So This Has Been Stuck In My Head Ever Since I Heard It Three Days Ago.

Some places don’t even name the charity like you’re just donating to the corporation’s tax writeoff. You’re better off giving that money to a homeless person on the street who needs it more..

i don’t think you guys understand how much I think about this vid

its ok. 

A Eulogy

When I was younger, I was convinced that my dad had a magic power. Every morning, I would walk downstairs to the sound of sizzling Spam and the smell of frying bacon. Some days, I would wake up to at least three eggplant omelets and a silver tray full of tocino that he had been marinating since the night before.

Although my dad’s ability to cook such a massive amount of food in a single morning was sometimes an act of magic by itself, my dad had another special ability that is still a mystery to me to this very day. He could make a perfect boli boli.

In order to make a boli boli, my dad would take a handful of fried rice right out of the pan and mold it into a perfectly bite-sized ball. There were no magic spells or rabbits pulled out of hats; but somehow, my dad could transform that ordinary lump of fried rice into a chewy morsel of flavor and warmth that was somehow more savory and filling than any rice I scooped off of my plate with a spoon.

I got older and I tried to make boli bolis myself, with the same fried rice that my dad cooked the same way for years, maybe decades. And yet, as simple as it was, I could never make the boli boli the same way that my dad did–it always fell apart, it was never the right shape, and most importantly, it never tasted the same as it did when it came from my dad’s hands.

The boli boli was just one of the many little ways that my father showed his love for us every single day. It was something that only he could do, a small gesture that neither I nor my siblings could replicate. True to his name, Generoso, he was never selfish with these small gestures. He had this amazing capacity to remember the birthdays of his friends and cousins and his nieces and nephews and he always took the time to give them a call or, in more recent years, leave them a message on Facebook. For my mom, he would cut a single white flower from one of the sampaguita plants in our backyard and place it in a small dish on our kitchen counter.

I know that many people will always remember the huge feasts he threw together for our birthdays and christenings, our graduations and Pacquiao fights, Thanksgivings and Christmases. All of the kare kare, the sisig, the diniguan, the adobo. The huge fruit baskets carved out of a watermelon and the pinapaitan that used every single part of the goat. We’ll remember him for his irreverent jokes and the way that he yelled and cursed during football games.

I know that people will also remember him for the larger accomplishments of his life, from finishing twenty years in the Navy to supporting all five of his kids through college. I think that accomplishments like these became more difficult for my dad to celebrate as he entered retirement in the past year. On the outside, he seemed to be the same stubborn and proud person that loved watching American Idol and drinking Johnnie Walker Blue. On the inside, I think he may have lost sight of how all of the amazing things he did–and each of the little things in between–made a difference in all of our lives.

And when he died, I dwelt so much on what I could or should have done for him. Why didn’t I say thank you for everything that he had done for me? Why didn’t I make sure he knew how much he meant to me? Why didn’t I tell him how much I loved him?

Since that terrible Sunday, I’ve beaten myself up with these sorts of questions. It tears me up inside, but I know that there isn’t anything that I can do about it. Instead, I am choosing to be thankful for every single day that I had with my dad, and I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for every person who rushed to our side after he died. Everyone has been so generous, loving, and thoughtful in a way that would have made him proud. 

I would be more than content to let everyone remember my dad for his feats of amazement. Footing the bill for my USC education, spending all those months at sea away from his family, and making the journey from the Philippines to the United States in search of a better life–these are things that will never cease to astound me about the reserved man who I can still see so clearly, quietly smoking a Kool Filter King in our backyard.

Still, there are so many other things I will never forget, things that may have been unremarkable to him or to others but for which I am so profoundly grateful: how he FaceTimed with my brother and his sons on a nightly basis; how he danced with my sister at her wedding; how he hugged me after I told him that I was gay; how he made a perfect boli boli. But I am most grateful for the way he showed us the magic of gestures, both big and small, that let you know how much you were loved.

via brooklynmutt.com

i remember seeing some of keri smith's works (products like wreck this journal and tear up this book) at urban outfitters, and was pleasantly surprised to find that she had written something that would be very appropriate to my travels in australia. in how to be an explorer of the world, she boldly and artfully claims:

"everything is interesting. look closer."

i think that all too often, we (myself included) lose sight of just how interesting everything really is. things may not always be discussed or presented to us in an obviously intriguing manner, but i think that if we really just pump the brakes and take a minute to think about it, there's a lot that could hold our attention.

i'm still contemplating what i want this blog to be about, but smith's work really helps--it reminds me that i want to use this blog to document what i find notable or perplexing about the world around me. going to australia is a convenient excuse to do this, because it's a totally different place with a totally different culture and a totally different group of people, but it's no different from the place i'm in now in the sense that i should be able to explore this place and think about it critically. and of course, i should be able to find things that i think are interesting.

my favorite part are the guidelines for being an explorer of the world. rule #8 is particularly pertinent:

"document your findings (field notes) in a variety of ways."

...yeah...i need to actually blog and not link