that I was honored to be in while I was an undergraduate at UC Davis.

But it doesn’t matter in the end whether I fully understand the poet’s message. It’s the sensation in the brain that matters. It’s the fact that carefully strung words that feel so natural and dynamic are making the neurons in my brain fire like crazy, a mini fireworks. And reading a good poem satisfies me. It makes me want to read another one. But read it slowly because poetry is like the finest, most intense dark chocolate that you can only eat and should only eat in small doses to fully appreciate it. More importantly, reading good poetry makes me want to write, makes me want to be careful with how I say what I want to say. So, a poem a day, every evening. My writer’s routine. Check.

Fall health maintenance

Posted on by

The first wealth is health.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist, lecturer, and poet, who led the Transcendentalist movement of the mid-19th century

Fall weather attire just before the temperatures dropped recently.

Fall weather attire just before the temperatures dropped recently.

Every fall I make appointments to keep up with my overall health maintenance. Because I had a couple of abnormal mammograms, the last one resulting in a biopsy two Halloweens ago, I’ve been recommended to get a mammogram every year. I don’t like the procedure and I ignored the letters that I got over the summer reminding me to make my appointment. Although I procrastinate, I understand the potential risks for me, which outweighs the discomfort, and so I dutifully have the procedure done every fall.

I also get a Pap smear every year. My nurse practitioner (NP) is quick to remind me that I only need to have it done every three years, per the 2012 guidelines released by the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force and the American Cancer Society for women aged 21 to 65, which are based on current, available scientific evidence. (The guidelines recommend that women under 21 and over 65 need not take the test at all.) That may be the case, but here’s a cautionary tale: several years ago, the results of a Pap smear for Fiona, one of the moms in my mom’s group, revealed that she had cervical cancer. She went through chemotherapy, and I’m happy to say that she is in remission and looks great. At the time of Fiona’s diagnosis, I told her what my NP advised. And she responded, “Patty, if I had followed the guidelines and her advice, I’d be dead.”

A colorful bold "tribal" necklace serves as the centerpiece to pull the rest of the outfit together.

A colorful bold “tribal” necklace serves as the centerpiece to pull the rest of the outfit together.

Now, if I were told that I didn’t have to get a mammogram every year, I would run with it because not only would I be spared the extreme discomfort (given my lack of tissue) under the scanning machine but I would be spared the unnecessary radiation. While the sight of stirrups and speculum for the Pap smear procedure still makes me twitch, a quick swab doesn’t expose me to any harm. I suspect the issues in this case are the scarcity of resources, which is tied to lack of access to healthcare services, and spiraling costs. These issues are what I see every day in my profession, so the importance is not lost on me. Maybe this will be my last Pap smear until 2017. It’s a conversation I’ll have with my NP next month, although honestly I can’t think about the procedure without thinking about my friend Fiona.

Bold jewelry for a colorful fall: Anthropologie necklace, Lava 9 wooden earrings (Berkeley, CA), fan ring (Eskell, Chicago), and Angela Cummings sterling silver ring (Urbanity, Berkeley).

Bold jewelry for a colorful fall: Anthropologie necklace, Lava 9 wooden earrings (Berkeley, CA), fan ring (Eskell, Chicago), and Angela Cummings sterling silver ring (Urbanity, Berkeley).

I had my eye examination a couple of weeks ago after getting a notice that my last exam was two years ago. At that time, two years ago, I had racked up years of staring at my computer screen for hours at a stretch. My once 20-20 vision had succumbed to blurry vision at any distance long after I had shut down my laptop. I was especially worried when my vision was blurry while I was behind the wheel. In addition to the vagaries of technology, I thought age was another reason for my failing eyes. Two years ago, my new optometrist surprised me by assuring me that age was not a factor. The culprit was my computer screen and the remedy was taking frequent breaks to exercise my eye muscles, which were locked in to one position. I can’t say that I took frequent breaks, as the adage applies – habits are hard to break.

Since I shifted from writing most of the white papers and case studies on my job to overseeing a cadre of freelance writers, my eyesight has improved markedly because I’m not staring at the computer screen for long periods of time. My other tasks require me to be on the phone a lot for conference calls and meetings, so I can look away. What a difference that makes! I still require reading glasses while on the computer or reading, but the power – .125 – hasn’t changed at all. Bottom line is that I don’t have the blurry eyesight anymore at longer distances. At my most recent appointment, my younger optometrist pooh-poohed age as the reason for degrading eye sight – ah, how casual youth can be! And yet, after reading the eye charts and enduring sticky eye drops and the light-piercing tests, I was deemed to have 20-20 vision, which was refreshing news. So I offer this: If you have to be in front of a computer screen, it really does pay to look away often and to stand up and walk around (this is for relief for your back and legs), if moving around I the only way to stop staring at your screen.

