PI Trip Blog 3: Seen, Heard, Done and Reconsidered

SEEN: There are ubiquitous signs, banners, advertisements on storefronts, as well as religious or philosophical messages painted on building walls that are primarily instructive. The most common is bawal umihi dito (no pissing here) and bawal mahiring diri (no pissing here). Perhaps there will be an Ilocano version that I’ll see when I go north. In Palo, on the side of whitewashed building a piece of art in big red letters alerts drivers that “An honest man is the noblest work of God.” It makes me wonder at the urgency of such a proclamation. At a college campus, posters remind students to WATCH, which stands for We Advocate Time Consciousness and Honesty. So, were there a lot of tardy and dishonest students who necessitated this acronym?

Speaking of morality instruction at the schools, at an elementary school in Cabanatuan there was a gruesomely graphic image of the naked human hermaphrodite body depicting the adverse effects of smoking cigarettes—varicose veins, brown lungs, shriveled ovaries, bad skin, low sperm count depicted by a limp penis, gangrene toes, etc. I am certain American parents would object to the poster if it were their children seeing it. So, I’m assuming that there must be a really bad smoking problem with the adults. In Manila, it seems that everyone smokes. In Davao, we were greeted by signs that said Davao is a smoke-free city. Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing smokers there in any public places.

In addition to many thought-provoking images, there also seems to be a love for wordplay and puns with the English language. Get your Sexy Baboy (pork bbq sticks…that are seductive? The pig had long curled eyelashes) and God’s Wheel Tire Shop are among the funniest. I’ve posted some others on my Facebook page. Some phrases, when translated are also very revealing. For example, a discomfort bag = barf bag on the ferry ride. An escape route = exit doorway on the ferry ride. For awhile = Just a minute.

WYSIWYG—what you see is what you get. Sometimes not. R says my hotel in Manila is ghetto, but he came over to visit anyway. I love Malate bordering on Ermita. It has an eclectic, bohemian feel. Yes, the street and the pollution stink, the homeless beg in the street, the sidewalks are uneven and circuitous, but the people have an upbeat jive energy that says live and let live. Ah, the people. There was a Friday night concert at the college next door that went on long and loud until 12:30 am this morning. It was great music, including imitations of Springsteen, The Clash, metallic, punk, Cyndi Lauper, you name it. Screaming girls, yelling singers, hardcore drums, appreciative audience wafted up to the 5^th floor where I was pretending I was trying to sleep. I would never have imagined St. Paul’s Medical College was that hip.

HEARD: “I am glad for martial law. Those in Manila who are protesting do not live here. They do not know what it is like to be so close to the terror. It’s a good thing president Gloria has done. The father, the senior, is here in Davao. You should see their houses here. My God…” That sentiment was uttered by a Davao matriarch when I asked her what she thought of Ampatuan senior being taken away that day from the Davao General Hospital and brought to custody in Manila.

I also heard that this month’s Cosmo magazine, Philippines edition has some good advice. In addition to the usual advice about not having sex on the first date, Cosmo offers boyfriend advice. For you young ladies out there, Cosmo says to call your boyfriend’s parents Sir or Ma’am until they tell you it is okay to call them Tita and Tito. Got that?

DONE: Yup, I was game. Just had to satisfy the curiosity of attending a cockfight in the Philippines. Strange does not even begin to describe what the arena was like. Man sweat. Cigarette smoke. Diesel fuel smell. Dirt floor. Wooden bleachers. Loudspeakers overhead. Men yelling. Frying oil. Children selling snacks. Women half price admission. Man sweat, cigarette smoke, money waving, hand signals, yelling to a crescendo and subsequent wane of shouts, rhythmic cheering. Had my fill after an hour. Will try anything once. Will post pictures when I learn how.

RECONSIDERED: Now I know why my father was such a crazy driver. I finally get why he so loved beeping his horn. As a resident of Manila and a car aficionado, he must have been some kind of driver in his day, wending through alleys, around buildings, people, pedicabs, tricycabs, jeepneys, motor scooters. And I thought he was just reckless or brave. Now I can appreciate that driving in Manila is a valuable skill. Stop signs, individual driving lanes, and green lights are mere suggestions. Rules are optional. Pedestrians definitely do not have the right of way. Whoever gets to the designated spot first doesn’t have the right of way either. Driving in Manila is elevated to an art form. Best of luck and best wishes to the woman and her child in that Osmena circle who were trying to cross the road as cars swarmed around them. Sorry, but we had to go around you too so I hope you and your anak made it.

