Pinoy Ink: Getting Skintimate

I nervously walked up the stairs and followed the sound of rock music. I opened the door. The place was different from what I was envisioning in my head -- a lot cleaner, thankfully. Maybe the fluorescent lights just made the place feel... sterile? He asked me what I wanted, I pulled it out and showed him. He said it would probably take an hour or so.

Yo, chill - I was just there to get a tattoo.

Whenever people see my tattoo or discover that I have one, the natural question I get asked is, “What does it mean?” I have yet to figure out a way to explain it in less than thirty seconds. I’m assuming that if I’m able to do so, then I might be able to finish my explanation before being asked to scootch over a bit since I’m standing by the cooler or before being asked to take someone’s group picture (umm, just take a selfie!).

I love explaining it. I’m proud of it. And I guess that’s why I’ve decided to write about it.

The day was July 14, 2010, and I had been in Sydney for a little over a month for an internship program (but it was really an excuse to travel and experience my own version of The Real World: Australia). I had been toying with the idea of getting inked and I knew I wanted to get it done somewhere unique. Being away from home was a little bit of a confidence booster since I didn’t have to hide from my parents as it healed and then get lectured on how good boys are supposed to respect their bodies blah blah blah... This was the perfect opportunity for me to YOLO long before YOLO was even a thing!

The “it” that I pulled out was a piece of paper that had the word “mahal” written in Baybayin (pronounced bye-bye-in). Baybayin is an ancient pre-colonial Philippine writing system.

Why mahal? In English, it means “love.” As well as “expensive." Wait what’s that sound? The sound of your eyes rolling. Let me finish. You see, my tattoo is about living a life filled not only with love, but also with value.

Up to the point when I was sitting in that chair, I had experienced what it was to love someone, to have someone love me too, to have my heart broken, and to break someone’s heart. I had experienced the love of my family and friends. Everything that love was, is, and would be -- I wanted my life to be full of it.

I also wanted my life to be filled with value. Middle school and high school were particularly rough as I was struggling through the ups and downs of figuring out my sexuality, and accepting that part of my life. I knew that being openly gay did not equate to an easy (rather, preferred) life, but I decided that no matter what obstacles or insults would be thrown my way, I would remain steadfast in the truth that my life was worth it. Even more than that aspect, I wanted my life as a whole to be meaningful -- through my work, my experiences, my relationships, and even my imperfections.

Why is it on my shoulder? Well, when you love someone, you are a shoulder to cry and lean on. When you lead a meaningful life of value, you’re confident. And when you’re confident, you push your shoulders back and walk tall (or at least as tall as you can walk when you’re 5’6”). Seeing mahal in the mirror every morning is a reminder to myself. Am I changing the world everyday and hugging everyone out there? Absolutely not. But when I see it, I get that little tap on my shoulder (pun intended) that reminds me to at least try.

Why in Baybayin? I knew I wanted something unique. I wanted something that wasn’t so obvious. It ties me back to my cultural Pilipino roots. I thought there was something so poignant in the permanence of Baybayin on my skin. The places where I would live and work and play could all change, but one place that would never change is where I was born: Manila, Philippines.

Another place that would never change is where I spent my childhood, which was in Oman -- a small country in the Middle East. The etymology of the word ‘mahal’ is Arabic. My tattoo is literally a fusion of the two cultures that molded me as a child.

Everyone has their reasons for getting inked. My reasons just happen to take more than thirty seconds to explain.

So... did you still want me to take your group picture? Because I would LOVE to.

Photo credit: Christa Orcullo

Balikbayan Box Musings: Experiences with the cardboard companion over the years

I’m one week away from another visit to the Philippines and am finishing up routine preparations. These frequent jaunts over the past few years have helped me connect with the nation of our heritage. I've developed the typical travel habits of the returning overseas Pilipino, in particular that cardboard companion that is synonymous with someone returning to the Philippines. Yes, I’m focusing at that quintessential box filled with pasalubong for relatives. That same box that is filled with bittersweet emotions, including those stemming from: the nights my mom spends packing them up with corned beef, my sweat-drenched navigation between terminals in Manila with these boxes in tow, and the appreciation that I’ve seen from the faces of family who welcome and help me lug them into our jeepney.

I’m sure this rings true with many fellow Fil-Ams. I’ve grown up playing with those boxes as they slowly filled up. I’d feel like an adult whenever I was able to do things, like write our home address on the sides, push the luggage cart that carried them, or help dad lift them out of the baggage carousel. I considered it a crowning achievement when I traveled solo from Japan to the Philippines during my senior year of high school and brought my very first balikbayan box filled with goods from a Japanese 100 Yen shop, much to the amusement of my relatives.