Time to say goodbye to lightweight cotton separates, but we'll keep the jeans and throw on booties and boots as winter approaches.

Time to say goodbye to lightweight cotton separates, but we’ll keep the jeans and throw on booties and boots as winter approaches.

My next examination is for my teeth, my poor abused teeth. In my introduction to my dentist to the history of my teeth, I’ll quickly rush through, out of embarrassment, the pounds of sour Jelly Bellies I consumed during the four-month crunch of conference projects that went on for about five or so years. The sugar falsely kept me up for those all-nighters I pulled, and popping them into my mouth gave my twitching arm something to do while the rest of my body stressed out. I have learned my lesson when my gums started to bleed and stopped consuming them cold turkey, but I’m still dealing with the effects on my teeth.

We may have abused our bodies through the years in the name of work, family, and other demands, but we can stop the abuse and reverse – even if it’s just a fraction – the damage that we’ve wrought. They key is to recognize the destructive behavior and change it for the better with good habits. And the other key is to schedule regular check-ups to ensure that you’re staying on track with living a healthful life.

National Filipino-American History Month: exploring our diaspora

Posted on by

Men who had poetry in their soul come silently into the world and live quietly down the years, and yet when they are gone no moon in the sky is lucid enough to compare with the light they shed when they are among the living. – Carlos Bulosan, Filipino-American novelist and poet, Charlie Chan is Dead: An Anthology of Contemporary Asian American Fiction

I just finished watching a video celebrating the Asian American and Asian Diaspora Studies Program at the University of California at Berkeley, which I found while exploring the meaning of Asian and Pacific Islander diasporas. I’ve always been intrigued with the word “diaspora,” which I’d first come across many years ago in a flyer describing an independent film about displaced Africans. For me, what it boils down to is a search for identity when you are no longer home – whether you were forced out or felt you had to leave your homeland – but with the circumstances of your flight greatly informing the process of identification and the identity or identities you take on.

Diaspora literally means “Jews living outside Israel, the dispersion of Jews beyond Israel, the dispersion of any people from their original homeland.” It’s a state of disruptive being and one that is, of course, constantly evolving. I’ve been refining my query letter for my novel, A Village in the Fields, adding or deleting historical facts or descriptions of my novel as I personalize each query for the intended literary agent. But one description that I have kept throughout all of the queries is this:

“This novel encompasses more than the Filipino farm workers’ struggles in the fields. It also chronicles the Filipino community that my father and his cousins built in the farming town of Terra Bella in the Central Valley. Upon examining their lives, I found that as immigrants my father and his cousins were trying to determine what home is and who encompassed their concept of family when they were far away from home. I sought to answer those questions through my characters, in particular my protagonist, Fausto Empleo, whose story is at the heart of A Village in the Fields.”

Filipino immigrants leaving the ship that brought them to America (photo credit: everyculture.com).

Filipino immigrants leaving the ship that brought them to America (photo credit: everyculture.com).

October is National Filipino American month, and this year I’m celebrating it with yet another excerpt from my novel, with an eye toward diaspora. In this scene Fausto recounts to his nurse, Arturo, the boat ride that took him from Manila to Seattle in 1929:

Fausto took comfort in his cabin mates—four others besides Benny. Three had cousins or uncles waiting for them in America. Vermil Bienvenido spoke good English. He had worked in hotels in Manila and was counting on making more money in the American hotels. Ambo Ayson’s uncle had a restaurant job waiting for him in New York City. Arsenio Magsaysay hailed from Santa Maria, ten kilometers north of San Esteban. As he rolled cigarettes made from his family-grown tobacco for his cabin mates, he told them he expected his work in the fields would serve him well on American farms. Vermil and Arsenio were going to return home rich. Ambo wanted to remain in the States but visit his hometown, bringing gifts for his nine sisters, his parents, and grandparents. Everyone’s heart was still in the Philippines, except for Jun Villanueva.

