(My Response to An APIA - Asian and Pacific Islander American - Ad)

Ms.  Chen,

I understand APIA’s disappointment on the Supreme Court ruling that allows the State of Texas to enforce its Voter ID Law in the upcoming election.  I even understand the sentiments of the APIA members, their reasons for wanting .. or wishing… a reversal of such decision.  Truth be told, I admire the organization’s efforts to be a powerful advocate for the rights of Asian American and Pacific Islanders in the ever-expanding political and social arena of the United States.

 

However, as an Asian-American myself, I fail to understand why the enforcement of the Voter ID Law in Texas, or anywhere else for that matter,  would be detrimental to the goals and objectives of your organization.  I fail to understand how you and leaders like you, have sidestepped the fact that voting, although it has always been touted as a right,  is a sacred privilege!  We earn that privilege in a legal, unbiased way as we become citizens of this country according to its established laws.  When we circumvent those laws, when we demand the rights and privileges earned by law-abiding Americans for ourselves as we hide under the broken umbrella of racism and equality and political correctness, we break those very laws of which protection we demand.  In other words, we become self-serving hypocrites!

 

As I listened to the perspectives voiced by  the leaders of the APIA community, I heard  words such as, “ political power, opportunities, engaging in issues, participation, advocacy,” etc.   I admire the platform in which you stand and your dedication to the improvement of the Asian-American influence in this country’s political spectrum.  However, you need to emphasize and never forget that we are bound, not by our desire to be in equal footing with everyone, but by the higher law of the land – the United States Constitution!  If you disregard the importance of the Voter ID which should establish everyone’s legal right to cast his/her vote as a citizen of the United States, then your organization becomes an advocate for fraud and dishonesty and you trample the right of law-abiding Americans that they have earned legally.  You will probably cling to the reasoning of the far-left that the enforcement of the Voter ID Law is a deterrent that would drive those who want to vote away from the polls because ID’s are hard to obtain.  But let me tell you something:  A lot of us, immigrants, have managed to pass through the “eye of the needle”, so to speak, to come to the United States.  We have experienced privations, untold hardships, worked very hard, some even have defied threats to life and limb, to enjoy the promise of the American dream.  If we have experienced and overcome those untold challenges, would you care to tell me how a simple trip to an ID issuing facility so we  would have the right to be a voice that would shape this country’s destiny would be such a hard, insurmountable chore?  Would you care to let me know how, by demanding that we do away with such law, we can ensure that the right of those who are legally allowed to vote are protected and preserved?  Would you also care to tell me how your organization could encourage its members to be civically engaged when they could not even secure a necessary indicator that proves they could exercise their voting right as a citizen of this country?  I would venture to declare that only those who have less than principled  motives or those who are less engaged would use the difficulty of obtaining an ID as a crutch to voting rights.

 

Thank you for giving me the opportunity, as an Asian-American, though not a member of your organization, to speak up.  With all due respect, I hope I do not become a party to the erosion of the laws of the country that I love and embrace as my own, the United States of America.   Along with that hope is my prayer that those whose motives are stellar, but whose means are misguided – I venture to say, like your organization – would be encouraged to re-think the issues they espouse and  support.

 

Sincerely,

Norma Rivera

 

"All that is necessary for the growth of evil is for good men to do nothing."  - Edmund Burke

A TIME TO PAUSE AND REMEMBER

Fifty years ago today, a supreme act of evil found its mark and extinguished a glowing fire of hope as the bullet of hate felled its target.   On that ill-fated day - November 22, 1963 -  the shot that pierced the collective consciousness of the world carried a shroud of darkness that enveloped us all.  The great leader of the free world became a martyr to the cause and the world mourned, not only for the man, but for itself.  His years in office were not an age of utopia, for such was a fool’s fancy, but it was a time of hope, it was a period of great expectations, it was an era that showcased the best of America -  its encompassing leadership, its enviable grace and class, the richness of its history and the refinement of its culture.  The bullet that shattered his mortal shell ricocheted full circle and demolished humanity’s  hopes and dreams for a better world.  Those hopes, those dreams,  could only be pinned on the lapel of a true leader, but one such man only came once in a lifetime.  Much too early he was snatched away,  leaving us in the throes of loss and pain,  by an assassin’s bullet.  In one swift, abominable second of supreme hate, the mortal became immortal  and all that was left was our bitter-sweet recollection of those “years of lightning, day of drums”. 

From the outset, his presidency was one that exemplified selfless service.  "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country", was not an empty rhetoric to garner undeserved approbation from an obsequious world.  It was his mantra, his own brand of progressivism, a call to undo the shackles of poverty and usher in self- sufficiency for the countries of the third world.  Through his "Alliance for Progress", he deployed an army of volunteers, the peace corps, that brandished, not the weapons of war, but the brawn, intelligence, and might of America as well as  its spirit of generosity and goodwill.  And with that uncommon style of leadership, a reluctant world that prized action more than the ring of empty words was won.  But it was not to last.  For Dallas was waiting.

JFK - we still feel the loss.  Today, let us pause and remember him and what he tried to offer: true hope that we swaddle inside the sparkling package of legends;   optimism,  that go beyond wishful thinking and wrapped in the assuring cloak of competent leadership. We still feel our loss because our hope for a better world remains elusive, something no one seems unable to fully restore in the heart and mind of humanity after it was left bludgeoned and incapacitated by the bullet of hate on November 22, 1963.  Are we just left with the dying embers of that raging fire of hope, that one shining, "Camelotian" moment?  We can only keep our fingers crossed.

JFK, we salute you -  the man, the leader, the hero, our one brief, shining moment of hope!

