One Hot Mama

I love shopping, especially when I have money to spend! I tend to take my time, try things on, find the good deals, and make sure I really want the item before heading over to the checkout counter. Of course, it's almost summer time and the weather is warming up. Well, in our part of the world it warms up one day and rains or snows the next three days. ANYWAY, the weather is looking nicer and the dress code at work is becoming more casual. This means: capris! I never used to like capris because of my pear shaped body, skinny, heavy, skinny, and I always thought, "Why would I want to show off my chicken legs?" Now they've made many varieties of capris so that I, and my chicken legs, can sport them and still look decent. The downfall to all of this? My hubby. Now that I work at a community college he has become more, how you say, paranoid?
His comments while we were shopping were:
*You look fat in those clothes.
*Why are you trying to buy those kinds of clothes for work?
*None of those things look good on you. Just use my clothes.
*Why don't you buy the big sweaters?
After ruining my whole shopping experience and day, we get home and SOMEONE wants to play nice. Needless to say, this put me over the top!
"What is your problem?!" I say in annoyance.
He says, "I don't want you looking amazing so that those college students will be checking you out. I don't want their eyeballs staring at you."
I'm dumbfounded at this point. At a loss for words.
"So, you think that insulting me will change anything?" I stumble on my words.
He says, "You are a beautiful woman with nice curves and I don't want to share that with anyone."
WOW! Great compliments. Great responses. But I'm still annoyed. Because all I hear in my head is, "You're too fat for those clothes." I'm trying to get past the negativity and remind myself that my hubby thinks I'm one hot mama!

Diversity in Education

I attended our Teacher Scholarship banquet tonight where high school students were awarded full scholarships to the college as well as a smooth transition into the university. These scholarships are to promote diversity in education and multicultural teachers. It was great to see many of these students were male because not only do we need ethnic teachers but we're a little short on male teachers as well. Although I was proud to be sitting there representing our Pacific Islander population, I was disappointed to see only one of our students represented. One is good, in fact it's great, don't get me wrong. I just think there could and should be many more of our good students in education continuing the tradition of our forefathers. My own niece's high school counselor recommended this particular scholarship for her when she mentioned she was interested in education. What an amazing opportunity for students but why aren't more of our Pacific Islander students in this program? Right now it's our million dollar question.

Diagnosis: Coach

My dad has always been notorious for forgetting birthdays. He would call a few weeks after the fact and apologize or send one of those belated birthday cards. Now that he's retired, he's completely changed in terms of remembering birthdays, events, etc. In fact, he's better at it than I am! You can imagine my surprise when a postal worker knocks on my door on a Saturday morning with a package. From my dad. I open it up and there's a brown leather work/travel bag. I shrug my shoulders because this is an absolute shocker and I have no idea what's going on. When I inspect the brown bag closer, I see there's another bag inside of it. So I cut that wonderful protective plastic string and pull out... none other than... a Coach purse. Whoa! Those who know me are probably laughing at this point because I am NOT a girlie, girl, I do not slobber watching QVC pointing at the high end purses that should be in MY closet, I don't even own outfits that cost as much as these Coach purses. Of course my husband, in his infinite wisdom, says now I need to dress like the Kardashians in order to qualify to tote that type of baggage around. I am a FOB, no joke. Even in my semi-rage at my husband's comment, internally I was thinking the same thing. What is a FOB like me doing with a purse like this? I proceeded to call my dad to gracefully thank him for the gift and to ask what the occasion was? His reply: It's your early birthday gift. Two months early. Hey, not bad! He felt I needed a nice purse as well as a bag for work. Thoughtful? Yes! Then my dad calls yesterday and says, "Did you check your mail?" I say no and then get yelled at to hurry and check it. I follow orders like a good daughter and find a birthday card in the mail. Perfect timing for my birthday. Wow. I'm amazed at how spoiled I am to have such an amazing dad. With great taste in purses. Well, he had help from the purse queen, my older sister. But that's okay. I now use the purse everyday because I figure it's time to grow up and be a big girl. Maybe dress nicely now and again. But I'll always be a FOB. And never too old. My dad's card said it best. "Aging is inevitable. Maturing is optional." So, slowly, very slowly, I might think about maturing. With my Coach on my shoulder. And my slippers on.