Jun didn’t talk much, but one evening when Arsenio spoke longingly of his family’s land, Jun cut him off, blurting out that there was no future in his hometown of San Fernando. When Jun declared he would never return because he hated his country, his cabin mates wanted to fight him—even Fausto. It was as if he had spit on their mothers! Fausto calmed down and convinced the others to go up deck to cool their heads so he could talk to Jun. With just the two of them in the cabin, Jun complained that the rice they served on the ship had too much grit. His mother milled rice with a mortar and pestle, which made it taste more fragrant. Fausto told him the rice would be better once they got off the ship, but Jun said it would always taste bitter in his mouth. His family had lost their fields to harsh weather, which ruined their crops, and cheating agents who made it impossible to make a living off of the harvests. The new landlords overcharged, but his parents conceded just so they could stay on his lelong’s land.

“I told him he did not hate his country,” Fausto said to Arturo. “The people in power were dishonest. I told him he would realize that—maybe not now, but later—when he is in America and he grows homesick. I admitted I was already homesick.”

Fausto massaged his eyelids, bringing up an image of the teenaged boy who sat rigid in the bunk opposite him. Jun’s face and body were angular and hard. His eyes, mere slits, told everybody he trusted no one. The part in his hair was severe, a white streak. But when Fausto told him his homesickness was their secret, the hardness melted away. Jun yanked the bunk’s wool blanket over his head and began wailing.

“There is no shame in being scared or angry.” Fausto pulled the blanket down and locked his hand on Jun’s knee, which Jun had pulled up and tucked under his chin.

“If they had not taken our land, I would not be here!”

“Astun, astun,” Fausto said softly. “You will get it back. You put your anger to hard work in America, eh? Then you return. But you are tired, you need to rest.”

“I cannot stay here. They all hate me.” Jun sat up, amid the empty bunks.

Fausto promised to talk to them; they would understand his family’s hardships. Jun lay down, crossing his arms, but when Fausto patted his hand, Jun grabbed it and held tight. Neither of them moved. As Fausto watched Jun sleep, he thought of what they had left behind. His life in San Esteban was not so bad after all. Homesickness gnawed a hole in his stomach, but he wove his fingers with Jun’s until they were entwined.

Benny and the others offered Jun extra bread and fruit that they had smuggled out of the kitchen, but Jun wouldn’t accept them. Fausto didn’t know what happened to him when they landed in Seattle and parted ways. When he was working near Stockton years later, a pinoy on his asparagus crew told him about a pinoy named Jun Villanueva. The two Villanuevas shared similar stories from back home. At the time he heard this story, the American government had passed a law giving pinoys free passage to return to the Philippines. Not many took it. Fausto later found out that if a pinoy accepted the offer, he could never return to America. This Villanueva had gotten into trouble up and down California, fighting with whites and pinoys alike and landing in jail. He took the free passage, bragging to anyone who would listen that he was glad to be leaving.

“You think it was the Jun from your ship?” Arturo was on his second cup of coffee.

“When I heard the story, I hoped it was not him,” Fausto said. “I did not want to think he had no place to call home. When we landed, he said he wanted to keep in touch. I gave him the address in Los Angeles where my cousins lived, but I never heard from him again.” Fausto stared into his cup, his watery black reflection now cold. “Last time I saw him he was walking off the pier. But he looked like any of us leaving the ship. He was all of us leaving the ship.”

Farm workers in an asparagus delta farm in California, circa early 1930s (photo credit: Frank Mancao).

Farm workers in an asparagus delta farm in California, circa early 1930s (photo credit: Frank Mancao).

Welcome autumn, welcome nostalgia

Posted on by

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
– John Donne, English metaphysical poet and preacher, from The Autumnal, The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose

Today is the first day of autumn, and although I had a wonderful, lazy, meandering, full summer, I look forward to everything autumn brings. I love the leaves changing color, the shifting slant of light in the mornings and early evenings, the slow sipping of pumpkin-spiced chai lattes, the ritual of decorating the house with pumpkins, the fall classic (post-season baseball), pulling out thick sweaters and scarves not seen since last winter, the quiet evenings in front of the fire, the beginning of the march of holidays that seem to come one after the other, leaving us breathless.

We still have our Indian summer, so summer attire is required for the mild autumn days. Cropped jeans, striped and sparkle-embellished t-shirt, flats, and a bright pop of red in a big handbag for jetting around on busy weekends.