In addition to my father's driving, I've also reconsidered the art of dropping names. Namedropping, especially when done in an inimitable Filipino way, has always been such a turn off for me. However, as I experience more and more Filipinos drop names galore—in an over the top manner that is thoroughly, shamelessly unabashed—I’m seeing it in a different light. Dropping names when discussing politics, within various social circles, in an intimate setting, with total strangers, or in storytelling and entertainment may have a dual purpose. Namedropping seems to underscore the value this society places on establishing a bond. If you know someone and mention that relationship to your listener, you are laying the groundwork for the obligation and responsibility the relationship implies. If, for example, I mention to you that I am a classmate, relative, town mate, AND godchild of a mayor who did not fix the pothole on my father’s road, then you the listener are supposed to be horrified at the bad manners of the mayor. But then again, you the listener are supposed to cry foul if I tell you that the same mayor fixed the potholes on the road where his friends and relatives live. Now what was I saying about living with dichotomies and contradictions?

PI Trip Blog 2: Knowing Your Place

The poor here are so very poor—it’s criminal. The rich are so rich—it’s obscene. Those in power must know this and pretend not to see. Why and how does mass poverty get perpetuated for generations? What will it take for a country like the Philippines to build a strong middle class? The tired old dogma of land redistribution hasn’t broken up much of the traditional family monopolies and corporate inbreeding. And what about jobs and the economy?

The Philippines graduated 90,000 nurses this year but the country can only absorb 10,000 of them. That means the remaining 80,000 graduates are unemployed, underemployed, or go overseas as guest workers. It’s the same story for engineers, doctors, teachers. The government encourages outsourcing of its human resources. In fact, the government has a policy of finding other overseas employment for 30,000 Filipinos who have lost their jobs in Dubai due to the global economic downturn. Minimum wage here is 400 Philippine pesos a day, the equivalent of $8.88 US dollars. (It puts in perspective the 300 pesos I tipped the porter for 3 pieces of luggage at the Manila airport) And what about commerce and transportation? The smaller towns and cities we pass through have a proliferation of sari-sari stores and roadside vendors. Many residents walk directly on the roads because there are inadequate sidewalks. Cars seem a luxury reserved for the rich, as motorized tricycles, motorcyles, mopeds, cabs are the vehicles most seen at petrol stations. Would it really help the masses if the economy undergoes structural change as one presidential candidate (out of a total of 89 candidates) vows to do?

The Philippines is not made for an American-style democracy, R tells me. And the people are fine with knowing their place, he concludes. R says that maids are grateful to have a job and that drivers are highly valued as the highest paid domestic help. One of our drivers has a wife and children who live hundreds of miles away in the province. He sends money home regularly and sees his family once a month. He is happy with his lot, R insists. He knows his place in society and accepts it. Perhaps I am just wearing my American perspective on my sleeve, but it bothers me that children and senior citizens beg on the streets. That homeless families live on the sidewalks. That many go without clean water and basic shelter. They can't all be happy knowing their place in society. That's the outdated myth of the happy brown peoples of Oceania. From Manila, to Leyte, to Cebu (and probably Davao, Palawan and Ilocos, too) the dichotomy of the very poor and the very rich is glaring. The politicians must see this. Do they pretend not to see? Or they do see it, but choose to live with the people's familiar place in society?

Footnote: As a Philippine-born outsider, a westernized Filipino-American female, what should I know about "my place" in Philippine society? Our American group has stayed at some of those very rich people’s homes and have been waited on by their maids and drivers. We’ve experienced the expanse of green lawns and high walls topped with glass shards to keep others out. We’ve also stayed at hotels that are steps away from the everyday life of the very poor. We’ve also felt at home in clean and simple abodes and bonded with middle class families. BTW, every pig needs to hide when we’re in a town because inevitably someone will throw a party for us featuring lechon, no matter how upscale or humble the venue. Whether we are in a town or a city, whether the people are rich or poor, we have been met embraced with open arms and hearts. The friends, neighbors, kinfolk connections, students, dignitaries, families and staff we encounter have shown incredible hospitality and generosity. But I cannot fully buy into the notion that everyone is happy knowing their place in society.

