Monday, October 29, 2012

LITTLE MADO, A SCHOOL GIRL ADVENTURE

By Marivir R. Montebon

Little Mado is a character created by Artist Madonna Angeles-Davidoff, which was inspired by her daily life as a young Catholic school girl in the Philippines.

She and her classmates had to follow the Catholic form of discipline: strict rules, regular confession, and obeying teachers at all times in an all-girls school ran by American Maryknoll nuns in the 1960s . This is not easy for Little Mado who is always restless, hyperactive and whose curiousity lands her into trouble. She often gets scolded by her teachers to the point where her mother gets called by the school Principal (also a nun) for her "bad" behavior.

Most of the time she is bored with her classes, so she comes up with ways to amuse herself and her classmates with the disapproval of most adults around her. The only subject she loves and excel was Art class, thanks to a teacher who helped her use her excessive energy productively through expressing herself creatively.

We will see Little Madô's  naughtiness not only in her school but also in her home and her outside adventures. This is an era before ADHD/ADD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder) was "discovered". During Little Madô's time, no meds were needed--only old fashion love, patience and a bit of compassionate discipline works wonders.  At hindsight, Little Mado and Madonna the artist believe that if you are true to yourself, you will triumph in the end.


ABOUT THE ARTIST

Madonna Angeles-Davidoff is a Filipino, American and Swiss rolled into one whose artistry have become pervasive in three continents with a stroke of a paint brush or pencil.  This New York-based artist was born and schooled in Manila. She considers famous Philippine artist Larry Alcala (way back in her college days in UP) and New York artist Matt Madden (School of Visual Arts in NYC) as motivated to boost her skills in cartooning.

Madonna created Little Mado, the cartoon series in 2011 after having been inspired by grade school friends whom she reconnected through social media.  The amusing memories they shared online actually gave birth to the cartoon Little Mado.

The artist in her got inspired and illustrated those shared memories and posted her own personal experience on social media. Interestingly, it got a lot of positive feedback which prompted Madonna to take seriously making a graphic novel or comicbook.

OSM! features weekly the Little Mado series starting in this issue.

Hello Again, Martial Law?





By Marivir R. Montebon

A free press is the cornerstone of democracy and the first tell-tale sign of a dictatorial rule is when it is shut off. With the recent passage of the Cybercrime Prevention Act of 2012 (Rep. Act 10175) which effectively impedes freedom of speech, the Philippines is way back to the days of Martial rule.

It is unfathomable why cannot Filipino leaders take a vocal, mature people who now have power to speak up on issues that matter to them with the click of their laptops and computers.

With this law, the Philippines is taking several unnecessary steps backward to the dark days when it has enjoyed the benefits of information technology. Shamefully, it is one of a few remaining countries where defamation remained a crime punishable by prison. Civil rights lawyer Harry Roque told the press, “it goes against the trend in many advanced democracies such as the United States and Britain where defamation is now punished with fines rather than imprisonment.”

The 120-day temporary restraining order issued by the Philippine Supreme Court last Tuesday is an initial victory, but everyone must continue to safe guard the God-given fundamental right to free speech.

Signed into law by Pres. Benigno Aquino III on September 12, 2012, this legislation increases punishment for criminal libel and gives authorities unchecked powers to shut down websites and monitor online information.

The Philippine Department of Justice, the National Bureau of Investigation, and the Department of Science and Technology are temporarily barred from implementing the entire law until the Supreme Court shall have deliberated the issues and consolidated 15 petitions that have been filed to revoke it. Otherwise, the Cybercrime Prevention Act will take full effect on February 6, 2013.

Washington,DC-based human rights lawyer Arnedo Valera also said in a press statement: “We have reached the time when people are able to communicate and exchange views on personal and social issues that affect them, and are enjoyable as much as it is socially empowering. The healthy exchange of information and opinions are tenets of development and democracy. This new law once again reminds us of the intolerant and greediness of those in political positions."

Let us not let the evil act of greediness and control creep again.

[caption id="attachment_1050" align="aligncenter" width="571"] For details and orders, visit healthychocolatenyc.com[/caption]

Saturday, October 27, 2012

YFLF Gurus: Believe and Let Believe! (and grab a shirt while you're at it)

By Leani M. Auxilio

October 12, 2012-- The second day of this year's New York Comic Con, held at the Javits Center. After much prodding (read: whining, pleading, promises to do the dishes for a whole month, and some slight and subtle parental blackmail), I finally got Marivir Montebon (aka The Mother/Boss) to buy me a pass to get into what is every anime otaku's private Mecca: The New York Comic Convention.

[caption id="attachment_1337" align="alignleft" width="228"]Chibi Sebastian: <3 Chibi Sebastian: <3[/caption]

Okay, I exaggerate. There are other Cons out there, and most anime addicted/manga readers/comic fans are as fanatical about them as they are of the NYCC. But this was my first comic con; cut me some slack. I was... bedazzled. And silently cursing myself for bringing less than a hundred bucks. Roaming around the stands, I found myself staring (Was that a Kuroshitsuji figure?! OMG SEBASTIAN MICHAELIS! CIEL! I WANT!), ogling (Whoa, that is one realistic Hoshigake Kisame cosplay!), and ultimately depressed because I missed every single one of Tom Felton's autograph sessions (I'm still depressed, actually).

Still. I made the best of everything. Walking around the stands with a couple of friends from City College, I got called over to a curious stall selling shirts with cute chibified deities (and Satan, too!). As if the guy wearing the Air Monk garb from Avatar wasn't enough to get me fangasming (fan + orgasm; I'm a BIG fan of the Last Airbender series), I saw that the woman who called me and my friends was cosplaying as Mama Mary. Oh yeah, definitely fellow Flips. Introductions were made, I won a cute pen I was really coveting during my Dice of Destiny roll, bought a Nino shirt that says "Take the world by the balls," (because I'm Cebuano and Santo Nino is the cutest chibified deity, just saying), and promised to stay in contact with Ate Shanna and Kuya Abe, the osm Gurus at YourFaithLooksFamiliar.com.

Interview with the Gurus:



1. Who got the idea of making religious icons hip?

SHANNA: The idea of tiny baby deities was Kuya's brainchild. (Pun intended.)

ABE: I had the idea brewing for a long time & when I teamed up with Shanna,
it came into fruition. We developed it into what it has become now.

2. Are you religious, spiritual, inspired?

ABE: Spiritual and very open minded about religion and tradition.

SHANNA: I was super religious, like evangelist religious. Now, I'm deeply spiritual ...and maybe slightly irreverent.

3. Do you still have other religious icons in mind to 'hippify?'

SHANNA: Yes! Magic is brewing on our drawing boards.

ABE: We have a few additions to the YFLF Gang coming. Without giving too much away, one character will be female and the other is "one-who-shall-not-be-named."

SHANNA: And it's not Voldemort.

4. Are you enjoying high sales since you started?

SHANNA: High sales remains to be a goal. We started selling during our launch in NY Comic Con and we're so grateful for how YFLF was welcomed.

ABE: We've launched last weekend and the response from customers have been overwhelming. Sales-wise, we're off to a good start.

5. Where are these shirts being sold, aside from the online store?  Do you have an outlet in NY?

SHANNA: Several US and Philippines retailers are interested in selling the YFLF shirts & we will definitely keep you posted.