Ode to Mom

Strong. Passionate. Fiesty. Caring. Loving. I could fill this blog with adjectives that refer to my mom but the best description would be generous. She is always making sure all of her children and grandchildren are okay and taken care of. She may not have much, but she gives much more. She's the kind of mom who will go to a grocery store's case sale and buy cases of toilet paper for each household. Or canned spaghetti. Or canned vegetables. She'll call and ask if we have a glass jar to hold our bigger utensils and buy one if the answer is No. When she buys a new crockpot, she'll call and ask who needs one so she can give away her used one that is barely used and still in awesome shape. She remembers birthdays. She calls when she knows someone is sick and checks to see if we need anything. She always complains of being broke but spoils everyone at Christmas. She brags about her family to her friends at church. She sends care packages and cards to family members. She takes TONS of pictures. She is our historian. Our rock. She's MOM in every sense of the word.

Life in a Fantasy World

As I s-l-o-w-l-y write my first book, I read different books that I hope can give me some insight into what young adults are reading these days. Author styles are so different but one thing many of them have in common is the whole idea of fantasy worlds. Fairies, goblins, monsters, vampires, and the heros that fight all the bad guys and save the day. The current series I'm reading is called The Mortal Instruments and the first book is called City of Bones. Definitely for older teens due to the language and boy/girl tension but still the same underlying theme. Special mortals who have the ability to fight those bloodsucking vampires, howling Children of the Night, poison spitting reptile/scorpion/spiders, and crossbreed monsters who are part human, part weird.

The style in this author's writing that has stood out to me the most is how she uses descriptions. Her descriptions of the places in New York make me feel like I'm a native New Yorker who prowled the city's many streets and alleys for years. Her characters come to life and will more than likely become fantasies for many young teenagers taking the place of Twilight's Jacob/Edward saga. (By the way, I'm totally Team Jacob. Buff, warm, brown guy beats out cold, skinny, white guy any day!) One weakness in the narrative are the monsters. I'm having a difficult time visualizing the nasty creatures. The fear felt by the characters is alive and I can feel my heart pounding faster as the characters battle their way out of seemingly impossible situations. But what they are running from or fighting against, I'm still not sure.

As a writer, I know what I want to write. I have the ideas bottled up in my head. My weakness is descriptions. I should be amazing at it. My mom used to tell me to hurry up and tell my story because I would add so much information into my narrative that it took me FOREVER to get to the point. And now, as I write, I'm having trouble describing my characters, my scenes, my surroundings. I am going to go back to my old habits. See, smell, taste, hear, feel. And pass that information on to my readers. I'll add the sharp, gray fin cutting the water's surface moving in seemingly slow motion but cutting the distance between it and the small, flimsy handmade canoe in half before the girl could pick up the short, plastic paddle. By the time she had the paddle in the water, pulling back as fast as she could, the fin was right at her side. Up close, the fin no longer looked like a smooth triangle of terror. The girl could see the jagged edges where pieces were torn or bitten off. The imperfections did nothing to relieve the anxiety the girl felt as the creature circled.

As the creative juices begin to flow and the descriptions become alive and colorful, I realize the characters in my stories will be ones that I can visualize, whether real or imagined. I may include good guys versus bad guys. I'll think about what monsters I want to add. I might decide to fall into the fantasy trap and write about mythical creatures. Or maybe I'll just write a fantasy love story. The verdict is out.

To what degree?

A conversation at lunch made me think about my college degrees. Not that I had a lot of time to think and ponder today. After many years and thousands of dollars, my degrees are finally paying off. (Paying off figuratively, not literally, since my student loans are still hanging around.) I spent many years after one degree and working on the next working menial jobs that had nothing to do with my field of study. I sacrificed those years for my family, working jobs that paid a decent amount of money but worked around my busy "Mom" schedule. Raising my children was priority number one. It still is. But the kids are old enough and in school now so my schedule allows me to work in my new position. There were many days (MANY days) where I questioned myself and my credentials. I questioned whether I would ever find a job that took my education into account when hiring me and determining my salary. I wondered if I would ever find a position where I could use what I know and actually enjoy what I was doing.

Advising students for five months has made me realize how important my job really is. I wish I had this type of guidance when I was in college. I had a very bad experience with an advisor when I first went off to college and never saw one again until I was almost finished. Lucky for me, I stayed on track and was able to finish but that one bad experience took away many opportunities that I could have had, should have had. I could have gone through these career assessments and cut down the years of wondering and thinking I had found what I wanted to do only to realize I hated what I was doing. I could have learned about resources the college had to offer so I could have had help with English, math, any subject I was having trouble with. There are so many things I could have learned from an advisor but didn't. My bad experience should not have stopped me from continuing my search for a good advisor but coming from a small island to the big, bad United States made me fearful of speaking out or asking questions. I know. Excuses. But I was truly terrified of asking people for help and even more afraid of being turned down or being treated like I was stupid.