We have our Indian summer, so warm-weather attire works well for our mild autumn days. Throw on cuffed jeans, striped and sparkle-embellished t-shirt, flats with curves for an interesting detail, and a bright pop of red in a big handbag for jetting around on busy weekends.

The seasons come and go. Now I have a freshman in high school and a daughter in sixth grade, her last year of elementary school. The weeks and weekends are stuffed with work, writing and reading, school, community and school meetings, extracurricular activities and sports for the kids and the accompanying chauffeuring that goes with many of these kid activities. I harken back to the time when the kids were in preschool and day care, and our autumn weekends were as wide open as a golden meadow. Little did we know that those days were numbered once sports and school overtook our lives.

Jacob in the pumpkin patch, Fall 2001.

Jacob, at 15 months, in the pumpkin patch, Fall 2001.

I remember a Saturday in September when we drove two hours north to Hopland in Mendocino County because our neighbor told us it was a nice place to visit. The destination didn’t quite live up to the bucolic charm we’d been expecting, but I remember the warm sun, the light flickering in between the dancing leaves of the trees along the road, the leisurely drive, turning around and seeing the kids’ faces – full of wonder – as they wriggled in their car seats. Car seats.

Isabella's turn in the pumpkin patch, 9 months, September 2003.

Isabella’s turn in the pumpkin patch, 9 months, September 2003.

We checked out Real Goods, the Solar Living Institute’s storefront, and bought lunch at a main street deli and ate it amid a strip of turn-of-the-century buildings. I remembered feeling like we were in the wild, wild west, and at any moment tumbleweeds would mix in with the falling leaves. As we returned home, the kids nodding off  to sleep in the back of the car, I thought, we’ll have to do another fall drive to another small, quaint town. Of course, we never did.

Complementing the bird embellishments on my shirt: Carmela Rose earrings, Sundance stack of rings, Angela Cummings statement ring (Urbanity, Berkeley, CA), and Se Vende Imports (Portland, ME) bracelet.

Complementing the bird embellishments on my shirt: Carmela Rose earrings (Jenny K, El Cerrito, CA), Sundance stack of rings, Angela Cummings statement ring (Urbanity, Berkeley, CA), and Se Vende Imports (Portland, ME) bracelet.

Each season, then, becomes more important, more urgent. This is clear to me as I watch Isabella find the perfect spot around the house for each glass, resin, and paper mache pumpkin that she pulls out from the plastic tub marked “Fall decorations,” which I hauled from the attic. She carefully sets the porcelain characters around the Department 56 Sleepy Hollow village atop our living room television armoire. Soon we will pull down the tub marked “Halloween decorations” and discuss which artistic designs the kids will want David to carve for their pumpkins. Our sun-damaged plastic skeleton is hanging by a thread, but still the kids insist on having David tie it to the bistro chair and table on our front balcony.

The ginkgo tree, which we planted in the backyard when Jacob was a baby, is slowly rising above the protection and warmth of the surrounding homes. Soon the cold night air will turn the leaves golden in November, not December. Isabella and I will gather leaves to put in the clear glass pumpkin that sits on the kitchen sideboard. We switch off hosting Thanksgiving dinner with David’s sister, and this year, we play host. Jacob and Isabella are looking forward to seeing their cousins, especially their older cousin, Nick. “We have to see cousin Joshua, cousin Nick, and Grant,” they both insist to me with urgency, “because we won’t see them when they go away to college.” It startles me, this urgency that they feel, an urgency reserved for adults, for adults who get nostalgic when the seasons change.

Kate Spade bright red handbag and GeeWaWa flats with great scrollwork detail make the jewelry stand out.

Kate Spade bright red handbag and GeeWaWa flats with great scrollwork detail make the jewelry stand out.

Jacob hasn’t been trick-or-treating in years, and this is Isabella’s last year, with sixth grade being our milestone for the end of that childhood custom. I’m grateful that the kids still willingly partake in autumn traditions and enjoy the season as much as I do. We can still plan an autumn drive to a quaint town and enjoy the turn of the leaves. There is still time, I tell myself, there is still time.