6. Do you have plans to make other products? What products?

SHANNA: Decals, stationeries and amulets, oh my! lots more.

ABE: Definitely. Watch out for hoodies and plushies too.

4. You guys had your debut at the New York Comic Con! :D How awesome was that?

SHANNA: It couldn't have been better! If we didn't launch there, we wouldn't have met you & thousands of other amazing creatures. :D

ABE: It was an awesome experience selling the shirts and talking to people who have become instant fans. We love New York!

5. How did you guys get started on this venture?

SHANNA: There's just too much random and quirky, "with a twist" stuff out there. That just doesn't cut it. I believe in substance and humor, simple but not simplistic.

You're making something, you might as well make it say something good and real. You better fulfill a need. People need to laugh more. Hello, YFLF!

ABE: I'm tired of seeing a lot of crap out there so we want to make better stuff.

6. Is this your only product line, or do you have others?

ABE: Other lines are in current development. Just a broad idea, we have an Elephonkey character. We're also developing a "fun and games" line, that has started with our Game Lover shirt (see picture). We hope that people notice that our designs are not just pretty, they're pretty conceptual.

SHANNA: Like a good story, this is only the first chapter...

ABE: Believe and let believe.

SHANNA: You gotta have faith!

 

[caption id="attachment_1334" align="aligncenter" width="408"] OSM's Leani Auxilio with the YFLF Gurus.[/caption]

Thursday, October 25, 2012

1. Who got the idea of making religious icons hip?

SHANNA: The idea of tiny baby dieties was Kuya's brainchild. (Pun intended.)

ABE: I had the idea brewing for a long time & when I teamed up with Shanna,
it came into fruition. We developed it into what it has become now.

2. Are you religious, spiritual, inspired?

ABE: Spiritual and very open minded about religion and tradition.

SHANNA: I was super religious, like evangelist religious. Now, I'm deeply spiritual ...and maybe slightly irreverent.

3. Do you still have other religious icons in mind to 'hippify?'

SHANNA: Yes! Magic is brewing on our drawing boards.

ABE: We have a few additions to the YFLF Gang coming. Without giving too much away, one character will be female and the other is "one-who-shall-not-be-named."

SHANNA: And it's not Voldemort.

4. Are you enjoying high sales since you started?

SHANNA: High sales remains to be a goal. We started selling during our launch in NY Comic Con and we're so grateful for how YFLF was welcomed.

ABE: We've launched last weekend and the response from customers have been overwhelming. Sales-wise, we're off to a good start.

5. Where are these shirts being sold, aside from the online store?  Do you have an outlet in NY?

SHANNA: Several US and Philippines retailers are interested in selling the YFLF shirts & we will definitely keep you posted.

6. Do you have plans to make other products? What products?

SHANNA: Decals, stationeries and amulets, oh my! lots more.

ABE: Definitely. Watch out for hoodies and plushies too.

4. You guys had your debut at the New York Comic Con! :D How awesome was that?

SHANNA: It couldn't have been better! If we didn't launch there, we wouldn't have met you & thousands of other amazing creatures. :D

ABE: It was an awesome experience selling the shirts and talking to people who have become instant fans. We love New York!

5. How did you guys get started on this venture?

SHANNA: There's just too much random and quirky, "with a twist" stuff out there. That just doesn't cut it. I believe in substance and humor, simple but not simplistic.

You're making something, you might as well make it say something good and real. You better fulfill a need. People need to laugh more. Hello, YFLF!

ABE: I'm tired of seeing a lot of crap out there so we want to make better stuff.

6. Is this your only product line, or do you have others?

ABE: Other lines are in current development. Just a broad idea, we have an Elephonkey character. We're also developing a "fun and games" line, that has started with our Game Lover shirt. We hope that people notice that our designs are not just pretty, they're pretty conceptual.

SHANNA: Like a good story, this is only the first chapter...

ABE: Believe and let believe.

SHANNA: You gotta have faith!

By Ruth Ezra


SURPRISINGLY CRISPY ROASTED GARBANZOS

There is always a story when I cook or bake!

This one was when I was conquering clutter in my kitchen area. I found this can of garbanzo beans, which will be expired in a month!
And I found someone I am following on Instagram that she was snacking on it too, homemade as well! So, I googled how to prepare it and planned to use ingredients in my pantry.

So happy and proud of myself!

I ate it all by myself for 2 days. I really did like it & feeling good eating a snack-conscience and costs free! I did not even do measurements! I just drizzle and sprinkle!

So here is my version of it and I am calling it:

Surprisingly Crispy Roasted Garbanzos

Ingredients:
•1 can garbanzo beans
•olive oil
•Cajun seasoning

Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.

Drain garbanzo beans in a strainer and rinse with water. Allow all water to drain out.
(I just left it in my kitchen sink while I was vacuuming?)

Lay garbanzo beans on a paper towel and blot/roll until skin separates from the beans.
Discard the skins.

Place your beans on a baking sheet and drizzle olive oil over the beans and toss around to coat.

Roast the beans for 30-40 minutes until they are golden brown and crunchy.

Remove from oven and immediately sprinkle beans with Cajun seasoning.

Serve immediately.

|*|*|*|


Ruth D. Ezra is a culinary queen in her own right through experience and training. She works at the AllState Roadside Services in Northbrook, IL. Her greatest delight is serving good and healthy food to her husband Heman and only daughter, Isabelle. Kit would love to receive feedback on her recipes, and exchange them with yours at ezraruth@comcast.net.

The Truth, and Nothing But





By Janet Villa

There is a term for an answer too late in the coming. The French call it l’esprit de l’escalier—literally, “stairwell wit”—a comeback given too late, a retort thought of only after the moment had ended, perhaps when one is on the stairs, leaving the event that required the rejoinder.

A few Tuesdays ago, I was called to testify in our petition to adopt Anna. The prosecutor was merciless in his cross-examination of the witnesses before me. A young woman filing for an annulment struggled to articulate her pain and stammered, “May I please speak in Tagalog?” She was crying; reliving her agony before an audience had not been easy. The prosecutor ignored her and continued with his inquisition. He was equally cutthroat with a young man seeking to adopt his wife’s birth children, already under his care. “Finally? Finally?!?” the prosecutor said, descending on the man to show him his unfortunate use of word in an affidavit. I understood the prosecutor—his job was to disturb and disconcert witnesses, to determine if collusion exists, to be the devil’s advocate.

I thought, ‘Well, he’s not going to get me, I’m a lawyer.’ What I had forgotten was that a lawyer often makes the worst client.

I was settled on the witness stand, relieved after having given my direct testimony. I was composed; only my hands were cold. I was ready for the prosecutor. He rose to his feet and asked, “What did you feel when you first saw Grace (Anna)?”

I blinked. My eyes flew to my husband, Jojo, who had moved nearer to the clerk of court to lend me his support. He had been my strength and true companion in the roller-coaster search for Anna; the night that we had been told that we could finally meet Anna for the first time, he suggested that we sleep in the room that we had especially prepared for her. That night he had taken melatonin, his first time to take a sleeping aid; it had not been easy for him to go down from an all-time high.

In the courtroom, the prosecutor waited for me to marshal my thoughts. Jojo’s eyes were soft and his smile was kind. To my dismay, I cried. “I thought she looked gorgeous,” I said. “She looked like my husband.” And thirty heads swiveled to look at Jojo, who was holding back his own tears. I wondered if the court transcript would show that I cried.