BRUSH STROKES OF THE DIVINE

For  lack of a compelling evidence to the contrary in the court of public opinion, I think I can safely defend the popular notion that travel is the best form of education.  Travel has always fascinated me, not only for the experience, but for  affording my insatiable curiosity with an avenue to discover, for the opportunity to enhance intellectual growth that only a personal encounter,  aided by visual and tactile familiarity, can completely satisfy. Travel is liberating, emotionally and otherwise,  for it gives us a perspective on people, places, and things that broadens our self-understanding and enlarges our here-to-fore limited view of the world.  For most of us, there is that need to be "there",  to explore, to see, to know, and thereby establish a connection to something.  There is in me that desire for adventure as well as a yearning to learn what was,  to understand what can be.  Travel graciously  offers those possibilities... and more.

Sometime in July, one of my friends emailed me a tour company's website advertising a number of bus tours to different parts of the country including one that went to different national parks - Yellowstone, The Arches, Mt. Rushmore, Grand Teton, etc.  A friend from high school was coming from the Philippines in September and I thought it would be a great opportunity for her to see those tourist attractions in the country.  I had not been to those places either because, when planning a vacation, I always opted to go abroad - Europe or the Mediterranean - thinking I could always go to those "local" places anytime.  So after relaying my plan to my friend as well as to another high school friend who also resided in Vegas, we decided to book the tour.

For seven days on the first week of September, we crisscrossed seven states in the West Coast and the Midwest of the great continental U.S.  Our first visit was to a place where the footprints of time had been etched in a wonderland of varied colors, shapes, and sizes, which left us in awe:  The Arches.  We marveled at the incredible sandstone formations and soaring natural arches dotting the vast arid landscape of this Moab, Utah phenomenon.  The day was blisteringly hot but it showcased the beauty in stone all around us to perfection.

We left the area in mid-afternoon and after hours of travel, we reached Denver, Colorado where we spent the night.   Crazy Horse and Mt. Rushmore monuments in South Dakota were our next day stop.  Our tour guide stoked our tradition-loving spirits as he recounted the story of the monument to Crazy Horse, the legendary Lakota Indian leader.  The still unfinished stone memorial, dubbed as the world's largest mountain structure, aimed to honor the culture and traditions of North American Indians.  Mt.  Rushmore,  on the other hand, immortalizing the likeness of four past U. S. presidents - Washington, Jefferson, T.  Roosevelt, and Lincoln - stirred within us a different fire. Seeing those familiar faces of greatness carved in granite would easily awaken even  the most latent patriotic fervor in most, something that would invariably segued to a prayer for deliverance of this great but now beleaguered nation.  But gratitude remained for what we still had, for the lessons of the past we hoped we were still capable to learn from the legacy of those honored leaders immortalized in stone.

The next day, we were off again enjoying the scenic miles of green valleys and untamed mountain ranges that seemed to beckon to us.  Then came Yellowstone National Park,  wild, gigantic, diverse, outrageously stunning in a natural, unpretentious way.  From its numerous geothermal, steam-spewing geysers to its vast landscape of towering trees and cascading waterfalls, Yellowstone was nature at its best, and we were hooked!  We soaked in the timeless beauty of Old Faithful,  the most famous geyser of the park, as it erupted at regular intervals.  We stalked the park's wildlife from a distance - elks, bison, deer, etc, - to get a photo for posterity as they grazed nonchalantly along established paths.  We hovered in fascination at the gurgling hot springs emitting sulphuric vapors as we traveled the meandering boardwalks of the park and wondered at the secrets hidden in the deceptive depth of its enormous lake that seemed to tease and lure us with its placid grandeur.  Spending the night in a hotel just outside the park, we were up early to avail ourselves of the iconic beauty of a Yellowstone morning.   Early day at Yellowstone was like stepping into an ancient fantasyland of pristine, quiet landscape with steam from boiling pools fogging the winding paths that were still covered in semi-darkness.  It reminded me of those long-ago days of my childhood when life offered simple joys such as the sound of nature waking from its slumber.  Ah, but that was from another world, from a distant time, thoughts unearthed from a growing cache of half-buried memories.  Strange how the slowly ebbing penumbra of a Yellowstone dawn could send someone to an unintended excursion to the past.

Leaving Yellowstone after our morning stroll, our tour bus headed to our next destination, Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  After a couple or so hours on the road, we stopped at a place called Jackson Lake Lodge to take pictures and use the lodge's facilities.  The place had a cavernous hall with full-length picture windows overlooking a backyard garden and a wide, open  field beyond.  A few minutes before the scheduled time to go back to the bus, I noticed people lugging out their cameras and taking pictures through the windows. As I came closer, I saw an awesome, heart-stopping sight:  The majestic Grand Teton with its rocky, craggy points emerging through a veil of thick,  white, lazily gliding clouds!  It presented such a captivating, surreal beauty that sang to the spirit and transcended the common and mundane, a phantasmagoric phenomenon right before my eyes. As I watched that incredible spectacle,  that mesmerizing display of a cosmic drama of light and colors, I felt I was viewing a piece of heaven.  The Grand Teton, with the undulating clouds playing within its base, shimmered under the sultry  blanket of the golden sun.  In the foreground spread a sea of green forest that seemed to compete with the azure blue of the tranquil sky.  Never had I seen nature in such spell-binding splendor.  Reluctantly leaving that grand display of nature's wonder, I headed for the tour bus with the rest of the group thinking that was the last time I would see it.  But the Teton range was visible along the way and seemed to follow us through miles of vast wilderness displaying the pastoral beauty of the Wyoming countryside. I tried to capture the Grand Teton's  arresting radiance in film but every shot gave me an unsatisfactory, frustrating result as it failed to encapsulate the mountain's majestic quality.  But undaunted, before such panoramic vista dissolved into the towering green heights of pines and deciduous trees, I  safely tucked and preserved it in the sentimental - but mayhap less enduring -  photograph of the mind.