Labor Day Weekend: you can go home again

Posted on by

We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.
– Pascal Mercier, pseudonym of Peter Bieri, Swiss writer and philosopher, from Night Train to Lisbon

For years, we have traveled to my hometown of Terra Bella to celebrate the San Esteban Circle’s Labor Day Weekend festivities. My late father and his cousins – my uncles – hailed from the coastal village of San Esteban, which has a view of the South China Sea and is part of the province of Ilocos Sur on the Philippine island of Luzon. My father’s cousins settled in Terra Bella, a rural farming town in the Central Valley of California, in the 1950s after World War II. In 1955, they founded the San Esteban Circle, a club that offered social activities and financial and other kinds of support for its members. Our family moved from Los Angeles to Terra Bella in 1965 after my father’s doctor recommended that he leave the city for the country for his health.

Lechon - traditional spit-roasted suckling pig - is a staple at Filipino banquets.

Lechon – traditional spit-roasted suckling pig – is a staple at Filipino banquets.

The Filipino community in Terra Bella has always been a tight-knit group. Most of my aunts and uncles picked grapes in the summer and in the wintertime the women packed oranges at the local packing house. We were a small band of kids attending the elementary school and trying to fit in. On Saturday – after everyone came home from the fields or packing house – and Sunday afternoons, my relatives congregated at one home to play mahjong and card games and eat an abundance of Filipino food. The host house rotated every week.

On Labor Day Weekend, the San Esteban Circle hosts luncheons and a big dance, which raises funds and concludes with the coronation of a queen and her court, at the local Veterans Memorial Building. As kids, we were forced to attend the long evening in starchy dresses, but I admit that I was fascinated by my relatives’ supreme confidence on the dance floor with ballroom dances such as the cha-cha-cha. They transformed themselves, changing out of their farm worker attire and into their embroidered barong Tagalog shirts and traditional gowns with butterfly sleeves. As teenagers, we participated in the “box” dance fundraisers, in which long lines of relatives would dance for two seconds and deposit a cash donation with the treasurer at the front of the main hall. The girls and later women got half of the proceeds. Not a bad haul for dancing for 15 minutes!

As an adult I came home Labor Day Weekend because aside from Thanksgiving and Christmas, it was the only time I could see my relatives and catch up with my cousins in one place. We took the kids, though their connection to the community has always been tenuous because I didn’t bring them down as much as I should have, in retrospect. As a family we went to one dance, which was fun. Imagine older Filipinos doing the line dance to Bill Ray Cyrus’s Achy Breaky Heart. But then the next year the kids and David begged off, so Janet and I only attended the luncheons from then on.

The dance in 1997. My mom is sixth, from the right. I'm next to her, and Janet's mom, Auntie Virgie, is on the other side of me.

The dance in 1997. My mom is sixth, from the left. I’m next to her, and Janet’s mom, Auntie Virgie, is on my left.

Two years ago, we celebrated Janet and Tim’s anniversary in Cambria, on the Central Coast, where they were married over the Labor Day Weekend. While everyone had a great time, I secretly missed my once-a-year touch with my Filipino heritage. However, I also had a reason to not go down, especially that year, as I’ll explain later. In 2013, we didn’t visit because Janet and Tim were dealing with family matters. When we came down this year, I wasn’t planning on attending the luncheon. When my mother passed away in early January 2012, in our grief, my sisters and I failed to let our relatives in Terra Bella know in a timely way many decisions we had made concerning our mother, most notably our decision to release her from her excruciating pain and have her remains cremated and honored in a quickly put together memorial – not in our hometown but in Folsom, where she lived the last of her 15 years of life. Another decision that our relatives were upset about was having her remains rest in Folsom, rather than in Porterville, the next town over from Terra Bella, where our dad’s remains have rested since he passed away in 1995.

At the time, the anger from our relatives confused and upset me. We were grieving and our grief clouded our decisions. Why were they not honoring our wishes and decisions? They clearly had their own ideas of how things should have been done. Not too long afterwards, I looked at the situation from their viewpoint. Even though my mother married into my father’s family, she was embraced by the community. While not one of the first to settle in Terra Bella, nonetheless we were one of the original families. At the time of her illness, my mother was one of the last remaining members of the community’s generation, although she no longer lived in Terra Bella. (She came down for the festivities nearly every year, as my sister and I took turns driving her down.)