“What will you do if the court will deny your petition for adoption?” the prosecutor asked.

I blanched. In one episode of Once Upon a Time, the young boy Henry told his birth mother, “I know why you gave me away. You wanted to give me my best chance.” I understood Henry—Jojo and I are Anna’s best chance too. We had presumed that our happy ending was so obvious that we hadn’t thought about alternate realities. But I was required to answer only the question—it was a hearing, after all—so I told the prosecutor, “I don't know. We have not thought that far.”

Had I enough wit and more latitude, I would have shared with the court the letter I had written to Anna about the day we met, February 27, 2010. She was ten months old. And she was ours long before we met her. This letter was a rejoinder long before it became l’esprit de l’escalier.

Dear Anna,

I overthink. It’s my default mode when there are far too many emotions to process. On the way to KBF to read about you, I think about the best route to avoid crazy Cubao traffic, if we’d find parking on 10th Street, if the supersize Makro along EDSA is actually earning money. That way I wouldn’t jump out of the car, trying to outdo your dad’s gentle driving. Your dad is always gentle; when he gets excited, he’s like a boy given a new bike: his face would split into a grin, he’d clap his hands, lift the heels of his feet to do mini-hops, and say hee hee hee hee. Not what you’d expect from a hulk of a warrior with hands big enough to kill for you and me. This morning he has the same grin—partly anxious, partly excited, but wholly happy. He grips the wheel tighter than usual and asks questions I can’t answer: how do you look like? Will you like us? You see, we love you already–that’s a given. After trusting God to choose you for us, we know you will be His Best. But still a frisson runs through us, a sharp unreadiness for what we’ve been waiting for so long. This turmoil—this contradiction—will soon be part of our days, for what child doesn’t cause upheaval?

The folder about you is pretty lean—there are stories about you, your birth mother, papers and more papers, and, finally, a dark black-and-white printout of you tucked away on the last page. It isn’t very clear, and in it you looked big, almost enormous, dwarfing your monobloc chair as you looked down at the camera. Your hair was caught up in a ponytail high atop your head, severely pulling up the corner of your eyes. With a grin that puffed your balloon cheeks even more, you looked like a Chinese princess. A ginormous Chinese princess.

“She will wreck her crib,” your daddy laughs. I can’t figure out his laugh; I am too busy trying to find you in the bad printout of an ill-taken photograph.

“Would you like to meet her?” our social worker, Mrs. Myrna Pineda asks.

“Yes,” we say.

“Then you’ll have to first accept her.”

“Yes.” That was a no-brainer. We had trusted God this far; we trust Him with you, even the version of you that we can’t decipher from the photo.
An hour later your father and I stop for a quick lunch at Shakey’s before heading to Cavite to meet you. He suggests that we call your Tito Mickey and Tita Tina to join us; they live in nearby Eastwood. But I demur. I am not good company right now: my head and heart have already flown to Cavite.

We arrive in your home, Ministries Without Borders, three torturous hours later. The air is sharp, and the clouds highlight the blue sky. MWB is a massive, beautiful complex: modern, white buildings surrounding a grassy expanse that is framed by fruit trees. Last October we prayed that you would live among Christians, loved by your caregivers, be given adequate nutrition, and live in a clean home. We got our wish. Norwegian pastors and nurses have prayed for you. Filipino caregivers and social workers have cared for you.

The building in which you live is ridiculously clean. All of us remove our slippers before entering. The children are allowed to play on the spotless tile floors. There is a play area with a mural of Noah’s Ark, sprinkled with toys sent from Europe.

When we enter your building, the older children on the first floor—about 2 to 4 years old—look up expectantly, hopefully. Your father’s heart breaks; he wants to bring home all the children. You, together with the other infants, live on the second floor. Something holds us back: we tarry, listening to the older children’s histories; we hang on to the last bits of us before you will change us forever.

Your father and I expected you to be big, so when we reach your room, our eyes search among the bigger babies playing on the floor, and it isn’t until you are right in front of us, carried by your caregiver, that we finally see you.

You are perfect. Your father laughs, and all I can say over and over again is, “You are gorgeous. You are so gorgeous.” I don’t know what else to say. You are gorgeous. You look so much like your dad that the caregivers tease him for merely reclaiming you. “Tinutubos mo lang yata, sir,” they say, and your father is tickled pink.

You cry in my arms, so I turn you over to your dad. He cradles your head with his hand, and you quiet down. Daddy’s girl, just the way you should be. Your father’s left arm scoops me in a three-way embrace, and I hug you both, now a family. A little while later, your head suddenly drops to your father’s chest, and you sleep, safe. Your dad blinks back tears at this sudden show of trust, and no power on heaven and earth could have taken you away from us in that instant. You are ours, we are yours.



My Mother's Faith (Feature)

by Linda Rubi Arbon (as narrated to son Aldous Dempsey Arbon)

[caption id="attachment_1319" align="aligncenter" width="225"] IN MEMORIAM: GENARA RUBI[/caption]

"There was only a candle that was burning orange against the spread of our dark room . . . from afar it was only a tear of light that evening. I could only see the back of my mother framed in an open window as she stood with her hands on “akimbo.” I could only listen to her."

“Our Father who art in heaven . . .
Hail Mary, full of grace . . .
I believe in God . . .
Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy . . .

“I recited these prayers on my knees, haltingly . . . hardly,” my mother began her story, her eyes fixed against the blackness of the night, her memory against the bleakness of that fateful day, October 13, 1944.

The Japanese reached the shores of Siquijor when World War II broke out.

“. . . and my heart was pounding hard,” she continued. "My mother was trembling, she said, as bombs dropped deafening sounds, as bombs hunted anybody's life, or my mother's life, or the life in her womb.

"The only time she stopped praying was when she had to struggle and fight stomach pains. She was laboring intensely. Ultimately the pain subsided and the grimace of her vanished. A baby cried.

“'I gave birth to you at that time,' my mother had said to me.

"How hard was the life of Mama, I thought silently to myself. Against the pang of war, there was a birth pang; the first brought death, the second brought life.

"The Japanese soldiers horrified, terrified everyone. The sight of bayonets was enough to bring everyone into hiding, into a frightening silence – where life was a dangerous decision between shutting one's mouth and breathing out a whisper.

"I could not cry, I had to be stopped if I would, my mama said – afraid that my cry would be audible to the presence of lurking enemies.

"There was a moment of silence. There was an urgency of decision.

"The family had to flee, to walk, to run without stopping to a safer place in Maria, 25 kilometers from the frightened village of Helen in Larena. Away from the sight of bayonets, away from the sounds of bombs, the family had to escape to protect the newly-born Linda and her two-year-old sister Jocelyn.

"Both girls had to be carried in a wooden bed and an old hammock.

"My mother said: 'As far as I could remember that was the only time I prayed so hard. With a rosary in my left hand, I called in quick succession Mama Mary, Jesus, San Jose, San Vicente and a roll of saints.'

"She continued: 'I couldn't remember the number of times I repeated the mysteries in the rosary as we fled through the hills.'

"The bombing brought massive destruction to the island. Thousands died – men, women, innocent children. Women, too, became sex slaves to the Japanese soldiers.