There is an undercurrent that makes me want to raise my fist and foment revolution. Or at least help stir up some good old fashioned discontent.

PI Trip Blog 1: It Takes a Rhythm

Filipinos live with contradictions all the time and we are fine with it, R told me. “We go with the flow because the control is not ours.” Plans can change on a whim. Bahala intervenes and your life is not your own. Interdependency limits individual choice. These attitudes contribute to the misdirected criticism that Filipinos are not aggressive enough in the context of First World standards. But are Filipinos truly passive, di ba? A dogged determination to survive is pervasive here. Resilience and hard work are quintessential global Pinoy traits. Getting ahead through education is pounded into the head of every Filipino man, woman and child. And there is much to admire in the Filipino ingenuity for making do with what little they have. Among the jarring contradictions: a sacred nativity scene highlighting Santa Claus; CNN hero Efren Penaflorida and alleged mass murderer Andal Ampatuan juxtaposed in the headlines; a family's humble nipa grass hut next door to a concrete mansion in Tacloban.

Plastered on the campus of a particular private college is a poster advising students, “Think in English. Write in English.” Granted, those marketable skills boost the competitive edge the Philippine economy longs for its work force. But at what cost? Thinking and writing in another language inevitably changes the Filipino spirit and transforms its core values. If, as FSJ, says the Filipino populace is generally shallow and immature—socially and politically, respectively—what is to be made of its core values now? Are those values in danger of being discarded, replaced, transformed? Filipinos here are intensely proud to be Filipino. But there is undercurrent of wanting to be somewhere else, wishing to be someone else. And they are keenly attuned to all of its contradictions and implications.

I don't know what to make of some of my observations of the social, political and cultural life here. From a Westerner's perspective, I am aggrieved, agog, confused and stumped on some gender and justice issues. There is much to love and admire here as well. I will go with the flow. Like Manila's infamous traffic, it takes a rhythm to cross the road.

An Evening of Art, Poetry and Fashion

Flip Out! Show Souvenir Program

The two, sold out, afternoon matinee Flip Out! shows in Honolulu at Kawananakoa's Backstage Theatre on October 25 were a roaring success! The cast will be returning to Honolulu this weekend at Hawaii's Plantation Village. And guess what? Both shows are also sold out. For those of you who missed the October show and could not get in to the upcoming November show, here is the printed program that was distributed on October 25. Look for Flip Out! to return to Honolulu in 2010...and they may be coming to your neighborhood in the near future.

Pinay Lolas Tell Stories in Honolulu on Sunday, 10/25 @ Backstage Theatre

Last month Self and D traveled to the Big Island to see these outrageous and fabulous Pinay lolas do their wild thing in Wailea and Volcano. We were so taken by their storytelling performance that we knew they had to share their stories with the rest of the world. In oddah words, we had fo' go bring 'em Honolulu fast cause Octobah stay Filipino-American History Month. After a lot of magic, gratitude, grace, and support from many hearts and hands, the stars looked down on us and smiled. And the star smiles were so warm that other powers conspired as well--Bahala, Buddha, God, Allah and Princess Urduja for sure!

Yes, the Pinay lolas will Flip Out! on Sunday, the 25th for two matinee shows at 1 pm and 4 pm at Kawananakoa Intermediate School's Backstage Theatre. You don't want to miss it! This is their first and only performance on Oahu. As D puts it, belly laughing with these women are like "lola's tonic for the soul." I found a lot of truth and power in their stories of survival, their memories of ancestors, their crushed hopes and their cherished dreams. I wrote a story about them, "Why We Must Tell Our Stories," and it's coming out as the cover story in this week's Fil-Am Courier. So come laugh, go jump up and down, and maybe cry little bit. For a preview of the article, read on.

WHY WE MUST TELL OUR STORIES

by Amalia Bueno

Cover story of the Oct 1 issue of the Fil-Am Courier

A good story takes us to a new place, works its magic and leaves us wanting more. Great stories entertain and bind us to the power and truth of the spoken word. Powerful stories reveal who we are and how we are connected to each other and to the world. All of this happens in Flip Out!, a unique and thought-provoking storytelling performance by three charismatic Pinays in their 60s who share the joys, sorrows and challenges of growing up Filipino in Hawaii.

