Unsung Writers

A note: This article was intentionally written for my Facebook friends.

Today I wrote something on my wall:  “I am not going to post any articles on this social network again. And for one last try, I will leave a link to my blog. I had enough of wasting and saving breaths. Thanks for those who were following.”  

Not so sure how brutal this confession may sound, but I’ve made up my mind to speak it out completely. It’s not my intention to put the cat among the pigeons though – I couldn’t care less – it’s now or never.

It could have been more gratifying if you took time reading my articles, but only few did. I knew it from the start. And so whatever alibis you’ve got, save it for Oprah. I had enough of saving and wasting breaths.

From now on you won’t be hearing anything about my journey while I won’t be seeing your unnecessary “like” signs because all I ever wanted was for you to read them. I am not going to buy any of these pretenses again. It’s all off – I’m up bringing my world in the open – better off.

More than just telling stories, I did my hardest to get a conversation out of you in years. I realized it wasn’t worth talking and trying. Then let me be one of those unsung writers. I had enough of insisting my pursuit to be noticed, and of barking up the wrong tree here on this social network.

I don’t want to be a famous writer. It isn’t my ultimate intention in life – I write to tell my day-to-day whereabouts when by words of mouth isn’t enough – nothing less, nothing more.

In all honesty just want to share my heart out to people I thought the right ones, but I always found the contrary. The right ones were the wrong ones, and vice versa.

As much as possible I don’t want to fall for the “like” sign because it never gives me accuracy who’s reading what. My blog’s statistic does and so people couldn’t lie to me saying they’ve read my posts. It will always leave marks of truth, but not on Facebook.

When writers (famous and aren’t yet) asked me to read their books, I always did. One big reason, I know how it feels like to be a writer. I also read books of not famous and even infamous authors – simply to give respect for their hard works. I don’t have to like them.

When bloggers plugged in their pieces of works, I never failed to read them. I really respect other bloggers and their labors. Besides, I understand how time consuming it is to run a blog. But even then, bloggers fail others and selfish at times. And so they don’t deserve following.

This is not how I should let the cat out of the bag – my hidden feeling towards lazy readers – gentleness won’t make any difference – again it’s today or never. After all, I’m treated the same among those unsung writers.

Agonizing Travel

A trip to Paris or London or L.A. or Disneyland or the various wonders of the world, is the most enticing picture one can imagine about traveling – a clichéd assumption called leisure. But for people whose get-up-and-go existence is so attached to rigid travels, they think of the other side of the coin.

“How long have you been working as a journalist?” I asked my Level 8 student.

“About five months. I left my previous job because it required so much travel.” He replied.

Some people just detest going on a trip or barely travel or never at all. I’m not one of those sorts fortunately, but truth is not denying that it always requires patience and endurance to be on a long and winding road. Like in the case of my student perhaps, no matter how well paid the job, he is just not one of nature’s travelers.

Got no seasick or carsick or alto phobia or any fears related to travel, I’m probably in a transitional stage where my body is no longer tolerant of long journeys – trips I used to enjoy – thought I could still stand until these days. Every single cell and muscle is now complaining a lot about this seemingly endless voyage.

When traveling was so much fun to look forward to no matter how tiring it felt like; when trips were but adventures regardless of odysseys along the road; when travels looked like jaunts even if they weren’t – now an agony.

It’s really a pain in the neck for me especially going in and out of the same countries; sitting in the bus for long hours. But I’ve no choice except to hit the road oftentimes. It’s a chore. This is when traveling is no longer a pleasure but pressure.

I had it again last weekend – an unanticipated ride one tired person must take – an annoying dilemma – to go or not – both had cruel disadvantages. So I had to choose the agony because it was a necessity even if against my will.

Please don’t get me wrong if this seems whining to you because I am always thankful for every opportunity to wander and wonder and simply travel. It’s just that successive trips these days worn me out a lot unlike my younger years.

“Wow, you’re very lucky to travel a lot!” many friends told me this. I wish they knew the agony it brings at the same time treading the same path again and again and again – it’s actually very restless in my case, and maybe not for others.

Honestly, have enjoyed every travel I had in the past, but just don’t want to sweet-lemon the situation this time or insisting that something unpleasant is in fact desirable. I had enough of this trip countless times.