"The pains were extremely agonizing and unbearable. We cried in sleep and there were times we couldn't eat meals; if we could, we ate in the cover of dark.

"But I survived, my sister did, the whole family, my relatives, too.

"The candle was almost gone. The night was older.

"She said: 'Let's go to sleep now. I am going to tell you that it's my faith that has made us live again.'”

Fitness is Fun at the Sports Center

By Marivir R. Montebon

It is the biggest and one of the most advanced health clubs and gym in New York City. The Sports Center at Chelsea Piers, on Manhattan's lower west side, boasts of state of the art facilities and excellent training that spell fun and excitement for health buffs and athletes alike.

Named as the “Best Gym for the Urban Athlete” by Fitness Magazine and the “Best Manhattan Gym” by About.com, it is also naturally attractive to clients for it faces the lovely Hudson River since it was established in 1996.

Fitness Director Josh Fly shares to OSM! what the Sports Center has to distinctively offer in this health conscious city where gyms grow like mushrooms. He is a certified personal trainer at the National Academy of Sports Medicine and is an Elite Personal Trainer at Chelsea Piers. Josh has had seven years of Personal Training experience. Excerpts:

1. What is the edge of The Sports Center at Chelsea Piers in New York City?

The Sports Center at Chelsea Piers has an edge over other health clubs in the city because it is truly Manhattan’s ultimate gym. The facilities, programs and services here are unlike any other gym. Some of these features include NYC’s only indoor sand volleyball court, a 25-yard swimming pool, a 1/4-mile indoor track, a rock climbing wall and bouldering cave, and a boxing ring.

Additionally, the Sports Center is the home for a nationally ranked competitive triathlon team, a triathlon training program for beginners, a Performance Center for runners, cyclists and triathletes to train on state-of-the-art high-speed treadmills and Computrainers, a boot camp training class lead by a former Army sergeant and much more. A lot of our members also appreciate the club's location in Hudson River Park since the bikeway/walkway is right outside our doors.
It’s a great option if you feel like taking your workout outdoors.

The Sports Center has been named the “Best Gym for the Urban Athlete” by Fitness Magazine, the “Best Manhattan Gym” by About.com and has more 5-star reviews on Yelp.com than any other gym in the city.

2.  What makes The Sports Center attractive to clients, aside from facilities?

Athletes are attracted to our gym – we attract people who are serious about your fitness or sport and want to surround yourself in an inspiring environment.

A number of the personal trainers at the Sports Center are also accomplished athletes, including former NBA players and Olympians.


3. As a training coach, what is the key to maintain good relations with and good results for clients?

It’s really important to listen to your clients so that you can be on track with their goals. Our job is to get them to work towards the results that they want, while maintaining safe and realistic expectations. We always follow-up with our clients as well to make sure that they’re enjoying every aspect of the training experience at the Sports Center. Good communication is definitely the key for a great trainer-client relationship.


4.   How do you keep pace with competition?

We’re really dedicated to providing innovative new fitness options for our members, so we’re constantly on the lookout for new workout trends and equipment. We like to be the first to offer anything new.

Last fall, we were the only gym on the East coast to offer SurfSET Fitness classes and to have our trainers become certified SurfSET instructors. Next year, we will start providing Ortho Kinetics training to our members. We will be the first gym to offer this type of training in the Northeast and one of only four gyms in the entire country, so that’s really exciting.

We prefer to stay ahead of the competition – not on pace with them. That’s part of what really makes us unique.

(The Sports Center is located on Pier 60 at Chelsea Piers, 19th Street & the Hudson River Park. Tel. No. 800.787.5495 and website at http://www.chelseapiers.pth4.com/sc/fitness/index.cfm)

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Why it Echoes in Caves.

Hello, one and all.
We are now past Women’s Month and April Fool’s Day. I have been to North America this time, and the story I’m about to tell is befitting for both Women’s Month and April Fool’s.

Do you know why, whenever you make a sound inside a cave, there is always an echo? Certainly it has baffled and entertained me (How many of you have yelled ECHO!and received an answering Cho-Cho-Cho…! as a child when in a cave?) for many years, but the Ute, an American Indian tribe, has an origin story of the Echo that has made me bite my cheek and chortle and appreciate their sense of (ribald) humor. I knew I had to share this with you all.

According to the Ute, echoes in caves came about when one day, many centuries ago, a jealous, demanding, and very amorous woman named Echo saw a very handsome toddler. It was love at first sight (only for her of course). Soon thereafter, she plotted to kidnap him from his family, and when she succeeded, the boy’s mother, Dove, was aggrieved. Echo had hidden her son so effectively from her that it was many a year before mother and son met again, despite Dove’s constant efforts to find him.

The boy soon grew into a young man, and feared Echo’s many changing moods—not to mention her unbelievable lust, which he could only barely manage to satisfy. While out hunting, he pondered his dilemma; after catching a buffalo, he, ever the dutiful husband, started

to bring the meat back home, albeit with a very heavy and reluctant heart. He knew Echo would want him in bed again. She always did, every waking moment of their lives, and although at first he was flattered, her demands of him soon became almost too much to bear. To soothe himself, he hummed a tune his mother used to sing to him when he was a little baby and couldn’t sleep. This was how everyday life was for the poor youth. It made him wonder how he could ever survive another year with his wife.

It was how Dove found him, singing the lullaby to himself, and finding him, was overjoyed. Mother and child cried tears of joy when they finally found each other again; Dove had never given up looking for her boy, and for many years had taken a bird’s form to try and find him. Many years passed and passed, and so she forgot how to turn back into a human. Even so, the young man recognized his mother, and being her son, helped her regain her human form again.

Soon they plotted for him to be able to escape Echo’s lustful clutches. The next time the youth went out hunting for buffalo, he piled the meat high up in a cedar tree. Echo was livid that she had to work to get the food, but she did. It took quite a while (she was a woman, after all) and a lot of careful pondering on her part, but she was finally able to take the food down with a show of power, grace and finesse. Turning to her husband, eager to see the look of awe and pride in his face she used to see while she raised him, she frowned.

He wasn’t there anymore.

Sighing, Echo went inside their home. Something was off with the boy these days. He barely even touched her in bed anymo—oh-ho.
There, in their bed, was her husband, his proud erection protruding from the sheets. Echo’s mouth ran dry at the sheer size of it, and quickly tore off her clothes, dove into bed with him and made love with much gusto.

Finally, an exhausted, satisfied smile on her face, she looked at the boy and—found herself face-to-face with a tree stump. Not a man, a tree stump. She understood right away what had happened. Dove had finally found her son, and had taken him back.

They had tricked her!

It was an angry and humiliated Echo that went after the boy and Dove; and yet, along the way she grew lustful again, and thought of how she would make love to her husband once she found him. Smiling at what was to come, a bit breathless as she anticipated going home with him again, she tracked them down to Dove’s father’s home.

Now, Rattlesnake, Dove’s father, was happy to be reunited with his daughter and grandson. When he saw how much the youth was scared at the news of his wife’s arrival into his territory, he didn’t understand (Echo was a beautiful woman, after all). Nevertheless Rattlesnake devised a plan to trap her once and for all, for the sake of his grandson. He hid them from Echo and went out to confront her.