Jackson, Wyoming was a quaint little town that sat like a sentinel where tourists had to go through before entering the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks.  It boasted a steep, imposing ski slope that would be hard to miss even at the hilt of a mid-day September summer.   The day was particularly busy and somehow festive due to the presence of vendors lining the main street to sell their goods in the once-a-month Farmer's Market that catered to both locals and tourists.  One of Jackson's attractions was the Elk Antler arch in the center of town where memorabilia enthusiasts crowd to take personal photos.  Jackson did not have the sophistication and ultra-modern feel of big cities but the old-town charm and traditional appeal that seemed to have sadly vanished in more contemporary areas continued to be its mainstays.

We went through Idaho as we traveled back to Utah which would be the last state we would pass before the conclusion of the tour.  The overcast sky that slowly formed before we entered Idaho foreshadowed the torrent of rain that burst on and off as we came close to Salt Lake City.  It was almost dusk when we reached our hotel and the rain had slowed down to a light shower then finally stopped which was a blessing, because my two daughters,  who both resided south of Salt Lake City, came with their husband and children to see me.

We set out at 7:00 AM the following day to visit the Great Salt Lake, the State Capitol, and Temple Square.   The rain returned after a brief respite on the previous night and the sky was overcast.  Although not a heavy downpour, prolonged exposure to it would surely drench us so we donned our hat and sweater before venturing out.  We stopped at a little marina in the Great Salt Lake and braved the rain for some pictures, then continued on to downtown Salt Lake.   The traffic was very light and the streets looked deserted, not only because it was relatively early but also because it was Sunday.  The Mormons (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints), which constitute more than 50% of  Utah's inhabitants, follow a strict observance of the Sabbath law and do not open business establishments on Sunday.  Temple Square houses the buildings and structures of the church with the temple as its centerpiece.  Sister missionaries greeted us after we entered the square and we were given a tour of some of its buildings.  I had visited the place countless times  before being a member of the church and was pretty familiar with its layout and since we were a big group, I kind of assisted the others who were lagging behind where to go.   The missionaries gave us a tour of some of the buildings like the Tabernacle, which was the home of the famed Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and the Assembly Hall.  A brief history of the church was also presented by the missionaries especially the story of the Mormon pioneers and their faith-based sacrifices that built that great state and other surrounding settlements in the 1800's.

The highlight of that Temple Square tour for me, then and as always, was our visit to "The Christus" on the second floor of the North Visitors' Center.  For this particular trip, it was the climax and denouement in one reflective, flowing synthesis.  The 11-foot statue of Jesus Christ by the Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen, was an imposing single presence in a dome structure surrounded by a mural of heavenly bodies depicting the creation.  Being there with the statue of the Savior standing in a solemn, majestic pose as the world outside continued on its swirl, was a choice experience.  It was a moment when the physical and the spiritual sense of this earthly experience seized one's limited understanding to infuse the profound meaning we all need to learn.   That solitary moment was a fitting ending to that seven-day journey that stirred my sense of awareness and appreciation for his glorious and magnificent handiwork.  Unequal in majesty and grandeur by anything fashioned by man,  those stunning vistas of mountains and lakes, green forests, tumbling waterfalls and quiet brooks,  were constant reminders of the boundless love of a Supreme Being, one whose divine brush strokes from his palette of vibrant colors created a spell-binding beauty that gave us a glimpse of the glories that awaited us in his eternal home.  And I marveled at  his grace and tender mercies as my spirit genuflected in praise and immense gratitude while my heart sang, "Hallelujah, praise the Lord".

WHERE IS LOVE?

I probably should stop reading the news and just hide in the quiet confines of ignorance and apathy.  I should close my eyes and feign blindness as the world grapples with the ugliness that society heaps upon itself.  I should be deaf to the cries of injustice that put a stranglehold to truth and civility.  I should be inured and impassive to the glut of nonsensical and nefarious rubbish that foolish individuals spew out to dignify their risible outlook on issues that matter.   After all, who am I?  I can't change people and I'm powerless to change things.

The last couple of weeks were particularly hard and emotionally draining for a lot of people as the nation's security was again severely compromised.  As the events in Boston flashed in the news media and brought to us in explicitly painful, graphic detail the carnage of innocent individuals,  our sense of well-being was altered, our haven of peace was violated and we were left dazed in that precarious state of disbelief of what was true and glaringly real. 

Prior to that event, the news started to cover the trial of an individual who hid behind the protective cloak of his profession to commit unspeakable, monstrous acts against the helpless human beings who were born, yet unborn, alive, yet dead,  according to his warped and evil pronouncement.  In many ways, he was a career criminal, an executioner, a murder-for-hire monster who used his title to commit vile acts with impunity.   Sanctioned by society and the band of individuals who championed the right to kill through abortion, this physician who swore to heal and protect life never flinched in his unconscionable rampage to deny the unborn the right to life even as they breathed, even as they helplessly cried, even as their tiny arms struggled to ward off his merciless hand as he snipped their spinal cord.  These were not human acts by any stretch of the imagination.  Animals behaved with more caring, intelligence and compassion.   As we contemplated  these societal issues and problems that threatened to destroy the best in people, those values and feelings, and emotions that made us human, don't we wrestle to find the answer to the question, "Where is love"?

As we peel off that coating of respectability imbued by civilization, the essence of who we really are is well concealed within the sophisticated layers of refinement and culture.  Kindness, humanity, decency, integrity, and a myriad of other  values that we need to cultivate and nurture to be "quality" human beings cannot be developed outside ourselves albeit we can look up to others that we can emulate.  But unless we actively practice those principles,  they will lie forever dormant in the recesses of the soul.  And love, that vital emotion that morphs from those values, will not have the chance to grow if we never provided that environment where it can thrive and evolve.