One of our aunts was especially angry. To appease our relatives, who were too frail to travel and especially on such short notice, we put together another hasty memorial for our mother at the church where we were baptized and held our first communion and confirmation. Our aunt sat in the back of the church, on the opposite side of the pews where my sisters and I sat. She came late to the luncheon. She did not look at us and when she had to respond to us, she was stony faced and curt. We sat uncomfortably among our relatives during the luncheon, watching the slide show that my nephew had created for my mom’s memorial, unsure of what they were saying about us because our parents never taught us Ilocano and we just never picked up the language to understand the spoken word. Our relatives thought it wrong that we had cremated her and were horrified to learn of our intention to scatter her ashes, which they felt was akin to separating parts of her body. We learned that the Catholic Church, while it recently accepted cremations, requires internment of the ashes.

50th Anniversary of the San Esteban Circle in 2005. My mom with her walker, recovering from back surgery, and Auntie Berta next to her.

50th Anniversary of the San Esteban Circle in 2005. My mom with her walker, recovering from back surgery, and Auntie Berta next to her.

My Auntie Leonore, who was once married to my mom’s brother, hosted the first anniversary luncheon in January 2013. We sat through the luncheon, awkwardly trying to make conversation with our relatives. We just had nothing to say. After that, I thought to myself, I can no longer come home again. I will never attend the festivities now that my mom is gone and we are not members of the San Esteban Circle. We are not really part of the community anymore. Two years passed.

Over this past summer, my sister had cleaned out her home and dropped off boxes and bags of items for me to give to Auntie Leonore. We had planned to visit just Janet and Tim this Labor Day Weekend. I called Auntie Leonore the day before we left so I could get her new address to drop off my sister’s things at her house. But she wouldn’t give her address and insisted that I attend the luncheon, where she was going to help with the cooking. She wanted me to be there. I told her I wasn’t sure I would be welcomed, but she insisted that nobody was angry. Come and be a part of the community again, she entreated.

So Janet and I came, with great trepidation on my part. I saw the one aunt who was the angriest of the group. She is 91 and still driving. She is the last remaining aunt of the first generation. I wasn’t sure how she would respond, but when I gave her a kiss and a hug, she held on to me and smiled. We ate lunch with my cousins and spent the next couple of hours catching up. I recognized a few faces, but saw more strangers. Attendance had been dwindling for years, but this year it was paltry, which one of my cousins explained why. Many years ago, after I had left, the second generation created the San Esteban Schools Alumni Association to meet the needs of the younger crowd. The two clubs collaborated and at some point a new tradition emerged, with each club hosting its own dance during the long weekend.

Many of my cousins came for my mom's memorial in Folsom, January 2012. Isabella's first photobomb!

Many of my cousins came for my mom’s memorial in Folsom, January 2012. Isabella’s first photobomb!

Last year, the clubs promoted their candidate. At the conclusion of the dance, the San Esteban Circle’s candidate, who had garnered the most donations, was crowned, but the Alumni protested. Apparently, someone had forgotten to include a donated check so once that check was tallied, the Alumni’s candidate became the eventual winner. The following day, the San Esteban Circle Board met and declared that late donations and checks would no longer be accepted. An uproar ensued. The two clubs split, never to work together again. The Alumni chose a different time of year to have their dance and took the bulk of the attendees with them, with the San Esteban Circle membership dwindling.

We all laughed at the story with knowing glances. Family feuds seem to be part of the culture, with elephant memories feeding the feuds. I was overjoyed to reconnect with my cousins and joke about Filipino stereotypes and reminisce over long ago memories. We all remembered when Uncle Doman – not really our uncle but we called everyone uncle or manong, a term of respect, back then – was chased out of our house by relatives after being caught cheating at rummy. To this day, I remember playing in the front of the house, hearing an uproar inside, and seeing Uncle Doman flying out the door, barely escaping the wrath of my parents and my aunts and uncles. He was never allowed to play again.

Janet and I couldn’t stay the entire afternoon. Before we left we requested a group photo of us cousins. We had Auntie Berta sit in the middle, the centerpiece of the photo. By chance, I ended up sitting next to her and leaned into her so everyone could fit in the frame. As the photographer adjusted the camera, she grasped my hand and gave it a hard squeeze. I kissed her on the cheek, her squishy cool skin. I squeezed her hand, hands that had picked grapes and packed oranges for decades, just as my mom had, and my heart danced.

My cousins and Auntie Berta at the San Esteban Circle luncheon, 2014.

My cousins and Auntie Berta at the San Esteban Circle luncheon, 2014.