Sandra Keonaonaokamaileopanaewa Claveria, Lorraine Godoy and Angie Libadisos act, sing, and dance their way through history, culture and community. They show us how the resilient human spirit can overcome broken dreams, survive tough times through hard work and achieve cherished goals. Their stories are simultaneously poignant and hilarious, outrageous and wise, authentic and surreal.

And, ohh! The places these stories take you—inside lola’s house; among neighborhoods in plantation communities; aboard the steamship President Cleveland, Honolulu-bound in 1952; amidst the action at Cebu Pool Hall on Hotel Street; to Hilo, Waimanalo, Kalihi, Oakland, Boston, and Switzerland. Flip Out! also takes you to where love, shame and pride are abundant.

The Flip Out! women begin their magic by transforming the familiar. Sandra Claveria grew up in Keaukaha, the youngest of six children of a Native Hawaiian mother and an immigrant Filipino father who arrived in 1926 to work at the Papa’aloa sugar plantation on the Big Island. She jokes that she was “so ashamed of being Hawaiian, I forgot I was Filipino.” Her sentiment is sad, yet common. How many in the world grow up being ashamed of their ethnic background, regardless of what and where they are?

Claveria’s comic timing, rascal personality, and loving “tita auntie” demeanor elicit the kind of uproarious laughter that starts deep in the belly. Asked what spurred her fairly recent journey to rediscover being Filipino, she recalls the day her son told her that he was curious about the town of Claveria in the Visayas. “After that, I had to go on the Internet to learn about it myself,” she laughs.

Another defining moment caused her to question her close relationship with her father. She was asked to speak to a group of caregivers, primarily Filipino women. After the talk, she asked herself, “Who am I really, in terms of my connection to my father?” The process of continued questioning resulted in Claveria doing oral histories on three of her father’s friends. The Hawaiian phrase, ho’ala hou, (to reawaken) has special meaning at this stage of her life, for she is “reawakening what has been dormant for many years.”

Lorraine Godoy, on the other hand, was keenly aware of her Filipino heritage. Raised primarily by a disciplinarian grandmother, Godoy dreamed of going away to the attend Northwestern University in Chicago to study journalism. But it was not be. Godoy’s ensuing adventures of survival involve Europe, children, a college degree, a career in insurance, and a return to Hilo to care for her ailing father. This fairy tale-like progression of events belie the rude awakenings in Godoy’s life, which she has transformed into insights.

Godoy notes that this performance is another step toward “connecting all the disparate elements” of her life and leaving some history for her children and grandchildren who have “little or no connection with being Filipino.” She considers the performance an exploration of “what it means to be a woman, a Filipino, a human being.”

The magic intensifies with the appearance of the energetic and wacky stage presence of Angie Libadisos. Born in Sampaloc, Manila, she arrived in Honolulu in 1952 as a child aboard the steamship President Cleveland. She quickly stepped into the role of class clown as a coping mechanism at Lanakila Elementary School to ward off her classmates’ teasing of the new immigrant kid in town.

Libadisos’ stomping grounds were the areas around Hotel Street, where her mother owned and operated Cebu Pool Hall. She learned to speak “proper” English from the Navy men of the Seventh Fleet, who poured into bustling downtown for rest and recreation. Her mother’s “dogged approach to surviving, to making things work with what little you have” is why performing these stories are important to Libadisos. She also learned street smarts from her mother, a professional gambler whose earnings purchased several businesses and homes.

A self-proclaimed “born again Filipina,” Libadisos is a delight and a sight to behold. She paints a colorful childhood redolent with the homemade Filipino desserts that she and her family would sell at chicken fights, canned food meals that she prepared when her parents were out working, and the savory, delicate parts of a freshly-butchered pig. A veteran stage and television actor (formerly Angie Baker) and musician, Libadisos shares the trials and tribulations of her outrageously vibrant life.

Joining in the musical renditions of Dahil Sa Yo and a Visayan folk song is Dina Kageler, a Caucasian woman who spent time in the Philippines as a teacher in the 1970s. She taught the the cast the Tagalog and Visayan song lyrics. The irony is not lost on the audience.

After the audience is bestowed with profound stories about inter-generational social values, the clash of local versus immigrant culture, the pursuit of the American dream, father and daughter relationships, the grit to overcome barriers, the steel will to survive and succeed—after all that—the audience is left still wanting more. The producer of the show, Akiko Masuda, originally envisioned a one-woman comedy show performed by Libadisos. But the vision evolved and kept evolving. Masuda’s efforts culminated last month, when Flip Out! opened to a variety of enthusiastic audiences and packed venues on the Big Island. Masuda is planning to take the show on the road statewide.