Rattlesnake was taken aback at Echo’s state. She was positively… lusting after the boy. A bit scared now (surely a wanton woman such as she could only tire out a man, let alone a young man like his grandson! He thought to himself, shaking his head), he tricked her into going inside a cave.

Once there he tricked her into seeing many penises instead of stalactites and stalagmites with his magic. Rattlesnake was fascinated at how she grew excited at the scene, but he was a wise man, and a wise man knew when it was time to go away. Very far away.

He transformed himself into a rattlesnake and joined his family in the place where he hid them. Rattlesnake closed the entrance to the cave quickly and skillfully, such that only a rattlesnake could come in and out of it. All of them (yes, even Echo) lived happily thereafter.

And thus to this day Echo resides in caves, where there are enough phallic-shaped stalagmites and stalactites to keep her satisfied.
Happy Women’s Month, All!
And Happy April Fool’s Day, too!

LeFou

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="553"] The Cave of the Winds was discovered in 1881 but was known to the Ute Indians long before that. The cave was named for the moaning sound, the air produces in the natural entrance. This entrance is high on the cliff face of William’s Canyon. The Visitors Center at the cave entrance provides a breath taking view.[/caption]

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Le Fou is a nom de plume used by a literature enthusiast who was born in the Philippines. Le Fou never actually went to any other place other than her home country, the USA, and Canada (for all of two days), so in actuality all the stories this wannabe nomad gets is from the Internet and books. She dreams of one day visiting Europe (Ireland, mostly; but other interesting places are fine too), Japan, China, and Egypt, all the places where magic, mystery and stories were seemingly born in.






<p style="text-align: center;">Pandaguan</p>
<a href="http://leaniauxilio.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/forweb.jpg"><img class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-23" title="forweb" src="http://leaniauxilio.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/forweb-228x300.jpg" alt="" width="228" height="300" /></a>This is the story of how the world came to be inhabited. Pandaguan, the youngest son of Sikalak and Sikabay, was very clever and invented a trap to catch fish. The very first thing he caught was a huge shark. When he brought it to land, it looked so great and fierce that he thought it was surely, most surely a god, and he at once ordered his family to worship it. Soon all gathered around and began to sing and pray to the shark. Suddenly the sky and sea opened, and the gods, not knowing whether to be insulted or amused at Pandaguan’s thinking, but now more careful and ever more wise after the tragedy of their grandchildren, came out and ordered him to throw the shark back into the sea and to worship none, but them.
All were afraid except Pandaguan. He grew very bold and answered that the shark was as big as the gods, and that since he had been able to overpower it he would also be able to conquer the gods. Then Kaptan, hearing this, struck Pandaguan with a small lightning bolt. As he did so he thought of his doomed grandson Likalibutan, and once again was filled with remorse, for, like he did Pandaguan, Kaptan never wished to kill Likalibutan, but merely teach him a lesson. Then Maguayan decided to punish these people by scattering them over the earth. Kaptan, still thinking of Likalibutan, agreed. And so they carried some to one land and some to another. Many children were afterwards born, and thus Likalibutan’s body, the earth, became inhabited in all parts and supported all the people.

<a href="http://leaniauxilio.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/VAB8326-0028.jpg"><img class="alignright size-medium wp-image-24" title="VAB8326-0028" src="http://leaniauxilio.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/VAB8326-0028-213x300.jpg" alt="" width="213" height="300" /></a>Pandaguan did not die. After lying on the ground for thirty days he regained his strength, but his body was blackened from the lightning, and his descendants became the dark-skinned tribe, the Negritos.

As punishment, his eldest son, Aryon, was taken north where the cold took away his senses. Libo and Saman were carried south, where the hot sun scorched their bodies. A son of Saman and a daughter of Sikalak were carried east, where the land at first was so lacking in food that they were compelled to eat clay and sand.

PALITAW IN COCONUT SAUCE

By Ruth Ezra


One Saturday afternoon, I was craving for some palitaw.

So I made some!

I saw how palitaw was being made by my dad when I was a little girl. When he made them, it looked so easy! In addition, he gave me this tip: It is best eaten fresh or on the day it was made. Coconut milk does not stay fresh that long even if it is sweetened with sugar. So, I made just enough for us three. Yummylicious when served warm.

Palitaw is a type of kakanin (Filipino native sweet delicacies). It is called palitaw because of the manner it is cooked. It is sweet rice flour dough that you cook by dropping it in boiling water; you will know when it is cooked when it floats on the surface, hence the name Palitaw (litaw-meaning to show up or to surface).

Ingredients:

1 cup glutinous rice flour
½ - 1 cup of water (to make the glutinous dough)
1 can lite coconut milk
¾ - 1 cup brown sugar (depending on the sweetness)
1 tsp hazelnut syrup
Pinch of salt

Procedure:

1.Make the palitaw by combining sweet rice flour and water. Form into balls between your palms and flatten it. Set aside.

2. Boil coconut milk and sugar in a saucepan on slow to medium heat. Add a pinch of salt and the hazelnut syrup. Taste to find out if it is to your liking and adjust accordingly to the sweetness you desire.

3. Drop in the palitaw into the boiling sweetened coconut milk. Let it cook until the palitaw float on top and simmer for 5 more minutes.
You should end up with a slightly thickened coconut sauce.

Addendum: No matter what angle I take, I couldn’t make this palitaw look better and appetizing in pictures so I deleted like 6 of them and kept one and sent to my OSM Editor, but trust me it is very good even if you don’t like coconut that much (like my daughter). The coconut sauce added a little something, something to this dish.

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Ruth D. Ezra is a culinary queen in her own right through experience and training. She works at the AllState Roadside Services in Northbrook, IL. Her greatest delight is serving good and healthy food to her husband Heman and only daughter, Isabelle. Kit would love to receive feedback on her recipes, and exchange them with yours at ezraruth@comcast.net.

Reasons for Breathing





Janet B. Villa

I learn much from other mothers. I learn love and unselfishness from my sister, Naomi. I learn about creativity from Rhea. I learn about wellness from Richelle. I learn about defying the odds from Rachel Santos.

I visited Rachel in 2006 to interview he­r for Working Mom. She talked almost non-stop, with a mouth primed for laughing and eyes built for smiling. She had just finished her licensure exams for teaching, her dream job since she was a little girl. “I am just so excited to start teaching,” she said. “But who would hire me?” She pointed to her arm, “They’d look at this and think I tried to commit suicide.”

Her right forearm was pocked with needle marks, bruises, veins, and a noticeable bump on her wrist that vibrated when you laid a finger on it. It resembled a battlefield, for that was what it was, with scars of Rachel’s crusade for her life and that of her son’s.

Rachel’s world didn’t come crashing down on the day in June 2006 when she was told she had only a few months before her kidneys would completely fail her. It had crashed much earlier than that, when a developmental pediatrician confirmed in 2001 what Rachel had previously Googled for online: her middle son, Dale, then only two years old, has Asperger’s Syndrome (part of the autistic spectrum disorder). Her husband refused to accept the diagnosis. But the mother inside Rachel kicked in—she not only accepted it: she committed to it, and soldiered on. “My son’s autism is not a problem,” she insisted. “All other issues in my life, yes, but not Dale. He is not a problem.”