Old City District shops: ‘independent by design’

Posted on by

The neighborhood has been named one of the top 12 ArtSpaces in the U.S., ranked one of the hottest neighborhoods in Center City by fellow Philadelphians, and included in a list of top 10 “Undercover Stylish Neighborhoods” in the USA.
– Old City District website

Vintage shops dot N. Third Street and other nearby streets in Old City District.

Vintage shops dot N. Third Street and other nearby streets in Old City District.

My first trip to Philadelphia was in June 2011 as part of a women’s clothing retailer’s consumer focus group. We were flown in for a two-day event at the company’s headquarters, with a handful of us from the West Coast arriving a day earlier than the rest of the women. Our hosts treated us to brunch and then set us free to roam the city, supplying us with a pamphlet of recommended places to go in Philly, including shops, restaurants, spas, and art and culture destinations. The women were not interested in historical sites, although we were in the neighborhood called Old City District, ground zero for America’s “most historic mile.” Instead, we zeroed in on shops.

More than three years later, knowing that we were covering museums and historical sites on our family vacation, I was looking forward to returning to the neighborhood and these shops. As you all know, whenever I travel to a city I like to check out one or more vintage shops and shops unique to the area. While we packed our itinerary with all things historical, science, and art related, we carved out time for vintage shopping, many of which were nestled in Old City District.

Colorful storefront displays.

Colorful storefront displays reflect back old architecture and architectural details.

I’ll admit that I checked out a couple of places new to me that were highly touted but ended up being somewhat disappointing. Described as a “whimsical boutique and gift shop,” NeverTooSpoiled (106-108 N. Second Street, Philadelphia, PA, 215.928.0167) was south of shabby chic, with nothing really special about its wares. Barbara Blau Collectables (29 N. Second Street, 215.923.3625) was hard to find because a shop selling old books, records, and other items was the storefront. Turns out that the shop is in the back, but the owner was at a vintage show and wouldn’t be returning until end of the week, when I’d be long gone.

Find the glowing Sugarcube.

Find the glowing Sugarcube.

Inviting storefront.

Inviting storefront.

Scattered storefronts along N. Third Street were empty, and a shopkeeper told me they didn’t survive the tough economic times just a few years earlier. Happily, I found two places still thriving. I had gotten a circa 1960s articulated owl pendant from Sugarcube (124 N. Third Street, 215.238.0825), a rustic shop that features American and international fashion, jewelry, and accessories with an eye toward timeless vintage. Besides its own private label, Sugarcube also features independent designers and microbrands, celebrating both established and emerging designers.

Indie brands at Sugarcube.

Indie brands at Sugarcube.

Shiny red motorcycle parked next to a vintage wooden ironing board. Of course.

Shiny red motorcycle parked next to a vintage wooden ironing board. Of course.

Showcase dripping with jewelry.

Showcase dripping with jewelry.

I met both co-owners on separate days and chatted away with them while admiring the design of the interior and, of course, the jewelry, which is what usually catches my eye (and is easier to pack when on a trip). This time around I rediscovered Michael Hickey, whose reclaimed-vintage jewelry I had first stumbled upon at Feathers Boutique, a vintage shop in Austin, last year. He melds vintage rosary beads and found objects – horns, crosses, silverware, charms, keys, and so on – together to create jewelry that you could describe as hipster. Sugarcube is celebrating its 10th anniversary, a sign that they’ve been a stronghold in the neighborhood and survived a brutal economic downturn, which I was happy to see.

Fifty shades of shades.

Fifty shades of shades.

Found it!

Found it!

The other shop I remember and happily was reunited with was Lost + Found (133 N. Third Street, Philadelphia, PA 19106, 215.928.1311), where I ironically bought Jan Michael jewelry. While focusing on local artisans, I came away with jewelry from a San Francisco-based designer. This time around, while I spied more of her wares, I opted for practical reading glasses – cool plastic frames with a faux wood finish.

I didn’t have any time to check out vintage shops outside of Old City District. You could spend days in this historic mile and get your fill of art, vintage, and history. And they’re all compressed together. In trying to find one of the earlier stores, I turned a corner and there before me was Christ Church, an old active Episcopal church that was founded in 1695 and the place of worship for many Revolution Era leaders. One hopes that in time more storefronts will fill these old buildings. But in the meantime, support these local independent shops!

More Michael Hickey reclaimed-vintage necklaces.

More Michael Hickey reclaimed-vintage necklaces.

Reading glasses of faux wood.

Reading glasses of faux wood.