Another plead to insist, just don’t accuse me for being ingrato because ungratefulness and honesty are two different things. I am both thankful for this life and also transparent about my feeling on the one hand. I am not!

As a matter of fact, I understand that from this so called agonizing travel is where my finiteness unveiled as a stranger in foreign lands in need of grace.

From this agony is when God’s protection, strength, and provision also disclosed.

And from this unwanted flights where favor after favor is given.

                 

First Impression Dies

Wearing your elegant clothes along with your fancy necktie and the shiniest pair of shoes ever made – all this but to impress or get dressed for success – to make an impression to someone that would change your life forever.

For years and years we have tried to go with the flow and have conformed to this childish influence at our impressionable age because first impression lasts. 

One can actually wipe the floor to swim against that current, but it isn’t always a happy ending to run the risk of doing something – whether or not you’ll get the opportunity – it all depends on you.

I’m no exception to this bondage allowing my self entangled in many chances, but I have proven my impressionistic subjugators wrong in many chances as well – that’s when first impression dies.

Because I prefer casual wear over a popular style, a lot of times they’ve got me feeling as simple as a person who does not have a normal level of intelligence or got no special talent at all. And when I said or did something extraordinary, it was a bolt from the blue. That’s so human tendency becoming subjective or conclusive unreasonably.

Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m a different person at school – this is where I wear various and sundry clothes everyday – to surprise people; to win the hearts of my critics; to give them idea or a complete picture of a jigsaw puzzle out of me.

First day at school is for all time having a feeling of cognizance or paranoia to the extreme. So I’m always careful selling the products – my self, my experience, my accomplishment, and my skills – for one intention – to disprove each first-impressionist-creature alive.

“What if my students won’t like me?” my anxious thought in endless query. Before I realize, I still have more of these “what ifs…?” to resolve. It’s so annoying, but then it’s always my call to face the situation for man is born to trust first impressions.

There is no place like my TESOL environment – where racists live and where individuals endowed with prejudices against Asian teachers reign. That’s why I had to stand up for myself, for others, and what I believe in – a big NO to first impression. For each person deserves grace or more including me to be honest.

I am truly aware that there is no such thing as “first impression dies” unless someone has learned to defy the gravity or judge the book by its content – then you will find it hard to believe. Let this phrase remains uncanny or only exists in my own dictionary. But it doesn’t stop me from sharing one of the most unexpected stories of my teaching life, lately.

“Here we go again!” I said quietly; a self-talk as I call it.

One student was already in the classroom few minutes before me. He was the earliest bird to meet his teacher who has brown skin and not a native speaker of English. He seemed unhappy by the look of his eyes. He didn’t smile at all. Let me call him Dara (not his real name).

“So you’re not white?” my worried mind could hear him freak out, but thank God he didn’t.

So used to this scenario, but like I said, got my own way – for this reason I’ve survived and was loved by my students. And no need to mention those awful moments because they were uninspiring.

Few days after, Dara brought me some muffins for snack and then some Chinese kikyams the following day. The next time around, his generosity was beyond expectation – he bought me sunglasses. Wow!

It such a delight to know that he’s very happy in my class every single day. Above all this, it’s a joy to know that he’s no typical impressionable at all. I think it’s time for me to remove this lasting negative impression in my mind towards students or anyone else, too. This is how first impression dies works in some ways.

Now it’s all up to you to break this bad habit – trusting on first impressions or to give others more consideration that first impression may die.

Mystery Talks

Two in a row over a span of just an hour revealed two messages today – both were unfolded ambiguously – thoughts expressed with sensitivity and that require contextual awareness – now still mystery talks.

Not in my loud personality for I speak out my mind more often than not. And so I’m no mysterious man – what you see is what you get – an open book who isn’t hesitant to show the real me. Needless to say, keeping secrets in the name of privacy is a non-negotiable alternative.

I won’t blame anyone for not being able to grasp my intention vis-à-vis the posts earlier, but I appreciated your “like” signs and comments. One day when I’m ready enough, then you’ll be the next ones to know. For now, let me leave it as is – an odd curiosity.

“Thank God for the abundance of coffee at school, it makes every worker really happy.”

I wrote on my Facebook timeline today because I could no longer contain the feeling of isolation and the thought of being forgotten, left out. Maybe in one message a way, one sincere person would come to inquire at least.