To understand how to help Dale, Rachel began her Master’s in Special Education at UP Diliman. She crammed in 12 units each semester while working a full-time job. (Regrettably, Rachel was forced to stop her schooling when Dale started having seizure disorders.) Patiently she guided Dale in the usual children’s activities without treating him differently from her other children, triumphant when he got admitted to and flourished in a regular school in Pasay. Dale has since grown to be precocious and good-looking, with a deep love for and a startling knowledge of astronomy, and an almost perfect grasp of English and mathematics. He was intuitive beyond his years. When he was about six, he ran crying to Rachel, “Mommy, you have to help me. I’m not patient enough. My brain is different.” After having surreptitiously read Rachel’s books on ADHD, he announced to her that he probably had ADHD. Of course not, Rachel countered. “How could I tell him that he has autism, another kind of developmental disorder?” she said.

Rachel has written about their journey with Asperger’s Syndrome. The resulting blog—http://possibilities1217.blogspot.com—has proved therapeutic and encouraging, not only for Rachel, but also for the increasing number of readers who have children or relatives with similar concerns. That was how a miracle worked in Rachel’s life: beautiful things could come out of tragedies. “Dale’s condition also helped my husband become closer to my son. I am grateful for that,” she said.

Unlike other parents with autism in their families, Rachel was not crippled by the fear of having another child. Her youngest, Anton, was her hulog ng langit (gift from heaven) and Dale’s youngest therapist. When Dale was two and a half years old, he remained silent, communicating only in monosyllables and with tugs at his mother’s skirt. But when Anton started speaking in whole sentences very early in life, Kuya Dale perked up and started to speak. The two boys became best buddies. Anton, without knowing it, helped anchor Dale to normal activities.

Rachel was strong because, she said, she couldn’t afford not to be. Her husband, while lavishing love on Dale, remained cocooned in denial regarding his autism, so it was she who became the primary emotional caregiver especially when her relationship with her husband had suffered the usual issues of a marriage jumpstarted too early in their college years. Some of her friends and relatives had urged her to quit her marriage. Think of your life, they implored. “That’s precisely it,” Rachel said. “My children are my life. I cannot afford them to be unhappy. So I will work on my marriage.” Though Rachel had felt like giving up many times, and once did give up, she clawed her way back and fought for her family’s right to remain one, and eventually enjoyed a marriage finally pruned of marital discord. “My marriage is OK now, probably also because of my sickness. I am thankful for that,” she said. It was the same sickness to which she credited the growing closeness she later enjoyed with her parents and brothers.

Gratitude is hardly an emotion one has when one is diagnosed with Diffuse Sclerosing Glumerulonephritis. Rachel did plunge into depression when told she had only a miniscule 7% use of her kidneys. When she most needed money for medicine, she had to resign from work—a blow to their budget—when she was treated with steroids. Her weight ballooned, and she gained body hair in the strangest places. But when she saw how her illness affected her family, especially her mother who had grown increasingly stressed and frustrated, she decided it would not do for her to remain devastated. “I chose not to dwell on thinking what went wrong and finding the answers to Why me?” she said. “I told myself to breathe. After that I made a list in my mind and called it My Reasons For Breathing. On top of that list are my kids. They should have been enough, but every day I see God's wonders, and the list goes on.”

Her children knew that Rachel was sick, even on days that she didn’t look it. (Her normal weight returned, and she lost the inordinate body hair.) They were witness to the injections she had to do on herself and the changes the illness ravaged on her body. They saw the bump on her wrist—a vistula, a forced interconnection of a vein and an artery, prepared by doctors for possible dialysis. “But they don’t think it’s anything serious,” Rachel said. “Even I don’t want to think of it as something serious.”

Rachel’s attitude was not so much escapist as it was, borrowing the words of Sir William Osler, looking at the clear facts of today and not into the dim murkiness of the future. What she can do today she will, especially when she lives on borrowed time: strengthen her faith, join healing services, enjoy the help of friends who conduct raffle fundraisers for her kidney transplant—a staggering P1.3 million that had been way out of her grasp—raise her kids, and read books.

One book that had helped her is Dr. Bernie Siegel’s Love, Medicine and Miracles: Lessons Learned about Self-Healing from a Surgeon's Experience with Exceptional Patients. Unconditional love heals, it says, and Rachel agreed, though hers was not so much receiving unconditional love as it was giving it, particularly for her children, for whom she chose to live.

Rachel has proven that a hero is not necessarily one who dies nobly, but one who lives nobly.

 



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<strong>Reasons for Breathing</strong>

<strong>Janet B. Villa</strong>

I learn much from other mothers. I learn love and unselfishness from my sister, Naomi. I learn about creativity from Rhea. I learn about wellness from Richelle. I learn about defying the odds from Rachel Santos.

I visited Rachel in 2006 to interview he­r for <em>Working Mom</em>. She talked almost non-stop, with a mouth primed for laughing and eyes built for smiling. She had just finished her licensure exams for teaching, her dream job since she was a little girl. “I am just so excited to start teaching,” she said. “But who would hire me?” She pointed to her arm, “They’d look at this and think I tried to commit suicide.”

Her right forearm was pocked with needle marks, bruises, veins, and a noticeable bump on her wrist that vibrated when you laid a finger on it. It resembled a battlefield, for that was what it was, with scars of Rachel’s crusade for her life and that of her son’s.

Rachel’s world didn’t come crashing down on the day in June 2006 when she was told she had only a few months before her kidneys would completely fail her. It had crashed much earlier than that, when a developmental pediatrician confirmed in 2001 what Rachel had previously Googled for online: her middle son, Dale, then only two years old, has Asperger’s Syndrome (part of the autistic spectrum disorder). Her husband refused to accept the diagnosis. But the mother inside Rachel kicked in—she not only accepted it: she committed to it, and soldiered on. “My son’s autism is not a problem,” she insisted. “All other issues in my life, yes, but not Dale. He is not a problem.”

To understand how to help Dale, Rachel began her Master’s in Special Education at UP Diliman. She crammed in 12 units each semester while working a full-time job. (Regrettably, Rachel was forced to stop her schooling when Dale started having seizure disorders.) Patiently she guided Dale in the usual children’s activities without treating him differently from her other children, triumphant when he got admitted to and flourished in a regular school in Pasay. Dale has since grown to be precocious and good-looking, with a deep love for and a startling knowledge of astronomy, and an almost perfect grasp of English and mathematics. He was intuitive beyond his years. When he was about six, he ran crying to Rachel, “Mommy, you have to help me. I’m not patient enough. My brain is different.” After having surreptitiously read Rachel’s books on ADHD, he announced to her that he probably had ADHD. Of course not, Rachel countered. “How could I tell him that he has autism, another kind of developmental disorder?” she said.

Rachel has written about their journey with Asperger’s Syndrome. The resulting blog—http://possibilities1217.blogspot.com—has proved therapeutic and encouraging, not only for Rachel, but also for the increasing number of readers who have children or relatives with similar concerns. That was how a miracle worked in Rachel’s life: beautiful things could come out of tragedies. “Dale’s condition also helped my husband become closer to my son. I am grateful for that,” she said.

Unlike other parents with autism in their families, Rachel was not crippled by the fear of having another child. Her youngest, Anton, was her <em>hulog ng langit </em>(gift from heaven) and Dale’s youngest therapist. When Dale was two and a half years old, he remained silent, communicating only in monosyllables and with tugs at his mother’s skirt. But when Anton started speaking in whole sentences very early in life, Kuya Dale perked up and started to speak. The two boys became best buddies. Anton, without knowing it, helped anchor Dale to normal activities.