Over the years, a question arose as I became the more efficient traveler that George Clooney fittingly described in Up in the Air: "why bother bringing the box?" As the trips came and went, I became more irritated at having to drag that box around. It was big, heavy, cumbersome, and ruined the traveling "rhythm" that I had mastered during other international trips.

“Why should I bother to bring Spam and hand-me-downs when I could probably buy them when I arrive? I mean, I’d be helping the local economy more by doing so!” was the mentality that I acquired after several trips. I challenged others on the rationale of having to bring those boxes, the bane of existence for baggage screeners, ground handlers, and bystanders caught up in a bottleneck created by a queue of balikbayan box-laden passengers waiting to check-in.

“It’s not a trip to the Philippines without one!” was a common response I’d encounter.

But then I'd remember the past, when our family trips to the Philippines weren’t as frequent. Twenty years ago, my mom wanted to fill each box with as much as she could. Unlike today where she visits once or twice a year, she wanted to have the box stocked with goods that she herself enjoyed and wanted to share with her siblings. Looking back, it hit me: the balikbayan box brought the sort of connection that otherwise couldn’t be felt by sending a remittance via Western Union. It’s almost like that “physical gift vs. gift card” argument that I’d always hear whenever the holiday season would come. I would see it whenever I would shop alongside excited OFWs at a Carrefour in Dubai, who would stock up on stuff that weren't available or of the same quality in the Philippines, but nonetheless, they were things to that they wanted to share with loved ones at home.

More trips would pass and I would obtain frequent flyer benefits that were certainly worthy of a box-touting passenger. For a while, I did not tell my mom the fact that I could check in a maximum of three bags at 70 pounds each for free AND that these parcels were among the first out in the baggage claim! Alas, I spilled the beans, much to her delight. While I was glad to have lightened the load by ejecting the need to drag the box, a part of me felt like I could try to do something constructive with those benefits.

Through such reflection, my opinion on the balikbayan box has shifted. I started to look into various charitable causes in the Philippines and wanted to utilize the box and my baggage allowance for good. I asked my frequent flying buddies to donate their hotel toiletries so I could deliver them to a non-profit in Quezon City that takes care of underage victims of physical and sexual abuse. I had a friend from a sports store donate some soccer balls to a Gawad Kalinga soccer program. And — my most favorite of them all — I have spent countless hours digging around swap meets, used bookstores, and supply store sales for children’s books and discounted school supplies; I donate these items to several schools and literacy programs in the Philippines all of whom have expressed appreciation for the much-needed material.

It’s been two decades since the kindergarten version of me etched our home address in a balikbayan box. In this upcoming trip, we’re going to dedicate a library in honor of my late brother. And of course that library needs books, of which I’m bringing a bunch of them with me inside the latest of the many balikbayan boxes we’ve transported over the years. A part of me still feels a bit weird in bringing Spam (my mom still manages to sneak a can or two in). At the end of the day, however, I’m still going back to the Philippines with a symbol that remains as the centerpiece of the returning overseas Pilipino. For this, I am very honored to have balikbayan boxes as travel companions. 

Watch Your Language! Common Microaggressions Against Asian Americans

“Where do you come from?!” a little girl confusedly asked me one day in the middle of class. “I come from Virginia, just like you.”

“But why do you look like you come from China?”

“My parents grew up in Asia, but I was born here in America. People like that are called Asian Americans.”

“That’s weird!”

As she pranced away, I thought about how this tiny preschooler had been alive no more than four years and already had the conception that only white people were from America. Granted, Charlottesville is largely a white city in Virginia, but there were still a good handful of Asian American, African American, and other ethnicities of children at the school as well.

While substitute teaching at different schools in the city, I regularly hear little white children spurt out all sorts of misguided questions and comments including: “Are you adopted?” and “Maybe you’re supposed to be in China or Japan where you belong.” Even more curious was a conversation I had with a half white and half Chinese American boy who told me he was born in the United States but was actually from China because his family went on a trip there for two weeks when he was a baby.

So what’s going on here? It is possible that these children’s parents are brazen racists indoctrinating their offspring with white supremacist dogma? Most likely not. I would argue that it has to do with microaggressions, defined by psychologist Derald Wing Sue as:

“... everyday insults, indignities and demeaning messages sent to people of color by well-intentioned people who are unaware of the hidden messages being sent to them."

The following are a few common microagressions heard on a regular basis along with alternative ways to avoid them.

1)   Where do you come from?

Message:  You couldn’t have lived in America your entire life and/or be an American citizen because of the way you look. Only white people are from America.