So where is love?  The young boy, Oliver, in Charles Dickens'  "Oliver Twist" desperately asked the same gut-wrenching question. Has our society lost that vital emotion to the cruel and callous disregard that other human beings frequently exhibit toward others?  As I reflect on that question,  the sense of gloom and doom that has initially wrenched my spirit to fill with rancor, is replaced by that supernal peace that only God can provide.   There comes that reassuring voice of the Spirit that soothes the soul like flashes of light in the midst of an encircling gloom.

Where is love?  It is spoken in hushed tones of encouragement as rescuers lend a helping hand to the victims of  the Boston bombing.  It is in the unselfish acts of kindness of virtual strangers who open their homes to those who are searching for their loved ones amid the confusion of the day.  It is displayed in many forms - in the clasped hands of an unidentified woman as she lifts her head towards the sky in prayer,  in the heroic efforts of peacekeepers to find the culprits without regard for their personal safety, in the tears and prayers of a nation,  even in the concern expressed by the global community through social media sites that gives the victims the assurance that they are not alone.  

The recent unfortunate tragedy in Boston encapsulates society's caring side but it is not a solitary incident nor an unusual occurrence.  It is demonstrated every day in quiet acts of kindness that do not clamor for recognition.  It is there as neighbors help neighbors in many, many unheralded display of what is good and decent in all of us.  The kindly deed of good Samaritans that come to the rescue of someone unfamiliar is love in action, that spark of the divine from Him who is love personified.  It is entrenched in kind words, in the warmth of a simple smile, in the comfort of a gentle touch.   We have been haplessly jaded by society's ills so when horrific things happen, cynicism, doubt,  pessimism and hopelessness will sometimes inhibit us from seeing the beauty that is still present in the hearts of people.  But when we endeavor to search deeper, down in the substratum of the spirit where the best in humanity is safely and firmly tucked in,  we will find that exquisite spark that will drive away the obsidian fiend of despair that threatens to destroy us.  Then we will no longer ask and wonder, "Where is love"?  For we can find it here,  still living and beating mightily within us. 

Let Me Gather Shards of Moonlight

LET ME GATHER SHARDS OF MOONLIGHT

Let me gather shards of moonlight,

From the specter of lost dreams;

Let me wrap their fragile pieces

For the wonder just within. 

Let me pick up shards of promise

From the shores of borrowed time;

Let me piece them all together,

Let me know they're truly mine.

I will mock the haughty raindrops;

I will dare the winter chill.

I'll defy the ruthless sunshine,

For the moonlight's mellow gleam.

Then with moonbeams glowing softly,

I'll search for the  half-sung song.

I will tame the colored rainbow,

That I watched in awe so  long. 

I will chase the dreaded shadows

Lurking just beneath the gloom;

And with moonlight's guiding radiance,

Find the beauty and the song!

Meet Me In A Place Where Dreams Lie

MEET ME IN A PLACE WHERE DREAMS LIE

Meet me in a place where dreams lie

Where the heart is free to roam,

Where life's sunset is the dawning

Of a lovely, tranquil morn.

Meet me in a place where music

Still plays its old refrain,

And the promise that it carries

Whispers to the soul again.

Meet me where the sun will linger

When forever parts with now;

Where the long and bright tomorrow,

Lights the path it left, somehow.

Tell me all the craved-for wonders,

All the echoes of lost time;

Let me hear the subtle musings

For the words that lost their rhyme.

Let me see a world that beckons,

To a soul that knows no rest;

Show me where the moonbeams carry,

Their soft balm of longed-for peace.

So meet me in a place eternal,

Guide me as I  grope along;

Hold my hand to ward off sorrow,

For forever's love is long.

BEFORE THE FLOWERS BLOOM

A classic rhyme from an old childhood poem has resurfaced from memory as I listen to the pattering noise a drenching rain inexorably carries. “April showers, bring May flowers”. Those who feel inconvenienced by a few heaven-sent drops of moisture or those who consider rain a juggernaut of nature, should regard it as a prelude to beauty, that germane hand that gives the brown earth its verdant, emerald blush in spring, the caring touch that nudges the buds to share their vibrant, colored blooms, or that unseen force that restores the hibernating vegetation to awaken in unabashed exultation of life.

The earth will be an unsightly stretch of drabness where beauty is nonexistent without that enviable power of rain to coax the colors to spring forth and breathe life to the spoils of winter. Invariably, it obscures that unfettered brightness of the sun as it scatters clouds overhead like a canopy of gray, cottony shield. There is soporific comfort in the rhythm of its incessant sound as it falls to the earth and the lure to wallow in its murky depths surprisingly affords a calming aura that sings to the soul. It exudes a transcendental beauty that needs to be felt rather than seen and only those who are inclined to uncover its hidden allure will truly understand its magic.

But rain has its cruel streak, an ugly side that can spell havoc and mayhem in its egregious, uncontrolled fury. It can segue from its docile, reticent nature to a leviathan, ferocious monster that leaves nothing inviolate. It is that masochistic force of nature that can punish and exact vengeance with impunity and these nefarious attributes, despite the scientific advances the world has seen, remain essentially untamed.

Beauty and ugliness: Are there better metaphors to life? As rain precedes the beauty of spring, there is that prescient hand that dispenses the refiner’s fire to cleanse the soul before its radiance can be revealed. The crucible of life, that testing furnace of affliction, enhances and hones us to uncover the polished entity that we are, that flawless spirit a loving Father assiduously fashioned in his loving,  unerring hand.

“April showers, bring May flowers.” There is an unvarnished truth, both physical and divine, to this simple, incisive rhyme.  Sorrow, trials and life’s storms – they are underpinnings to life, those elemental, strengthening factors that are indispensable to a strong and firm foundation where beauty needs to dwell like multi-colored blooms sprouting through the earth after a cleansing rain. Showers, rain, darkness – we need them to sober and soften us like the ground under our feet, before the flowers bloom.