Rachel was strong because, she said, she couldn’t afford not to be. Her husband, while lavishing love on Dale, remained cocooned in denial regarding his autism, so it was she who became the primary emotional caregiver especially when her relationship with her husband had suffered the usual issues of a marriage jumpstarted too early in their college years. Some of her friends and relatives had urged her to quit her marriage. Think of your life, they implored. “That’s precisely it,” Rachel said. “My children are my life. I cannot afford them to be unhappy. So I will work on my marriage.” Though Rachel had felt like giving up many times, and once did give up, she clawed her way back and fought for her family’s right to remain one, and eventually enjoyed a marriage finally pruned of marital discord. “My marriage is OK now, probably also because of my sickness. I am thankful for that,” she said. It was the same sickness to which she credited the growing closeness she later enjoyed with her parents and brothers.

Gratitude is hardly an emotion one has when one is diagnosed with Diffuse Sclerosing Glumerulonephritis. Rachel did plunge into depression when told she had only a miniscule 7% use of her kidneys. When she most needed money for medicine, she had to resign from work—a blow to their budget—when she was treated with steroids. Her weight ballooned, and she gained body hair in the strangest places. But when she saw how her illness affected her family, especially her mother who had grown increasingly stressed and frustrated, she decided it would not do for her to remain devastated. “I chose not to dwell on thinking what went wrong and finding the answers to <em>Why me?</em>” she said. “I told myself to breathe. After that I made a list in my mind and called it <em>My Reasons For Breathing</em>. On top of that list are my kids. They should have been enough, but every day I see God's wonders, and the list goes on.”

Her children knew that Rachel was sick, even on days that she didn’t look it. (Her normal weight returned, and she lost the inordinate body hair.) They were witness to the injections she had to do on herself and the changes the illness ravaged on her body. They saw the bump on her wrist—a vistula, a forced interconnection of a vein and an artery, prepared by doctors for possible dialysis. “But they don’t think it’s anything serious,” Rachel said. “Even I don’t want to think of it as something serious.”

Rachel’s attitude was not so much escapist as it was, borrowing the words of Sir William Osler, looking at the clear facts of today and not into the dim murkiness of the future. What she can do today she will, especially when she lives on borrowed time: strengthen her faith, join healing services, enjoy the help of friends who conduct raffle fundraisers for her kidney transplant—a staggering P1.3 million that had been way out of her grasp—raise her kids, and read books.

One book that had helped her is Dr. Bernie Siegel’s <em>Love, Medicine and Miracles: Lessons Learned about Self-Healing from a Surgeon's Experience with Exceptional Patients</em>. Unconditional love heals, it says, and Rachel agreed, though hers was not so much receiving unconditional love as it was giving it, particularly for her children, for whom she chose to live.

Rachel has proven that a hero is not necessarily one who dies nobly, but one who <em>lives</em> nobly.

<strong> </strong>

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Life is Beautiful

By Marivir Montebon

Editor's Note: This article is a reprint from the Migrant Heritage Chronicle, a Washington, DC-based institution for immigrants in the US. The author reprints this in OSM! in time for the celebration of Pink October, the breast cancer awareness month. This is to the memory of Beth and Marlene, who became larger than life after their battle with breast cancer.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience.

-Pierre Tielhard de Chardin

New York -- Sometimes, it takes a debilitating disease to appreciate the real meaning of life. Women who have been afflicted with terminal breast cancer (the second most common cause of death among Filipino women) share that never before have they come to terms with themselves than the time when they were struggling to survive their own pain.

“Life is too short to wallow in anger or stress. It is best to always spend time with your loved ones,” says Beth Wong in a long distance call from Florida. She is waiting for her time at the hospice bed.

I could not help but be tearful as I talked to her one Sunday afternoon. I had been postponing my interview with her, despite the prodding of her good friend Zurita, fearful that I may cause her stress.

Finally we talked, and it was amazing to hear a woman on the other line who sounded strong and inspiring.

Elizabeth Wong, 49, is a physical therapist and has lived in the US since the early 1990s. In 2002 she noticed a lump in her breast and did not pay attention to it.  A year later she was diagnosed with advanced stage of breast cancer.

She said she was in a state of denial, and later realized it was wrong.

“We should have never be in a state of denial for too long,” she said, “because the early stage of cancer could have well been cured.”

In December of 2011, Beth’s breast cancer had spread fastidiously into her spine and bones, crippling her chest down to her legs. The doctors said they could not do much to help her.

She has resigned herself to the truth that death is at hand.  I asked if it was frightening to know that you are dying.

No, it is not, she said. “I don’t fear death. It is something I look forward to in order to meet my Creator. I am not praying to be healed. Life is beautiful after cancer, for you will be with God.”

Wishes

Beth, a native of Cebu, said there was nothing to regret in her life, except that she wished she could have more time helping others in their spiritual pursuit.

“People should not feel hopeless. Hope is in God. I wish I could share the profound joy to others when you have known God, you trust him, and you become worry-free and not focus so much on accumulating wealth or other earthly things.

This is not our house, we are journeying towards God, and if we understand that, we will not fear anything.”

Beth is to be survived by her and her partner of 15 years and her parents, who will soon embark on a long trip from Cebu to Florida in early February. Uncannily, Beth does the comforting for everyone from her hospice bed.

All her funeral arrangements have already been prepared, with the slightest of drama, that her parents will bring back her ashes to Cebu.

“It will be okay. We will see each other soon anyway,” she would say.

When not sedated with heavy doses of pain reliever, Beth entertains a steady stream of friends at the hospice who come to her and party.

When she lived way past her supposed deadline of two weeks, her friends from Florida and her college classmates, who are working in various states flew in to celebrate life with her. Some of her lifelong friends include Vivian from Poconos in Pennsylvania, Jingjing from New Jersey, Wennie from Michigan, and Zurita from West Virginia.

Recalling New Year’s Eve Zurita commented, “we celebrated New Year’s together and had a toast with sprite. We are very happy that she is still around and believe it or not she is the one comforting us when we were crying. How silly is that?”

“Never before has this hospice been in a jovial mood,” quips one attending nurse.

Change in Perspectives

The information drive on breast cancer which has now reached global proportions has significantly changed the perspectives of women, becoming proactive in the face of impending death.

Especially with the yearly celebration of Pink October, the Breast Cancer Awareness month, survivors, advocates, friends and family have congregated to continually battle cancer with strength and hope.

While doing my TV show Babaye in Cebu, I had a an opportunity to meet with women who were breast cancer survivors. I joined a handful of them in a make-over session at Rustan’s in 2006. And the women were raving at their new sophistication.

"I never thought I could be this ravishing”, beamed Elena, now a cancer survivor.

Being positive minded is the most common effect among women that I came in touch with.

The provincial director of the Trade Department in Cebu Nelia Navarro, another cancer survivor, said she has learned to become more relaxed and appreciative of the little details in life after she survived her own.

Evidently, she now chooses brighter colors in her suits and clothes while attending government and corporate functions.  "A good day has a lot to do with a sunny disposition, including the choice of color of clothes," she said.

