Without saying

I could write a thousand love notes,

Fill your room with roses,

Hold you till it's time to go,

And still fall short of what you do...

The brush of your hand across my face,

Light touches to fix my ill-kept hair.

A single kiss.

And I am floored.

Jokingly I say, " I'm not the best at this."

You nod in complete agreement.

Then leave me speechless by saying, 

" You're not the best."

"Just the only."

Quills

Life is a quill.

Fragile remains of failed flight.

The solitary debris 

Left in the wake of someone else's glorious rise

Dipped in the dark muck of ink

We find meaning and clarity

leaving our mark 

Long after the words have faded away. 

Being Adam Russell (originally written 10 May 2005)

(This is a repost. I wrote this six years ago prior to my birthday. I was still a bit messed up emotionally back then. Still, it is one of the more raw contributions I ever wrote. I'm reposting it because I believe it is worth revisiting. So, this is for you, my dear brother. We still miss you.)

Being Adam Russell

Being Adam Russell isn't easy...

First, be born into a family that will forever have to listen to tales of elders of how the family name was literally and figuratively lost at the roll of the dice or more specifically through endless sessions of Mah-jong.

You then have to realise that you cannot feel any of the supposed sadness usually associated with said loss as you never experienced said luxury.

You also have to be born miles away, on the other side of the world. You are then expected to grow with the stiffest of upper lips and still eat adobo (look it up!) with gusto. That stiff upper lip will come in handy at the first experience of eating Balut.(look it up, you'll understand why)

You will then return to the land of your forefathers as the desire to defend the family honour burns anew in your parents hearts. You will then swap snow falls for typhoons, Tottenham Hotspurs (Fave football team) for Ginebra (would be fave basketball team), and a cockney accent for one that will forever assure you will never fit in anywhere.

You will see no fault in this plan, as the world is ok and nothing will go wrong as long as you still have book to keep you company.

You will also learn that this is lie.

You will learn you family is not perfect, and neither are you. You will know the pain of betrayal and see innocence forever lost.

And you will learn how to hide it all... behind a smile.

You will compromise. You will sacrifice. You will defend and protect them.
And they will never see, will never know.

You will bide your time, do what is needed, shelve your dreams hoping to dust them off another day.

And when your dream is finally threatened, you will fight, even if it be from your own blood.

You will bargain away a fragile peace with your parents for a shot at your dreams.

And you will then find you.

For once, the smiles are real, the laughter loud and the face in the mirror is actually recognisable. It will be a time of joy that no one will never really understand. Even the saddest moments in the four years will be happier than those past.

You will test friendships, loyalties, principles and above all your heart.

You will learn take the blows that no one will take. But you will find comfort in company of friends. A shared silence between you will be better than any conversation.

You will also love. And you will love like never before.

You will finally... be happy.

And then you will make a choice, a mistake that change everything.

You will return to your birthplace, with hope and love in you heart. You will then try to scale new heights.

And fall.

You will learn of oblivion, for it comes with heartbreak.

You will then only keep to the shadows, holding on to nightmares revisited pains long forgotten.

And from that darkness, a friend will reach out for you.

It's not easy being Adam Russell.

You are as human as the generic brand suggests.You are Don Quixote.

You are flawed.

You are a disgrace.

But that is for them to decide.

You know these truths...

A name is but a label.
A family's past does not make you a failure.
The face in the mirror is not who you are...

I wish I was Adam Russell.

But I am not.

Adam Russell was all this and probably more. But we will never know. 
Adam Russell died 24 years ago, an hour after he was born.

Happy Birthday Adam Russell.

I hope I make you proud.

Your brother,

Adam James Russell.

Is there O.J. in my O.J.?

Instant juice drinks.

In the western world, the closest equivalent would be fruit squash, like Robinson's. These usually get heavy sales in the summer months when the taste of carbonate drinks has soured and alcoholic drinks have left too many hangovers. Or perhaps you are of the Wimbledon tennis crowd. Who isn't when the football season is over? But I digress.