Despite the bad experience and lack of resources, I was able to finish my first degree. Ten years later I earned the second degree. My current position gives me the chance to encourage other students to complete their degrees, have good experiences with advisors, and hopefully have some idea of what they want to do after college. AND, I get to use my education for something good. And something that I absolutely enjoy!

For My Grandma

My heart begins beating quickly as we begin to sing. The entire sixth grade class is inside the auditorium, the voices reverberating off of the concrete walls. Our teachers begin picking girls to go up to the front to siva. I can see different colors of emotions running rampant among my classmates. Some girls cast their eyes downward hoping they won’t have to endure dancing in front of the whole class. Others are looking around the room but avoiding eye contact with the teachers. A few girls are putting as much energy as they can into their singing hoping to get noticed. I am not sure about my own face or actions because my insides have taken control. My heart is pounding in my chest and my stomach is doing cartwheels. My emotions are like an out of control ping pong game. Yes, I want to siva and represent my class. There’s NO way I can get up there! Pick me or not, it doesn’t matter. What if I’m not good enough? What if I trip or do a weird move? What if I freeze up?

As these thoughts bounce around my brain like a pinball machine, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up to see my teacher smiling and pointing to the front of the crowd. I follow her arm and see five girls already up there performing and looking beautiful. Graceful. Amazing.

I’m surprised as I stand and begin walking because I could have sworn my legs were made of jello. Taking my place beside the other girls, I bow and stretch out my arms. My aunt’s voice appears in my head with the noise of the class singing fading into the background.

“Bend you knees and your elbows. Think of the gogo bird as it’s flying over the ocean looking for fish.”

My years of training take over and I begin to feel the music as it guides my arms and legs. The final strains of the song echo off of the auditorium walls and we give our final bows. My friends smile at me as I walk back to my spot on the floor, excited with my performance.

Our teachers deliberate for a few minutes as we talk quietly amongst ourselves. They finally come to a decision and announce the girl who will be the taupou for the class at our school’s Samoan Day assembly.

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I stand still as my aunt takes my measurements. I feel like I’m floating in a dream. From the time my teacher called my name, to my aunt’s siva training, to my outfit being sewn… I am the class taupou. I will be representing my sixth grade class, in front of the entire school, family, and friends.

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Samoan Day has finally arrived! My dress, made of real fine mats, fits perfectly. My new, pink feathered kiki and headpiece are a bright contrast to the tan matting. My teacher has me sitting in a chair until we perform to keep my outfit from getting dirty.
Our class enters the field and we begin our performance. Finally, the class begins to sing the final song and the time has come for me to stand. I begin my entrance run and bow acknowledging our guests. As I rise all I can see is a sea of smiling faces. At first I cannot pinpoint an exact face but I know they are all enjoying the day. I finally see my aunt. She is smiling and looking at me but I see sadness behind her smile. My selfish eleven-year-old mind brushes the emotion to the side, too absorbed in my own worries and excitement. My siva and class performance end like it started, in a wonderful, heartfelt dream filled with traditional song and emotion filled siva.

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I’m twelve years older and 2300 miles from home. My uncle and I are at a little Samoan club in Hawai’i eating and listening to the band. As with any Samoan gathering, eventually someone is going to dance a siva. My uncle frequents this little club and is called up to dance. He turns to me and points to the dance floor as the music begins and I am transported back to my sixth grade auditorium. I stand and begin my entrance run, letting the song take over as my body remembers all my aunt has taught me. Just like my sixth grade siva, I am surrounded by a sea of smiling faces. Suddenly, my aunt’s sad smile enters my mind. The song ends, the final bow signals the siva’s end, and the night draws to a close.

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Sixteen years have passed along with another 2400 miles. My dad has turned seventy years old and the family throws him a surprise party. My aunt is there, dancing in her graceful and energetic way. This time I dance on the side until my aunt motions me to dance beside her. As she bends low and slowly rises up like our gogo bird of long ago, she turns to me and smiles. I see the sadness and I finally understand.

I can see my grandmother in her eyes, her face, her movements. I see the pride in passing on the traditions but the longing for the people and times that have long since passed. When the song fades, my aunt and dad are looking at me. They turn to each other, nod, and smile. I can hear my dad say, “She dances just like mom.”

I am transported to sixth grade surrounded by a sea of faces, filled with happiness and pride. The most important face is only visible in my mind’s eye. This siva is for you, Grandma.