My Last Full Measure of Devotion

Have you ever driven through a thick fog that your sense of direction has been utterly compromised,  when you feel trapped by an unseen hand that hinders your ability to see?  That unsettling, anxious feeling that comes as you are engulfed by that haze of reduced visibility and with that cloud of uncertainty dancing every which way you turn is akin to what awaits us as a nation post election 2012.  Or is it the pessimist in me, that voice of disappointment, that nagging, mournful sense of loss from the suspicious result of the last election intoning my fears?

The stakes posed by Election 2012 were high, too high it seemed, for America.  The country was in the brink of economic disaster, the social and moral decay was apparent everywhere, the corruption in the highest levels of government was unequaled and unheard of in times past, and government dependency of millions of its citizens had aptly earned this generation of Americans the name,  "Entitlement Society".  What happened to "the greatest generation"?  How did we sink this low and at such a rapid pace? How long and how deep had our heads been buried in the sand of apathy? Then in a sudden moment of realization as some of us poked our heads up,  we saw the looming tragedy and knew we needed someone, a safe, dependable anchor, a savior, a leader.

Along came Mitt Romney.  Either as a fortuitous catalyst or from the hand of Providence, we did not know.  A Washington outsider,  his name had already been a byword in certain demographics even before he entered the national scene. A successful businessman and a self-made millionaire, a Salt Lake City Olympics "Knight in Shining Armor", a Republican ex- Massachusetts governor in a heavily Democratic state, he appeaared to be the perfect man for the job, an achiever,  a doer, a rescuer of ailing economies.  We saw hope; he brought hope.  We saw light; he represented that light.  We looked in the horizon of our nation's tomorrows and saw the promise of a clear day despite the darkness of the present... and we smiled, we held our heads high once more for it was safe to dream again... or so we thought.

But we were sensible and realistic even as we inhabited our dreamland, if that is possible.  Early on, we knew we needed to do more than wish and hope.   "The world has need of willing men (women) who wear the worker's seal" became more than the echoing message of a hymn; it was a deliberate and voluntary awakening of the hearts of a noble mass of people who knew the election was crucial to their survival as a society and as a nation and that they needed to take their country back, one vote, one person at a time.  And so the movement began.

I was a part of that movement, of that exciting, full-throttled, whole-hearted, "let's-do-it, we'll-win-America-back"  ground game for Mitt.  We were the volunteers that would save America through a leader that epitomized the kind of people we always aspired to be:  honest, decent, hard-working, God-fearing,  decisive, and imbued with the highest ideals of character and integrity.  For us, Mitt represented the best in America, the America that seemed to move farther and farther from our grasp.  We could not let it slip away without a fight.  That "shining city on a hill" of our golden days needed to be preserved,  not for ourselves but for those we love.   And so we came;  we organized in small groups and scattered ourselves around the whole stretch of the continent, a band of committed and involved citizens  that worked  tirelessly supporting a cause greater than ourselves while also boosting a self-aggrandized need to stand for something and make a difference.  We knocked on doors, sometimes enduring odious responses from the supporters of the other party interspersed with moments of elation and encouragement from those who were tired and disappointed on the performance of the present administration.  Fueled by that sense of patriotism that burned brightly within, we went door after door, neighborhood after neighborhood,  week after week for months under the scorching glare of the relentless Las Vegas sun.  We carried our inexhaustible supply of campaign materials, our survey forms, names,  addresses of strangers that we needed to reach.  We asked questions but most of all, we carried a message;  we offered a promise:   Mitt Romney!   We raised the hopes of those who would join our cause; we shared our resolute conviction  that with Mitt at the nation's helm, we can believe again.   We attended numerous rallies that fanned our enthusiasm and we soaked in the candidate's words as he electrified the audience.  With voices hoarse from cheers of exultation, we buoyed each other up as his speeches elicited a gamut of emotions in all of us.  Those were moments that mobilized and inspired us, moments that we would cherish as a lasting reminder of the bright days filled with hope that never was.

The presidential debates cemented what we had always known about Mitt, that he was strong and capable, that he had the best plan for the country.  The ugly mask from a plethora of lies and half-truths smoothly fashioned by the left started to crumble and the true Mitt emerged before the eyes of his detractors.  His momentum that gained traction from his initial debate performance started to crack the so-called firewall of his adversary and the uncompromising, vicious mud-slinging hurled against him intensified ten-fold.  But Mitt was a class act, the gold standard in decency and honor.  He refused to go down to the level of his opponent and indulge in a tit-for-tat game of small, mindless diatribe on things that did not really matter in the general scheme of the nation's problems.  The underpinnings of his campaign remained focused on restoring our economic might and creating jobs to ease the burden of American families.  That was his sincere resolve, his mantra, the heart of his incisive pledge to the American people.   As the election inched closer, his victory seemed certain as the crowds of engaged, fired up supporters came in enormous numbers - 12,000 in Colorado, 15,000 in Virginia, 35,000 in Ohio.  They chanted his name, their voices fighting for dominance  against the onslaught of the wintry wind.  They walked the dark distance on hilly slopes, the old on arthritic knees, the young couple pushing a stroller with a bundled child, the jobless, the wealthy, the disenfranchised, the undecided, the avid supporter, the white, the black, the hyphenated American.  They all came for the hope and the promise and with eyes burning with optimism, eyes glistening with tears of a rekindled faith in one person who would restore the American dream.  Little did they know the dream would be dashed in such a cruel, callous way.