Growing up in the Philippines, instant juice drinks were pretty much the closest we could get to having regular fruit juice. Fruit juice was pretty much expensive, so it didn't make sense to use up what meagre income one had on liquid refreshment.

Now to school kids, this meant tetra pack juice drinks, brands like Jungle Juice and the more popular Zesto. These were pretty much artificial colouring, artificial flavouring and perhaps 1% actual fruit juice! oh, and they never tasted like the advertised flavours. Orange juice was orange, pineapple was yellow, mango was yellow,  guava was... yellowish-grey? Well, you get the point. most people never got the hang of the conventional method of punching a straw into these tetra packs.This was before they added the convenient punch hole.  For the rest, straw inserting usually resulted in a broken straw, a hole going right through the drink container or a poked eye or finger.  So, most just put the container upside down and punched a hole from the rear end.

Now, we could always tell if we had money or not during grocery shopping. We always picked up a variation  of juice concentrate, usually in powdered form. If things were fine, we would buy TANG powdered juice drink. This brand was pretty respectable. They actually bothered to make proper concentrate out of fruit juice , so the resulting mixture with water was decent. Colour of juice was rich and appetising. Perfect for a hot day. Which meant most days. If things were tight, we would get the Eight o'clock brand. Cheaper and the quality could be seen even in the packaging. The trick was to just stick to the Orange juice flavour. Not that it tasted like Orange, but it was the only one that you could drink and pretty much not have a sugar overdose. Yes, there was  a slight orange-y taste, but you could clearly taste the added sugar.

Now, if things were dire, you got the Ritchie's Concentrate. The closest this got to a juice drink was the colour. Even that was stretching. The Orange version of this glowed so much, I used to wonder if it was radioactive. You didn't get concentrate granules. This time you got a thick syrup that had the consistency of Calpol. Maybe Calpol would have been a better choice. You pour this thick mass into a pitcher of water, stir and hope for the best. Because this tastes nothing like juice. You still had to add sugar, just for taste. Any taste. On the bright side, using the resulting mixture and pouring into small plastic bags these made for very good outdoor Christmas decoration. Still, that unnatural glow!

So the next time you pour yourself a glass of fruit juice, be thankful it has fruit in it. Otherwise, that washing up liquid may just pack more fruit juice than the alternative.

Unacceptable

( I wrote an angry letter during the recent riots in London. I was just very annoyed. I sent this to the Guardian. I guess they didn't need it anyway.)

It wasn’t acceptable in the eighties.

It sure isn’t acceptable right now. Coming home two days in a row to the news of London cities streets full of rampaging hooligans and looters made me think I was a kid again and not in a good way.  It was troubling to see as a child and it still is. But more over, it just makes me angry.

Are they just bored? Is it the thrill factor that is making these people hit the streets? People have been reporting various reasons as to what has sparked these riots. We know about the initial protest in Tottenham, which was a genuine grievance over circumstances of Mark Duggan’s death. But using this as a cover to commit crime? That spits in all out faces. .

There is no excuse to loot and plunder. The harm done both financially and emotionally to the people will echo long after the fires have ebbed away and the streets have been cleaned. There was a single image on the news of a young girl crying while being taken to safety is one that says it all. To all those who took part in the looting and riots that have burned my city, I say congratulations.

You have scarred my city. You have taken away people’s livelihood. You have made people scared to walk the streets again. And you are so brave as to make little children scared. You have become the biggest bullies ever. What do you say to scenes of people out for nothing more than destruction and greed? Are you happy now?

Look in the mirror, people. Are your proud of yourself? We all have our grievances with the government, both legitimate and imagined. We are living in tough times and the belt tightening we are forced to do could almost be a noose that we are hanging ourselves with. But you are taking the last vestiges of pride that we have left..

We are proud Londoners. This is our home. You burn my city, you burn me. We will not stand for it.

Definitely, unacceptable at all times.