Alternatives: What is your ethnicity/ethnic background? What do you identify as?

The classic question possibly every non-white American loves to complain about. People who ask this are usually trying to get to know you a little better and don’t realize how it can be insulting. Any question asking about ethnic identity rather than country of origin is much more appropriate because it can be chosen to an extent by the individual, thus putting the power of identity in their hands instead of the asker’s.

2)   Calling yourself a “Twinkie” (yellow on the outside, white on the inside)

Message: The American culture that you grew up with, all the things you love to watch, eat, and experience are not rightfully yours to claim as someone with Asian ancestry. The culture that made you who you are really belongs to “whiteness.”

Alternatives: Asian American, Pilipino American, multicultural, etc.

As a teenager I used to call myself a “Twinkie” all the time. Looking back, I realized that I associated being Asian with strange and foreign, and claiming “whiteness” made me more relatable to my friends. Even at the beginning of college I chose not to join the Fil-Am student organization for fear of being branded as an Asian girl who only hangs out with Asians. Calling myself a “Twinkie” was just a funny way to say that I was ashamed of my background and was ultimately disempowering.

3)   Emphasizing that someone is Asian even though their ethnicity is completely irrelevant to what you're talking about

Message: White is normal and anyone who is different needs to identified as such.

Alternatives: Don’t do it. Be more aware of your descriptions of people.

I don’ t know how many times I’ve heard people say something like, “So I was talking to this Asian guy and he told me that a new burger place opened up nearby,” and then think to myself, “What does him being Asian have to do with anything?” If the person you were talking about were white, you’d most likely just refer to them as “that guy” since white people are often perceived to not have ethnicity. Pointing out someone’s ethnicity for no reason only further reinforces marginalized groups as not normal.

4)   Just Asian without the American

Message: Asian Americans are considered perpetual foreigners who haven’t earned their American labels even as United States citizens.

Alternatives: Asian American, Pilipino American, etc.

I admit it may sound awkward tacking on “American” all the time, but it’s just something that takes getting used to. In fact, the term “African-American” only became popularized after Jesse Jackson held a news conference urging its usage in 1988. Today it would feel awkward calling someone simply “African” if they were a native-born citizen. The name Asian American acts as a unifying statement that demonstrates pride in Asian cultural heritage and American citizenship at the same time.

Is using these types of language outwardly racist? No. Do I think they reflect current race relations in America and have a role in imprinting certain prejudiced beliefs even on young children? Yes. These microagressions are one reason that Asian Americans are still not perceived as truly belonging despite being part of the United States since the 1850s. As a consequence, the Asian American community lacks presence in politics and popular media, and its level of cultural understanding barely goes beyond Kung Fu and geisha stereotypes. DeAngelis writes that psychological research on microaggressions suggest they may also “erode people’s mental health, job performance and the quality of social experience.”

If you happen to let these phrases slip from time to time, no one blames you. It’s just what we’ve all become used to hearing and saying. But next time, think about what your words really mean and use them in a way that embraces all backgrounds and the people in front of them.

Photo Credit: Buzzfeed-21 Racial Microagressions You Hear On A Daily Basis

Pilipino Connection

One day on a family trip to an apple orchard in Pennsylvania, my mom saw an Asian lady, who she assumed was a Pilipina. After exchanging a few words in English, my mom switched to Tagalog. She immediately flushed with embarrassment when she realized that the woman she thought she had a connection with was Cambodian instead. The conversation dwindled down with some awkward small talk before my mom caught up with the rest of the family, who was giggling at her understandable fumble. I am my mother’s daughter, and I repeat the same mistakes. My college, like my hometown, has very small minority population, so when I see someone who resembles a Pilipino, I go through all the emotions—shock, happiness, anxiety, etc. My Pilipino radar is usually spot-on, making the likelihood of the birth of a new friendship even higher. Even if we come from different spectrums of life, we still have our Pilipino background as common ground.

Just being under the impression that there’s a Pilipino nearby -- even for just a few seconds and even if the person doesn’t turn out to be Pilipino -- makes me feel at home. The Pilipino community is unlike any other. The knowing look that one gives to a stranger who is possibly Pilipino is one that we take with pride. Even if the assumption is wrong, in those moments prior to complete embarrassment on my mom’s part, she felt connected to a complete stranger.

It is not limited to just Pilipinos. At my university, most of my friends are Asian American. There’s nary an Asian that I do not know, but it’s not because I am exclusive. I feel like it’s easier to bond with them because there’s already a commonality among our cultures. Being a minority is something that makes you stand out, and seeing that little spot of color in a minority-less community makes you feel a little more grounded.

