Of course the system is broken. It has too much of a bias for colonizers who have left the nations they colonized much worse than they were when they were discovered. They taught people how to be greedy by stripping land of its natural resources without any consideration for what might happen. They taught people how to be corrupt by offering greater benefits and favours to those who would bow to them and do whatever they wanted, selling out those who would not. They taught people how to be selfish by taking whatever they could and leaving so little that natives had to fight for what was left just to survive. They taught them false idealism by promising a new life if the natives complied with their every wish, then brought the natives to their homelands where the natives were out of place and made to work at menial tasks for meager wages then denied equal status. They settled on new lands and decided it was theirs, taking whatever they wanted and killing the original landowners, making their rules and governments and forcing the native survivors to work at more menial tasks with little or no pay, stripping them of their dignity, their loved ones, and their ways of life. This broken system, this colonial mentality is what most nations are built on. Of course it needs to be fixed, but not with people who still carry this bias in their minds and in their hearts. Not with people at the helm who think they are more privileged than others, who think others are less important or less significant or less human than they are. It needs to be fixed by people who are willing to take apart what is wrong and build something completely new, inclusive, radical. Something that will recognize the interconnectedness of everything–of humans and nature–that for humans to survive, they need to be in harmony with each other and with nature, because everything we need to survive comes from nature and other humans.
*This response was because of what is happening in the world now and how disenfranchised and marginalized groups of people–blacks, minorities, LGBTQ, indigenous, and others–are rising up and raising their voices. It is a cry we cannot and should not ignore.
I came across this article and wondered how rare cold urticaria is, because I also have it. Anyway, here’s the article. I’m grateful I never reached the point when my skin would flare up the way hers does–but then I’ve been careful about exposing myself to extreme cold since I was diagnosed.
I was diagnosed with cold urticaria in 2000 and have been taking medication for it since then. I had just recently returned to teaching after a stint of other jobs. I had been assigned to an air-conditioned classroom, which I thoroughly enjoyed because I do not like the heat.
While teaching one day, my hands started itching. I ignored it. That went on for several days, but the itchiness became worse. I thought it might be that I was allergic to chalk, so I requested that all my classes be relocated to classrooms that had whiteboards instead of chalkboards. Still, the itching persisted. After a few more days, the itchiness intensified, climbing up my arms to my elbows. My feet also started itching and that itchiness climbed up my legs to my thighs. I was so uncomfortable and worried because it was distracting and I tried so hard to hide my scratching. I would tap my legs and arms with pens, my hands, rulers, and almost anything I could use to suppress the itching.
Eventually, I noticed that my hands and legs had started to get mottled with raised red maps. That was when I finally brought it to my doctor, who diagnosed it as cold urticaria and prescribed low-dose allergy medication. With the medication, my itching does not flare up, but if I shower with cold water, my feet start itching; if I wash dishes with cold water, my hands itch; if I walk outside in winter without gloves, my hands eventually start itching; but as long as I don’t forget to take my medication, the itching is limited and controlled. The worst part, of course, is that I love winters and cold weather.
I leave my windows open a crack in winter so that my room (and my whole apartment) stays nice and cool, and in summer, I throw open all my windows and balcony door and keep four electric fans circulating the air and cooling it down.
People ask me if would ever go back to the Philippines and my answer is always an emphatic no. I know I would not survive in the heat–I visited once in January–the coldest month of the year there, averaging 18-20 degrees Celsius (perfect summer temperature here!)–and was walking around in shorts and tank tops or light shirts while everyone around me wore jackets and sweaters while I was dripping sweat. I slept with a window open and a fan facing me directly while my friends spent the night covered with blankets. Was I ever glad to come home to PEI where it was winter!
Cold urticaria be damned, I will have my deliciously cold sheets and cool rooms!
Cindy has an interesting writing style, a flair for vocabulary, humour, and telling a tale. The story of “Welcome Inn” is a fast moving, well-crafted plot with twists and turns to keep the reader turning the pages. The eight chapters are appropriately titled beginning in the fall with thanksgiving and ending in the spring with births. They say write about what you know and Cindy clearly writes from first hand experience as an immigrant to PEI. Her humour shines throughout and I love her writing of the youngster educating the senior about the Internet! Keep up the good work, Cindy!
~ Marilyn Rice, Author of several books, including Look After Each Other
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I was thinking about you last week and I told myself I would have to write you, to tell you how I was doing, to ask how you were doing. I wonder if I was thinking of you out of the blue because you were thinking of me.
You are definitely one of the most memorable people in my life. You have done so much for me, from when I was still in high school and you were the assistant principal. I think you also taught a class or two, occasionally. I don’t remember much, but I know you encouraged me to keep writing and entrusted with special projects. You listened to me and paid attention to what I was doing. I did not think you would remember me after I had graduated. Au contraire. You were the principal when I visited the faculty room one day, when I was picking up my younger sister, who was in her freshman year in high school. Out of the blue, you asked me what I was doing, if I was working.