Of the significance of these stories, Kageler concludes, “Stories are the way we all learn, the way we hold on to what’s important to us.” And hold on we must—to the memories of our ancestors, to our own dreams, to our children’s hopes.

What does it mean to be Filipino? What does the future hold? Go attend a Flip Out! performance and listen for the answers. Listen for the power and truth in their stories. Listen for how you are connected to each other and to the world. You will find it there in the Flip Out! stories because it is your story, it is mine. It is the story of all humanity.

• EVENT: Flip Out! Storytelling Performance
• DATE: Sunday, October 25, 209
• TIME: 1:00 pm and 4:00 pm
• PLACE:Kawananakoa Backstage Theatre, 49 Funchal Street (located on the corner of Pauoa Road & Funchal in Nuuanu) at Kawananakoa Intermediate School
• COST: $12 (For tickets, call 988-2215 or email msakiko@hawaii.rr.com)

Presented by the Hawaii Repertory Theatre. Sponsored by the Wailea Village Historic Preservation Community, the University of Hawaii at Manoa American Studies Department and the National Federation of Filipino-American Associations Region XII, Hawaii Chapter.

How to date a brownie, puti, hapa or hapon

Junot Diaz is bad. I mean emm-effin' bad. His first book, Drown (Hanging Loose Press, 1996), received off the chart praises. Over a decade later, his second book, Pulitzer-prize winning novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (Riverhead Books, 2007), secures his place in literary history. He's a really good fiction teacher, too. Obsessed with structure. Prolific reader. Book smart nerd and street smart badass to the max. Down home for real genuine with the peeps. He is lovely.

One day I tried to write a story story in imitation his story, "How to date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Halfie." I had actually started the story in 2007 after taking a fiction workshop with him at VONA, but it never got very far. So, for a class assignment this semester at UH, I tried to write a poem on the topic of dating various ethnic groups. I figured in Hawaii we have much variety--black, brown, yellow, red, green, purple, off the boat, off the plane, on the beach, in the hotel, in the next state government office cubicle, in front of you at McCully Zippys, etc.

But it didn't work out. So I tried another track and thought it would be interesting to would write a poem about dating a hierarchy of Filipino males. The mama's boy, the love America always guy, the Flip dude revolutionary, the wanna be Hawaiian/Spanish/Chinese but not weirdo, the hapa Adonis, the brown outside white inside coconut New Yorker. But I couldn't get the poem to go beyond boring. So, in order to entertain myself, I took Junot's short story and played with transforming it into verse. It's a mangled sestina wanna be something. Here's what happened:

How to date a Browngirl, Blackgirl, Whitegirl, or Halfie

Tell your mom you’re sick and don’t feel good

and can’t go with them to Union City

to visit your Tia Cora who likes to squeeze

your nuts and say “he’s gotten big!”

When they all leave, take another shower.

Comb down the kinks, use your dad’s cologne.

Wait for your date on the plastic covered sofa.

Hide the slab of government cheese

where your date will never see it.

Wait for your date on the plastic covered sofa.

If she’s a halfie, don’t be surprised if her mom’s white

and wants to meet you, to see if you scare her.

If she’s a browngirl, take her to El Cibao for dinner

and order in your busted up Spanish. Let her correct you

if she’s Latina; if she’s not, she will be amazed.

Take her back to your place , get serious, be alert.

If she’s an out-of-towner blackgirl, she grew up with ballet.

If she’s a Park Hill whitegirl, she’s the one you really want.

Take her back to your place, get serious, be alert.

If she’s a Park Hill whitegirl, tell her that you love her hair

her skin, her lips, because in truth you love them more

than you love your own. “I like Spanish guys” she’ll say

and even though you’ve never been to Spain,

you’ll say, “I like you.” You’ll sound smooth.

Usually it won’t work this way, so be prepared.

If she’s a halfie, she’ll say black people treat me real bad

that’s why I don’t like them. You’ll wonder how she feels

about Dominicans but don’t ask her.

Usually it won’t work this way, so be prepared.