Writing 30

One of my earliest lessons in journalism was to end each article by adding 30 at the bottom. It was supposed to mark the end, with no more to be added.

I always wondered what it would be to reach this age. I used to think there was such finality with reaching this age. May be it is there is the feeling this is the “Aloha” moment, it is Hello and Goodbye at the same time.  Would I have accomplished all I had hoped? Would I have gone to all the places I dreamed of visiting? Is the rest of my story, merely epilogue?

The fact is that you cannot deny the passage of time. Use all the advances of medical technology you want, it will become visible sooner or later. The body begins to fail you. The party nights seem longer still and suddenly having an early night begins to seem sensible.  Who do I see in the mirror looking back at me?

And yet looking past it all, past the scars and tears that mark me, the journey has been great. It’s been a tough road getting here. What I have lost to the years, I have gained in other ways.

I say farewell to yester years. The road is still before me. It may not look the way I thought it would in my younger years, but I bet it gets better along the way. To everyone, I have met on the way getting here, my deepest thanks for making me who I am. Much love to all who remembered my Birthday, especially because I am terrible at remembering dates myself.

See you down the road, every one.

I’m writing 30, but it’s finally just a number.

Not a nurse and I don't sell DVDs.

It must have been in my earliest days back in the UK when it happened. England may have been my birthplace, but it still seemed foreign to me. I had just started my second job and it was payday. To celebrate, my workmates and I popped over to the pub for a cold one, as you do. I was enjoying a cold cider when a felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and another patron at the pub was facing me and asked, “ So mate, you got any DVDS?”

I raised an eyebrow and replied, “Sure, I get them from HMV ( a popular music and video store in the UK).” He looked at me with the same puzzled look that I was giving him, then promptly apologised and moved on. I rejoined my friends and asked them if they understood what that was all about. No sooner had I asked, I spotted a Chinese man enter the pub, backpack in tow and proceeding to go table to table offering his pirate DVD’s for sale. Mystery solved and stereotypes perpetuated. 

Everytime I go to a party and I get asked if I am Asian. I say I’m Filipino decent and then they ask which hospital I work at. After all, I’m a nurse, am I not? Aren’t all Filipinos working abroad nurses or health care assistants? Or was I a domestic helper? Or did I work at a hotel as a waiter?   Great. I guess they want a sponge bath next or help with their luggage.

Actually, my mother was a nurse and my father did work as a waiter at a hotel. Noshame in that at all. My parents always made us aware of the possible racial stereotyping my brother and I could face in the UK. We used to laugh it off when we were younger. My friends growing up were practically a Benetton advertisement.  Made more ironic that one of our neighbour’s was a card carrying member of the British National Front. Still, they came over for barbeques. I thought little of this when we moved from the UK to go to the Philippines.  I would not really say I worried about it much until I returned years after.

It takes a different turn when you come face to face with the darker sides of racism. Weeks later the pub incident, I was riding a double decker bus on my way home. I sat upstairs as I usually would. I wasn’t paying much notice to the other two passengers, except for one of them proceeding to sing a drunken ditty. I didn’t pay much heed, until the one of them stood up and went down stairs in a huff. I then noticed the song the other person was singing. It was a take on Pink Floyd’s “The Wall.” Except the words were being twisted and he was talking about nailing people of a particular race to a wall. My stop was coming up next and I went downstairs. The passengers there then began to ask me how I kept my calm after being goaded by the racist idiot.  

Then it hit me. 

I was the target of the song. 

I was the one he said ought to be nailed to the wall.   

Suddenly, it wasn’t that funny. 

This wouldn’t be the last time. I got pelted by snowballs full of stones as I walked home during my first winter. I had garbage dumped in my front yard. I had people mouthing off garbage to my face, insulting me a surprising variety of racial taunts. Ironically, they never got it right. They called me everything under the sun, except Filipino.

Sigh, I can’t even get racially abused correctly.

I still go to the pub with my friends. No one asks me if I sell DVD’s anymore. But just to play safe, I leave my backpack at home.