I am currently studying abroad in Taiwan, and when I see a foreigner, Pilipino or not, I automatically try to maintain eye contact with them in the hopes that they will see me and understand. One day, at Raohe Night Market, I saw a fried Oreos booth. As I passed by, I said something in English to one of my friends, and as I looked up, I locked eyes with the American running the booth. He looked at me, and I swear in that second, we were connected. All that was exchanged between us was a "hey." But we had this unspoken understanding that actually said, “I know what you’re going through.”

In that apple orchard in Pennsylvania, I think my mom craved some familiarity in those moments before she found out the woman she struck up conversation with was actually Cambodian. It is exhilarating when you find someone who you can relate with, even the smallest connection. It feels like home. Like my mom and the American gentleman running the fried Oreos booth, I’m craving a piece of home.

Photo Credit: Taiwanease

My Days as a Car Show Model… Surprise!

By Nicole Maxali, guest contributor In college I took a women’s studies class. It was a class on the study of how women are represented in mass media. Entering this class, I knew the sexual objectification of women was not a new phenomenon. But one of the assignments was to document and cut out ten ads that either objectified women or depicted women as objects. We had to also write a short analysis of how or why the ad was objectifying women. I found it was super easy to find images in magazines to complete this assignment.

At the time of this assignment I was also beginning to model at various car shows as a side hustle. Surprise! Yes, before I turned 21, I was one of those Fast and Furious car show models (like the one pictured below). I’ll save you the time and energy of searching on Google for any pics of me bending over a hood of a car in short shorts and a sports bra… because there are none! This was before things like the iPhone, Facebook & Instagram. Whew!

I realized very quickly that using my female form to help promote “rice rockets” wasn’t something I felt very comfortable with. Most models at these car shows enjoyed the attention and the flocks of men wanting to take their pictures. But after two gigs and my women’s studies class assignment, I reached the conclusion that I didn’t want to be known as just a hot body. 

I felt I was facing a fork in the road, I could choose to continue with “modeling” and be known as the other “Nikki” within the car show scene (the picture above is of the very popular Nikki Cash on the cover of Drag Sport magazine). Or I could focus on my writing and acting and do something with the talents and skills God blessed me with. Follow my passion? Or follow the road filled with fast cars, cash and VIP bottle service? As you can see now, I choose my passion. Sorry, creeper dudes! But there’s plenty of sexy Nikki Cash pix on the web for your perusing.

For my tenth image in my women’s studies assignment, I choose a picture of me modeling in front of a supped up Honda Civic with a spoiler so big it made the car look more like a shopping cart. And instead of an analysis I wrote a letter to my professor thanking her for solidifying the fact that my worth was not based on my physical appearance and that allowing men to objectify me for their gain was something I had control over.

Looking back now -- and looking at the plethora of “models” so popular on Instagram (IG) -- Do I regret that I didn’t take the easy path? No. Not even for a little bit.  Because when I die, even if I don’t have model money, I don’t want my legacy to be known for my ability to sell products or my ability to look super skinny and hot in 4,000 of my IG photos. I want my Goddess Daughters to be able to see someone they can aspire to. To know that their worth isn’t just how they look, but that they beauty they can bring to this world is with their minds, hearts and actions. I do what I do for them.

Today, what is new to the objectification of women is the prevalent use of Photoshop and technology to slim and “beautify” the image of women (and celebrities in general) in media and advertisement. This type of beauty becomes an impossible image to aspire too. It is yet another struggle young girls and women face as they grow up in this world. To not only be “beautiful” but to also be perfect. I want to instill in all little girls that beauty begins from within. 

–

Nicole Maxali is a New New Yorker. Native to San Francisco, she began performing at Bindlestiff Studio, the only Filipino-American Theater in the nation. In 2008, Nicole Maxali wrote and performed her very first solo show under the tutelage of W. Kamau Bell (FX’s Totally Biased). Under the direction of Paul Stein at Comedy Central Theater, Nicole developed her original twenty minute piece titled “I Heart Lola” into her full length show, “Forgetting the Details”. Described by legendary comic Dave Chappelle as “funny, heartwarming and funny again”, Nicole Maxali’s 75 minute solo performance piece explores the familial and cultural-related challenges a young adult faces when losing a loved one to Alzheimer’s. She has performed her solo show at the famous Joe’s Pub at The Public Theater in New York City, The FIND Conference at Harvard University and the Minnesota Fringe Festival. You can also see Nicole on the big screen as a surgical nurse in the independent film, Fruitvale Station, produced by Forest Whitaker & directed by Ryan Coogler.

The original version of this post, inspired by “Killing Us Softly 4”, originally appeared on Nicole Maxali's blog.