After she leaves, watch all the tv you want,

all the shows you like, without comments,

interruptions, or competition for the remote.

Lie down on the plastic covered sofa and remember

how her skin felt and hope she tells you hi at school.

Take the cheese from the cabinet high above the oven.

Put it back in the fridge behind the milk

before your mom finds it and kicks your ass.

Lorca's Duende In Your Blood

Federico Garcia Lorca calls the duende a a savage creative storm, a vibrant energy that “burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass.” Duende is a dark force that smells like baby's spittle. Duende courses through minds and bodies of dancers, singers, artists and poets. If duende magic is successful, the resulting artistic work is always a “radical change in forms.” What is this duende really that it has the power to transfix and transform? Is duende a grotesque muse? Is it animal, vegetable or mineral? Is it bigger than a breadbox?

In Philippine folk mythology, the duende is a mischievous, gnome-like dwarf physically resembling Native Hawaiian menehune of local folklore. Duende—who inhabit people’s homes or large trees, sometimes living underground or in rural areas—are mostly annoying, but if treated with respect can bring good luck. And don’t ever make a duende mad because he/she/it can also be evil or crabby. Duende show themselves at noon for one hour and then engage in mischief making throughout the night. Or so the story goes from my lola and all the other relatives who tried to discourage us children from venturing out into the dark.

So please forgive Self if Self can't erase the image of little midgets swimming in Self's blood, just kind of hanging out in Self's bloody veins. When Self is trying to write a poem, Self succumbs to the "furious enslaving duende." And if all goes well with Self and Self's duende, Self will have written a poem that is a "new marvel that looks like, but is not, the primitive form,” so to speak. What is this duende poetic force realy? Duende is dark, duende is good. Deunde is in your blood. Or in your house. Or in the trees. Or underground. Or in the rural areas. And it's coming to get you! Boo!

Shakespeare's Sonnets Need More Plot

Have you ever tried reading all 154 of Shakespeare’s sonnets cover to cover and end to end over a period of two weeks? Self did. For class. The marathon left Self really jonesing for a plot. Give Self plot or give Self torture---please! Anything else but love, love, love. Enough already! Man, how many ways can a man write about love, and fair youth, and time, and immortality, and eternitizing (is that a word) verse, and exhortations of hurry-up-and-get married and you-must-have-kids so you can leave the world a richer and better place, and did-I-tell-you-I-love-you-btw-I-love-you. We get it already! You're in love! Blechh! Granted, the language is beautiful, the images tight, the metaphors rich, the puns punny, the logic of the arguments sound. But please kill Self already before Self has to read yet another lovely, lovely sonnet!

And just when Self can’t take it anymore, finally, a plot twist arrives. A rival poet enters. Goodie! Betrayal occurs. Hooray! And the fair youth slept with the dark mistree. Whoo hoo! Yes Houston, we have plot development! So, can you tell Self why, why it always the brown people who always have to be the bad guys/gals? Why couldn't the other woman be with a white mistress or a pink Irish mistress? And why, in sonnet 20, does the poet feel cheated when his young lover has a woman’s face, a woman’s gentle heart? Because Nature “pricked thee out for women’s pleasure” and other women are the competition for the faith youth's affections. Ah well, that’s why the plumbing between the genders is different, don'tcha think? Don’t go blaming the women for it. By sonnet 66 the poet is world weary. He enumerates wretchedness, injustice, disfigurement, dishonesty, lust. And so finally, there is form variation. in sonnet 126. This sonnet has only 12 lines! Wassup wid dat? Where’d the other 2 lines go? Stay tuned for more… as the plot turns.

Interview on Philippine American Writers and Artists, Inc.

Self and D recently attended the Voices of Our Nations Arts summer writing workshop at the University of San Francisco. We were interviewed by San Francisco poet Barbara Jane Reyes, who posted the interview on the Philippine American Writers and Artists blog. Check out what we say about our lolas and of being brown in a creative writing environment.

My Cheeky Self

Self is cheeky. So you can guess that the subheading of this blog is cheeky, too. Yes, tongue-in-cheeky. A virgin blogger, Self is looking forward to being inducted into the cyber wordsmithing hall of shame. Self will write shamelessly about books she encounters in her life as a reader, student, immigrant Pinay, local Hawaii yokel, poet-wanna-be, and all around media junkie. But the books! The books! This blog will always be about the magic of the word.