I was not.
“Good,” you said. “How would you like to teach in the high school?” you asked.
I was a bit flabbergasted and not sure what to say. I had a degree in mathematics for teachers up my sleeve, but I had not mentioned it. Despite my degree, I had not really thought of getting into teaching. I had been thinking of taking my master’s degree, but had not acted on it because of my personal situation at the time.
“I need an English teacher,” you said.
“Okay,” I said, excited. I could not believe my luck. I did not think I would be back to teach at my alma mater. The invitation to teach was an honor and something I also needed, not having a job just then.
“By the way, what was your major?” you asked.
“Mathematics for teachers,” I said, hesitantly.
“That’s okay,” you said. “Come in next week to do some paperwork. I want you to go to Ateneo so you can enroll for your masters. Fr. Galdon will be happy to have you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you!”
“You should start reporting here in May,” you said. “We have planning workshops and seminars before classes begin in June.”
And just like that, I found myself enrolling at the Ateneo de Manila University, meeting Fr. Joseph Galdon, S.J., who has since passed through the pearly gates, and attending two summer courses, one of which was a methods class for teaching English. All of a sudden, from an intense focus on math and numbers, I was back in my milieu with several other students, most of whom were already teachers and taking a summer course for professional development.
When I was done for the summer, I reported right back to SSC and you introduced me to the other English teachers. I was happy to meet former teachers, who were equally happy to welcome me into their fold. Later, I would hear from co-teachers that I had been labeled the principal’s pet–again–because I had been given that label first by classmates, then by co-teachers. I tried very hard not to spend so much time in your office and, instead, spent more time with Me-an or Tita Medy when they weren’t too busy.
In that first year, you called on me time and again for help in editing and planning little projects. You made me the adviser for the drama club. You invited me to be your co-editor for the first literary chapbook of student works. Later in the school year, you invited me to interview some new teacher applicants. I had to take a maternity leave when I gave birth to Bianca Margaret in October and was back teaching in January. At the end of the year, you told me you wanted me to head the English area.
Things moved very fast after that. During the summer of my first year as subject area coordinator, you encouraged me to revise the curriculum for the English area. You also let me implement the initial survey for my master’s thesis, which would be a longitudinal study, following all the students for four years as they practiced using journals in English classes to learn creative writing. As part of revamping the curriculum, you let me design and introduce independent classes in public speaking for all levels and I became their speech teacher because you knew I had been a proficient public speaker in high school. You also let me start a Reading Circle and a Forensics Guild, for which I served as adviser for the first few years of their existence. In my second year of teaching, you also started to send me to other branches of SSC to deliver all kinds of workshops and seminars to other teachers as well as selected students. Because of you, I got to travel more around the Philippines–something Mrs. Cova continued when she became principal and you moved to Bacolod. I was happy to visit Bacolod to deliver seminars and workshops there. It was at those workshops that I gained a few new friends, including one who later raised Bian. I was happy to know she was studying where you were principal because I knew she would be watched over, nurtured, cared for, and loved.
We used to exchange letters quite frequently, until I became so busy I did not have time to even write. For that, I am sorry. I wish we still wrote and many times, I would have the urge to write. In fact, I did write a couple of times after I left teaching at SSC, but never received a reply from you.
Now and then, I would hear news about you. I always prayed you would continue to find happiness and fulfillment in your work.
Today, I scrolled down my Facebook wall to see what friends had been posting throughout the day and very close to the top, I saw this notice shared by Charlie Azcuna. I’m glad she shared it, because I had been thinking of you and now, I must say farewell.
Thank you for encouraging me, trusting me, and pushing me forward and upward. Thank you for believing in what I could do and believing I could do anything you asked of me. Thank you for providing me with opportunities to grow, improve, and serve others. Thank you for understanding me and not putting me in uncomfortable situations. Thank you for watching over Bian, taking her under your wing, and giving her the same opportunities you gave me. Above all, thank you for allowing me to work closely with you on several projects that were mutually dear to us both.
Dear Sr. Lucy, I will always remember you because of the many ways you have helped me become the woman I am.
You have earned your rest. May it forever be a peaceful one.
Written during the Wild Threads Writing Symposium 2019 in Charlottetown, PE, for the participants’ open mic on August 25th.The pièce de résistance.
walking into the bar at Peake’s Quay
i find a few people
a friend, and another, and another
then strangers pour in
sitting in a corner
a high school kid
at her first dance
leaving at first chance
knowing it would get better
it had to get better
a good sign
then the lounge
again feeling alone
unsure what to say
until he sweeps into the room
fills the void
no need for other talk
no room for other talk
George Elliott Clarke
loves to talk
in the presence of literary god
venturing minuscule offerings
lapping up momentary patting
atta girl! good boy!
we intellectuals we!
played a guessing game
too many strange titles
in the presence of
exclusive elusive agent
atta boy! good girl!
a short walk
jars bones awake
trotting to the Carriage House
are dead ends
with Hilary and Craig
but Laurie Brinklow
twinkled and glowed
art gallery faculty reading luscious words gushing from godly gullets that barely reached limp mike thank you, Keith
early morning coffee muffin cinnamon roll thank you Liza-with-a-Zay hello Brent Taylor-who-works-in-VA
Pauline Dakin’s on today
Julie P-Lush won’t play
Anne Simpson ramps on
a saggy mattress
extending the metaphor
until George (still on Toronto time)
sweeps in on golden sandals
Craig Pyette does play it cool
stretching the hour
processing outlines with Patti at lunch pop thoughts on cards rainbow story arcs paranormal (L)arsen mystery did the ghost do it? poof! typing magic fingers poof!
