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.

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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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