November 6, Tuesday, Election 2012: my last full measure of devotion to a dream, the day to give my all to an ideal.    There was no cryptic message written ominously in the sky of what lay ahead on this crisp, cloudless Las Vegas morning.  At 6:45, the appointed start of my poll watching duty, I was punctually introducing myself to the team leader of the polling place in the Lone Mountain Service Center.  The precincts (6 in all), promptly opened at 7:00 AM and a steady stream of voters that had been waiting outside occupied the 12 voting machines designated as silent carriers of the will of the American electorate.  My role as a "Project Orca" volunteer, Mitt's task force, was to identify and report any violation of voter laws as well as documenting and reporting those who voted from the list "Project Orca" had provided.  It was a long, twelve hours of observing for possible election anomaly as I sat in a designated area watching like a hawk for a prey.  I filled out two Incident Reports from two unregistered voters that came and voted provisionally,  and turned them over to a volunteer lawyer who came to check on the precinct activity from time to time.  Aside from those two incidents, the day was pretty unremarkable.  Outside the polling place as I was ready to go home at 7 PM, I checked the news from my iPhone and was thrilled to see an electoral vote count: 19 to 3,  for Mitt!  But the initial news, encouraging as it was,  was overshadowed by a gut feeling I could not shake off.

The dreaded result slammed into me like the force of a vicious hurricane.   As the electoral votes tied at 163 around 8:30 PM, I could not stand to watch Fox News any longer so I went to bed ignoring two phone calls from a friend.  I was in pins and needles and did not feel like talking or even thinking,  afraid that the unthinkable would work its way into my consciousness.  After a while, I managed a fitful sleep.  At  past 3:00 AM, hoping against hope, saying a silent prayer, and with my heart in my throat, I went to the family room and turned on the TV.  I caught the tail end of Mitt's concession speech with the electoral votes for both candidates intermittently being flashed on the screen.  The devastating truth was right before my eyes but its nightmarish aura intensified by the darkness around me made it unreal, unacceptable, mendacious, surreal.  "There was no way!  Impossible!", the alter ego cried.  But even as I hid from the murky depths of denial, I knew, and bitter tears of disappointment sprang, not from the eyes that see, but from the hidden recesses of the heart.

I mourned the shattered dream, the hope to resurrect the better America of days gone by when we still valued  the success that came from hard work, the self-respect gained from self-reliance.  I mourned for the death of decency in this country to whom I pledged my loyalty and allegiance.  I grieved for the dying "city on a hill" that was the bastion of freedom to the world.  I ached for a country which was on its way to a complete transformation to something our Founding Fathers fought against and for which our heroes died to prevent, a country where my  grandchildren would be denied the opportunity to fulfill their personal destiny and to dream the same dream that lighted the fire in my heart when I first reached its mighty shores 33 years ago.

But despite the desultory years ahead, I will continue to nurture that ember of hope salvaged from the depths of the spirit which refuses to be extinguished because of my faith in him who said, "Be still, and know that I am God:  I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth" (Psalms 46:10).  Deep within, I know that my last full measure of devotion should not rest on one man, nor the ideal he represents, nor in a country, even one as beloved and as close to my heart as the United States of America.  I know my hope, real, pure, everlasting hope,  should come from a covenant made with a loving Father whose immense blessings are promised to the faithful regardless of the uncertainties the world may bring.  In the end,  that will be my reward, even my vindication.  But for that one brief shining moment of hope for things that could have been, I thank wholeheartedly one special man of courage for giving it his all... for trying, for fighting a good fight.  God bless you,  Mitt Romney!   As I said goodbye to that cause that fueled every patriot's dream for a better America, the wisdom of an old adage seemed to hang heavy within a heart that learned the crushing lesson of defeat: "Of all the sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: "'It could have been'".

BECAUSE THERE ARE HEROES

Memorial Day is one of those days when we are brought to a deeper realization of how lucky we are because there are others who  willingly paid the ultimate sacrifice for our sake.  Today, I am once again fully cognizant of how much I owe those brave men and women, dead or alive, who have chosen service in the military their life's mission.   We are a better nation, a better people, who enjoy the many blessings of freedom because there are those whose love for country transcends pain, suffering, torture and even death.  Today, we honor them; today, we celebrate those keepers of freedom; today, we remember a debt we can never repay.  As we pause to offer a prayer of gratitude for what they have sacrificed for our sake, may we also recognize that our best expression of thanks comes in preserving what they have so valiantly fought for - our God-given gift of freedom.

A soldier's story of valor never fails to bring down my tears.  My profound respect for what they do or did in the service of our country is a paramount testament to me of an unselfish act, something that, in some infinitisimal measure, reflects the Savior's love.  One of those is the story of Kyle, a young marine who was wounded in combat while serving in Iraq.  He was severely wounded and lost his right arm.  Now, he has a family and his small daughter was born with a chromosomal defect that renders her a special needs child.  Despite a missing right hand, Kyle participates in his daughter's care with the dedication borne of love and strong sense of responsibility.  Kyle's attempt to bring normalcy to  his young life brought him to the "Wounded Warriors" team, a group of veterans who play baseball despite an amputated leg/s or arm.  I watched them in a video presentation that recorded one of their games with a group of full-limbed celebrities and marveled at their spirit, their zest for life, their exuberant attitude and their passion to excel in that physical game in spite of their handicap.  True that, except Kyle,  they wear a prosthetic device but we can all surmise that they are not as good as the ones they are born with.  And yet, they did not surrender to the curve ball of life; rather, they hit it with all they've got and scored a thrilling home run.  True to form, they are winners...because they are heroes.