Julie P-Lush came out to play
Julie P-Lush did end the day
all of her listeners in awe of her art
shared all their big dreams and opened their hearts
and so over lobsters and oysters and steaks
down at the Row House the writers partake
of laughter and cheer and chatter and make
new friendships and memories to keep them awake
all night as they slave for their open mic takes.
Poem written during the Wild Threads Writing Symposium 2019 in Charlottetown, PE, during a workshop session with Anne Simpson on August 24th, and delivered at the participants’ open mic on August 25th. Also with a great suggestion from George Elliott Clarke!
This poem was written during the 2019 Wild Threads Writing Symposium, Charlottetown, PEI, in one of George Elliott Clarke’s sessions on August 23rd, and read during the participants’ open mic on August 25th. With some really great advice from George and some techniques from Anne Simpson’s workshop on the 24th.
My dad had a record or two or a collection of Marian Anderson’s songs and I loved listening to her alto/contralto voice. It was so rich and textured I wanted to be an alto and practiced my speaking so my voice would be lower and well-modulated. Singing in choirs and with my voice teachers, I was always put in Soprano I or II; once in a while, though, I would be put in alto when a strong lead was needed. No matter what my voice coach or choir directors said, I never thought myself a singer and I never thought I had the voice to sing, mainly because of a tape reel of us singing nursery rhymes–I was only 6 then–that my mother would play for visitors; I hated it because I thought my voice sounded awful and childish and weak. I envied and idolized singers in school with naturally powerful and musical voices but was always too shy to sing solo. I tried to audition once for the glee club but was refused; I did get to perform in a handful of musicals, mainly because they were school productions, but listening to others, I have admitted to myself, time and again, that there are many amateur singers far better than me.
When I was turned down by the glee club, my brother (with a powerful singing voice and, of course, my mother’s darling) was rehearsing for a musical. I met their voice coach, who somehow convinced me to sing a few bars, which led to chords and, before I knew it, she had convinced my mother to allow me to take vocal coaching from her and to join a choir she was putting together. In her words, I had a “lovely voice”. I could not believe it because I never really heard myself sing except on that awful tape with our nursery rhymes, but it opened up a small dream I had tucked away as a little girl. I soon found myself rehearsing after school and on weekends and, before I knew it, the choir was booked for a gala performance at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. (I shall post photographs when I find them.) We were all fitted for gowns (my first gown ever!) and I was excited, singing in Soprano I or II for most of the concert.
After our gala, we started rehearsing Christmas carols because we would be caroling for our sponsors and donors, who would host us (and boy, did they feed us!) as we sang for them and their guests. We went to around 4 or 5 different homes, each grander than the last, but that kept us on the road past midnight. Somewhere past 1 a.m., I was finally dropped off at home where I faced my mother’s extreme ire. She ranted about what kind of people stayed out so late at night, got angry at our directress, and forbade me from ever going to another voice class or rehearsal. I was devastated and disappointed and embarrassed all at once, because my fellow choir members would occasionally call and ask why I wasn’t attending anymore. I told them the truth, that my mother would not let me.
A couple of years after, when I was in university, I joined a youth ministry group which worked with communities and did a lot of singing, and I could stay out as late as I wanted because I no longer lived at home–at least most of the time. I joined several extra-curricular activities, including a dance company, the school paper, the math society, the forensics society, and a reading club that I formed, so I spent a lot of time doing all sorts of activities after school and late into the nights. I also sang, danced, choreographed, and co-directed a couple of original musicals staged by the scholars in the program I was enrolled in.
I occasionally picked up a tiny solo part in choirs but I always felt my voice disappearing when I was asked to sing. The one time I braved it was when my close group of friends and co-teachers in the high school where I taught decided to perform in a benefit concert before the whole high school audience. That brought the house down–the whole concert, that is, but not so much, I think, because we were accomplished singers (we had a couple of really good singers) but because the students had never seen us perform that way before! Besides that, I did sing a lot for my kids when they were little. I haven’t really sung in a long time and am often tempted to join a choir but for the time. I have far too many other things to do, as it is, so I am saying good-bye to my singing aspirations. I was more of a natural at writing anyway, so that’s what I’m sticking with.
And that, my friends, is my singing career in a nutshell.