An Inspiring Book

I knew of Marlene Capinpin Stern from her friends and husband Jeff, and the book she wrote, Looking into the Mirror.

She was one woman I missed meeting, passing on in February 2011, at an age where life is supposedly at its fullest as a businesswoman, nurse, and community leader in Connecticut.

Marlene victoriously fought breast cancer in 2001, after going through a bilateral mastectomy.  After one full year of recovery, she bounced back to life, with the support of Jeff, her family, and friends.

Her book Looking into the Mirror is the voice of a woman whose faith surpassed all of her life’s challenges, including the most gripping, health. Her mantra has always been an adamant, “I can do this” as she stares at herself in the mirror.

And she did it! Setting up her own real estate business, devotedly giving time to her two children, and leading a Filipino-American organization that made her literally larger than life.

The Breast Cancer Survival Center of Connecticut and the Life Success coaching of her husband proved to be helpful to Marlene, she was back on the road to make life happier for herself and others.

“I have learned that having breast cancer really changes how you look at life and how you treasure life. I now have more goals, more purpose, more I want to accomplish. I have learned to live one day at a time, and I truly enjoy every moment with my family and friends”, she wrote.

But cancers are treacherous and science has yet to deal successfully with their abrupt return, like thieves in the night that eat up the human body.

Marlene was diagnosed to have pancreatic cancer in 2010, which was already in its advance stage.  Up and about with the indomitable spirit of hope and hard work, Marlene was already life’s champion.

Right at the last grip of life, she was serene and took things in stride. A few weeks before she slipped away, she was still on top of her responsibility as community leader for the Filipino-American community. She organized and hosted the National Federation of Filipino American Associations Annual Grand Poinsettia Ball in Stamford, Connecticut in December 2010.

Marlene will be remembered for her legacy of leadership with the institutionalization of the Marlene Capinpin Stern Community Service and Leadership Award which will be awarded yearly to an organization that goes above and beyond to help Filipinos here and abroad.

Cancer has not defeated her spirit.  She lives on because of her faith and brand of leadership.

Jeff Stern: Over the Edge For Love, Against Cancer

By Marivir R. Montebon

It was to be Jeff Stern's thrill of a lifetime: to rappel 470 feet of building in Jersey City in memory of his wife Marlene Stern (NaFFAA CT State Chairperson and FilAm Global Community Advocate) who passed away after a 7 ½ month battle with pancreatic cancer (12/13/58 – 02/17/11) and brother-in-law Joe Perez who succumbed to lymphoma on June 1, 2012.

Both deaths had a significant impact on Jeff and left a void in his life as well as that of his two children, Kenneth, who currently plays rugby for the Philippine National Rugby Team (The Volcanoes), and Elizabeth, who is currently in college and former Philippine National Figure Skating Champion. The rappelling fund raiser seemed a meaningful cause and an outlet for the pain of their loss.

Family and friends cheered Jeff from start to finish, and obviously growing wilder when he was about to land and finally landed. Jeff, a businessman and resident of Connecticut, scaled down in about 14minutes, one of the fastest of the participants.

"Where you scared doing that? What were you thinking while you were up there?" I asked. "No. I wasn't scared. I only thought, get down, get down," he laughed. Rappelling is a game of will, just going over the edge, first and foremost, of course.  Secondary to it is one's physical ability to stabilize oneself with one hand, and to hold down descender using the other.

Jeff said his arms have hardened while rappelling. Extending his arms up, he smiled and grimaced at the same time, "I need a massage." "Would you do it again next year," I asked again. "Yes!" he said quickly, and his team of cheerers screamed once again. GO JEFF GO!!!

The OVER THE EDGE rappel for cancer was more than a stunt, of course.  There were about 120 more who braved the Harborside Financial Center Plaza 5 that sunny September 29 morning by the Hudson River, all in the memory or honor of their loved ones. It raised funds for the research work of the American Cancer Society as it continues to find breakthroughs against the cloak of death by cancer. Participants had to raise at least $1200 to be able to rappel that weekend. Jeff’s team raised over $22,000. Jersey City Mayor, Jerramiah Healy, event and congratulated the organizers for having raised a quarter of a million dollars that weekend.

As far as cancer is concerned, there is so much fighting and persistence needed. More research must be done to effectively curb the ascending mortality it brings worldwide.

Frankly, there is not a rosy picture as far as cure is concerned. Cancer remains the most treacherous of all diseases. For women, breast cancer remains the no. one killer, followed by uterine corpus, and colon and rectum.  For men, it is prostate, colon and rectum cancer, and melanoma.

There is an estimated 13.7 million Americans with a history of cancer, the American Cancer Society data showed. Breast cancer continues to be the site where survivorship is highest, at 41%, projected in the span of ten years, from 2012-2022. However, the colon and rectum cancers is projected to have slim survivorship at 8% for the same time period. Hence the need for intensive researches for cure and prevention.

The American Cancer Society has spearheaded fundraisers such as Over the Edge rappelling and Relay for Life marathons to respond to the multi-faceted issues imbedded in cancer prevention and cure as well as patient and caregiver care. More and more people have been inspired and joined the Over the Edge challenge.  Diedra, another participant and Jeff’s team captain could not have said it any better. ”I was beside myself in awe. I loved it and I want to do it again!"

With this high energy attitude, the race for cancer cure has definitely reached greater heights.

Martial Law Babe




By Marivir R. Montebon


I had sketchy memories of Martial Law in the Philippines. When Pres. Marcos declared it on September 21, 1972 to usher in a dictatorship that lasted for 20 years, I was in kindergarten, one of those referred to as Martial Law Babe. I faintly remembered there was chaos on the streets that day. I saw people marching and shouting and all my aunts and uncles who were in college and living with us at that time were home early, with curfew set at 6 o'clock in the evening.


They simply told me that the police will put people in jail if they were not home by 6 pm that day. That made me anxious, waiting for my parents to be home before 6 or they would be in jail! I cried during Martial Law for that.


In no time, my parents were home from the college where they work as teachers and we had dinner together. I wasn't afraid anymore. End of memory for Martial Law.


Living in a shielded childhood, I never saw what political repression was, until I entered university and became a journalist. I realized that all hasn't been well in my country and life wasn't entirely a bed of roses. I began to write about it. The rest is history.


Freedom is precious and it has to be protected. No one has the right to control anybody, even if it had a well-meaning intention. Nothing could be worse, of course, if and when that control was meant for selfish ends.


There was no doubt about the greed for power that motivated Pres. Marcos to declare Martial Law. Strengthening him was the might of the military and the bunch of power sharers who had both economic and political stakes.


The repression seemed only controllable in many years. Then burst. Nothing lasts forever.


But the remnants of Martial Law became more chaotic and complex. It wisened up almost all power brokers, and the people were much more deep into fear and poverty. The immediate aftermath of Martial Law was worse.


To this date, there is still political repression in my country, in a much different degree, and poverty continues to dwell in majority of families. The fundamental problems on economic poverty and lack of appropriate education and ethics for development are still there. The continued diaspora of Filipinos to other lands is an outright proof of these long-standing problems.


I believe it doesn't only take a clear visionary leadership to put forward a development agenda for the Philippines, it also takes a mature people to demand for it and work on it.


The Philippines' rebirthing process is painfully slow. But I believe that as I write, many share my thoughts that genuine development is from the bottom up.


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