I remember another story of a soldier from another time, a WWII veteran.  He affected me in a different way because his story, from the little that I knew, did not involve a missing limb but entailed the ravages of disease and the toll of advanced age.  A few years back, I decided I would hang my nursing license and go into retirement.  It didn't last, however.  After a few months, the tedium of inactivity nudged me relentlessly so I decided to try a type of nursing I haven't tried before - home health.  On the first day of my orientation with another nurse, one of the patients we saw was a paraplegic man who was bed-ridden and lived alone.  He let us in by operating the garage door opener after we announced our arrival through his bedroom window.  Lying in a hospital bed next to a tiny refrigerator and a hot plate, he was able to feed himself with whatever food he could reach and make in his cooking device.  Upon inspection, we discovered he needed an extensive cleaning up so after checking his blood glucose and giving his insulin coverage, we proceeded with the task.  It was something the visiting CNA should have done, but we were not leaving the poor man in such a pathetic situation until the CNA's scheduled arrival that afternoon.   I was worried about his safety and was curious about how he landed in such a dismal situation.  Apparently, he was curious about me too.  He asked me if I was from the Philippines and told me he was stationed there during the 2nd World War.  He mentioned a few areas where he was stationed and some of the horrible treatments they received from the Japanese soldiers when the country fell into the hands of the enemies.  I was surprised that his memory of those years stayed so vivid in his octogenarian mind but realizing how traumatic those experiences must have been, I understood why they were not easily forgotten.  We left him clean and dry after arranging a few things that would help him manage alone.  I asked the nurse orienting me if his situation had been reported to the Social Worker and why he was allowed to live in such a wretched state. I was told he was refusing to leave his home despite attempts by health care workers to transfer him to a facility.  He was my last home health case.  I was so distraught  by what I saw that after filing another report about his need to be re-assessed by his case worker, I quit that job.  I was so filled with a sense of outrage that a veteran who served his country when he was young and able was left to suffer alone in his old age.   Granted that he did not want to leave his home, there should still be a way that the system would be able to work out to ensure that he received adequate care.   I thought of him, and countless others like him, and wept in shame.

Two lives, two stories, two  men, two heroes.  Yet, there are millions.  Lives lost, lives changed, lives that rest in lonely graves covered with the parched earth or buried in the depths of the sea.  Their scattered remains and their blood spilled to water the scorched arid lands that hunger to be free are lasting sentinels of hope for a better world.  The battle to constantly light that fire of hope may never end, and the human struggle to fight for the right to be free from human bondage may never cease till the end of the earth.   But that brilliant orb of hope will outlast the darkness brought by man's selfish desire to oppress and dominate, because there are heroes.  Today, we bow our heads to give thanks for this glorious land that is ours, because there are heroes.  May we rejoice in our immense blessing, celebrate what we have and safeguard this freedom, this priceless offering that is ours... because there are heroes!

"For You Bouquets And Ribbon'd Wreaths..."

11/11/11 - Veterans Day!  I woke up today with a fresh sense of gratitude for a special class of American men and women who sacrificed themselves and offered their precious lives in the service of their country. This day, we honor and remember them for all that they have given us - a legacy of freedom. May the meaning of their selfless giving continue to resonate in the lives of all of us in the free world as long as the white crosses that mark their lonely graves exist and long after the last requiem has been said. For their sacrifice gives glory to an act of supreme love that the One greater than all of us offered more than two thousand years ago. His words still ring loud and clear:  "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - John 15:13 -

American Soldier, I salute and thank you for all that you have done, for your precious, selfless offering in the altar of freedom, an incalculable gift that,  sadly,  we sometimes take for granted.  Americans, since generations past, had understood the immense value of those sacred liberties that originated from a most loving Father, the Father of our spirit.  Ions ago, the ultimate sacrifice of a Divine Being became the prototype for the defenders of freedom as they lay their lives for those they love - their country, their family and the beliefs they hold in unwavering strength within their heart and soul. 

American Soldier, today and every day, may we remember that we owe you a debt of gratitude that must be repaid, not in soaring rhetoric as you are lauded in speeches and star-studded parades,  though they surely are well-intended, but in a the preservation of the ideals you have fought for - life, libertry, and the pursuit of happiness - for the present and future generation of Americans that inhabit and will inhabit this great country as well as for those dispersed in many nations of the world.  Your precious blood had watered the parched grounds of tyranny that brought an end to repressive rules of despots in many countries around the globe.  Your acts of heroism to defend the oppressed and exploited even at the cost of your life stand as white-crossed sentinels in cemeteries everywhere.  You have been immortalized in brass and stone and commemorated in plaques and cenotaphs of cold marbles.  Memorials to your courage and valor dotted many a city's plaza and recorded history replays your invaluable contributions to the preservation of freedoms we hold most dear. 

And yet, no stone memorial, no wordy rhetoric,  no posthumous tribute can ever equal any honor we  bestow upon you as we safeguard those freedoms you valiantly  fought for.  As we exercise the tenets of our God-given liberties, we salute you in reverential awe, American Soldier.  As we follow the law, as we make an informed choice in electing our leaders, we sing you a hymn of utmost praise.  As we defend our right to worship how, where, and what we may, as we speak and choose freely, we light an eternal flame to cast warmth and light to your lonely forgotten graves. But most of all,  as we live a life that bespeaks of integrity and righteousness, we not only give glory to what you have given us but we glorify the name of the ultimate source of our divine freedoms - God, our Father who gave us all.   American Soldier, today we will look beyond the ceremonial wreaths and flags proudly waving in the breeze, across to the far horizon and may we catch a glimpse of where you are as you sit on the right hand of the Father, you who gave testimony of a lesson well learned by laying "down his life for his friends".

FADED GLORY?

August 27, 2011

It is one of those names in the music world that conjure images of youth,  beauty, and spring.  It is a name that summons to the mind, through the  owner's romantic ballads,  a recollection of feelings and emotions long forgotten.  It is a name intrinsically connected to a string of youthful remembrances that transforms the aged soul as it embarks into an unfettered journey to half-buried joys of long ago.   It has the sound of an ordinary name but has an uncommon commonness that when spoken makes it unmistakably belonging to the owner alone.  It is success personified owing to the owner's myriad of accomplishments in the field of music,  from record labels of world acclaim to a distinct place in the highest echelons of fame that few have ever achieved.  All American, tall, handsome in that wholesome, heart-stopping kind of way, Jack Jones, in his heyday, was a luminous singing sensation whose brilliance had outshone many of his peers during his illustrious career.

So I had somewhat high, though reasonable expectation when we went to see his performance at the Southpoint Casino Theater tonight.  I first saw him performed live in 1966 at the Araneta Coliseum in Manila when I was a college student.  A vocalist who was also a consummate performer, he connected and dazzled his audience with his renditions of the hit songs of that period, "Lorelei", "A Time For Us", "Lollipops and Roses", "Dear Heart", "Call Me Irresponsible", to name a few.  That was 45 long years ago and,  fully cognizant of the toll of the unkind years that manifested itself even in the gifts endowed to the greatest talents, I was prepared to make allowances and had conditioned myself for a less grand presentation.  And yet, there was a certain degree of expectation that I held on to, a scale above the usual and ordinary, a range beyond the drab and staid.  I went there to be entertained if not to be dazzled once more, because that, even for a Jack Jones at this stage of the game might be a tall order. 

At 7:30 PM, the  drum rolled from his 5-man band and the curtain parted.  The older, white-haired, still lanky image of his old self came into view and walked to center stage with a wave of the hand and a "how's-everyone" greeting to his mostly senior audience.  There was an enthusiastic applause that reverberated within the theater as Jack belted out his initial number, "I'm a Singer".   Dressed in a black suit, red tie and a shirt as white as his middle-of the-nape hair, the singer still possessed that confident stride of the quintessential performer that captured the heart of millions a few decades ago.  But his voice, the voice that haunted many a young girls' dream betrayed the years that crept surreptitiously between the timbre and the  forte and the result was a voice devoid of spirit and life. At first, I thought it was just the song.  After all, it was one of his less known pieces.  So I waited and clapped as expected after each number that included his all-time greats.  The minutes passed and I felt myself trying to keep my eyes open as song after song left me disappointed.  I was expecting the "wow" and it didn't come;  I was anticipating an "it's -me-again" moment and as time passed, hope became unsustainable.  He did his best, I would give him that.  There was still that imperturbable aura, that I'm-master-of-the-stage-once confidence that did not fail to show like a dreg in a cup of a long-gone luscious-tasting wine.  He dismounted from the stage and walked and shook the hands of his fans while belting out some bouncy numbers.  He expressed his gratitude to some special people in the audience and as a whole, they responded ardently more because of the man I supposed, than because of his music.  It was a response he clearly deserved because of the sweet, gentle nature that emanated in the way he showed his appreciation to us who cared to come and shared the evening with him.

It was a long two hours.  There were a few who left halfway or so through the performance but despite the languorous numbers,  I could not bring myself to walk out.  I was no longer expecting to be entertained but I stayed more out of a sense of respect for someone who was obviously giving his best.  He might not be the Jack Jones of old,  his halcyon days might be a distant memory, but there was no denying that during his prime, few could hold a candle to him.  His myriad accomplishments, his unadulterated success in the music and entertainment industry during the not-too-distant past were indisputable.  The Jack Jones that sang on that garishly lighted stage tonight might just be a penumbra of his old self, but his fame would remain gloriously untarnished, despite tonight, as he was hailed by his loyal fans,  though clad in that image of some faded glory.  For, sometimes, in a burst of uncharacteristic tenderness and consideration, the cruel world could make allowances for one whose "today" was a reflecting pool where it might view a "someday" which, down the road in advanced age, might well be its  very own.   Jack Jones:  the name, the man, the music.  Not tonight, but the glory days, those were the ones I would choose to remember.

TEXTING LINGO

I have always been bothered by the shortcuts and symbols in text messaging that are now prevalent among those who use this type of communication.  For lack of a better word, I will call it "texting lingo".  The abbreviated words that have been widely accepted since text messaging became one of the most convenient and fastest communication tools ranged widely from a single letter to a combination of letters and numbers used to get across the intended meaning (c for see; 2b for to be, etc.).   I suppose I can understand the necessity for such condensed word forms considering that they are being typed using minuscule letters from an equally tiny instrument.  The time element is also a factor and in the fast-paced society most of us inhabit,  using the "texting lingo" is probably most expedient.  In that sense, I will concede that the end justify the means.

But I will not relinquish the fact that text messaging lingo is faulty and injurious to language and grammar development in whatever vernacular somebody most frequently uses.   It impedes the ability to spell correctly, the skill that is defined as "the forming of words with letters in a conventionally accepted order".  It hinders the recurrent user from cultivating the skills in standard language necessary to advance professionally and in some cases, socially.  Communication is not merely the ability to transfer a message across.  It is the exchange of information through the use of standard language in written or verbal form.  Verbal communication will obviously not sufffer as much as the written form would, but pronounciation will be most likely affected eventually especially for those who speak in a foreign tongue who need to distinguish long sounds vs short sounds of the vowels in the English alphabet.

Maybe I am a little bit harsh in my censure of the practice because I have always believed the ability to communicate well is a yardstick by which a cultured individual is measured.  It is also a criterium for advancement  professionally especially considering that different fields are getting more and more demanding and competitive.   In a world that continually evolves, proficiency in verbal and written communication, especially in the English language,  will always place someone at a huge advantage.  Personally, I am turned off by the texting lingo and feel it is ironic that society has succumbed to the deterioration of language through an undeniably advanced instrument of communication - the cell phone.  But who knows?  Maybe in the not too distant future, this tiny wireless wonder will convey the message, not through unconventional text that an untrained reader such as myself needs to decipher, but in voice form transferred through boundless space in undulating airwaves.  With the utter confusion that so surely will create havoc, will it be a second Tower of Babel then?  We'll just have 2 wyt n c.  Until then I should just probably MMOB (mind my own business, lol!).