This is when I felt the deafening silence of God’s voice – when answers to prayers seem slow; not a single mark to trace. All I had to do is to wait and pray in hopes of things I’m still clinging to.

But then it’s in this mystery talks I’ve understand the importance of swallowing my pride and set aside this messianic complex I presumed didn’t have.

Yes, it’s in this vague story I’ve decided to open up a bit as I prayed for the right people to listen.

And it is in this bizarreness I realized to give room for other people to know instead of keeping it myself.

“Five days in a row – breaking someone’s record – not a legacy the next generation wants know.”

My second note – as a status on Facebook – another mysterious thought in follow up of what I have been feeling and thinking since last week. Sure enough, only two people got this message as clear as mud. I just felt to unleash this uncontrollable feeling of uneasiness within me through this social network.

The world has been unfriendly to me lately including destiny and those people I imagine friends. Maybe one more message a way they would come to me sincerely and pay attention to my silent cries. But these silent cries turned mystery talks – it would take genuine person to comprehend – or I’ll leave it forever like this – the greatest taboo of my life.   

And so I have a note to my dear family:

“Don’t worry about me, I’m still OK. This is not related to the latest incident. I apologize if I will deprive you this time from knowing the story. Rest assured that this is not concerning serious illnesses as well – it’s just a solvable silent cry. Just pray for me in this time of discouragement, pain, and loneliness. I count it as trials while following the Master. Let’s think of it as part of my calling to serve other people. If I couldn’t endure it anymore, I will always run to you. For now, let it be mystery talks.”

To those who lent ears to listen…a countless thanks to you. 

50-50

coming soon!

Veranda

Views taken from my Veranda

Not a single night or day, for as long as I’m around would fail indulging this place – my favorite spot at home – an open access to the neighborhood where words aren’t needed to explain motions and goings-on; a perfect location to adore sunrise and sunset including countless moonlights; a cramped space where I’m the weather forecaster of my own – all these in my tiny veranda.   

It’s not an ideal type one elegant or picky or malcontent or disgruntled person could have, but for me who live by grace is a jackpot.  And for a guy who likes watching high-rise buildings and different house structures from a distance, just a teeny weeny porch would do. I don’t need to go to crowded vicinities to slake my amazement – got it all right here.

It’s neither an idyllic one.

What do you expect for such a cheap rent?

Yet I am extremely pleasant with a cup of coffee, and sometimes tea in my hand realizing that not everyone has the same privilege. After all happiness is not the presence of up-to-the-minute stuff around, it’s a choice. 

Yet I’ve learned to appreciate the simplicity it brings in the absence of what others consider true beauty. Noticing the unnoticed is not what people give each day, but if your heart is filled with gratefulness, then you’d always find every little thing worth praising and thanking still.  

Yet I’ve become accustomed to the noise I hear each day while sitting in my veranda – even with the most annoying honk in the middle of the night from an insensitive neighbor – a sound that steals away someone’s tranquility. Anyway, I was taught that peace is not the presence of silence but a state of mind instead.

A veranda is still a veranda and it has nothing to do with anything that is happening around whether it’s pleasant or beautiful or peaceful or not all.

Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary defines idyllic as extremely pleasant, beautiful or peaceful referring to a place or experience. And so none of these descriptions matches how my veranda is like. It doesn’t matter because I love it so much.

“Enormous” wouldn’t be the right utterance or an idea expressed in spoken words regarding this favorite corner of mine, but this is where I dream awake, think a lot, plan ahead, and design things well – the biggest stuff one can ever imagine. And so I cherish this minuscule place where my current life’s story is happening at the moment.

Right in this veranda where I shed tears for countless times when drought was seemingly unbearable – where I’ve prayed fervently more than anyone else – in hushed and audible voice.

Along with my pen and notebook, I poured out my silent cries here – when tears were just too dry to come out; and when I had no one to talk to. There in those silent cries each story of God’s goodness, grace, mercy, love, kindness, and faithfulness is revealed.

Rain or shine, I stargaze from my veranda every night to feel relaxed and serene. This is what usually I do before kissing the night goodbye.

In season or out of season, this is where I drink my morning coffee and with a praiseful heart to welcome another day.

I dry my laundry here to get natural heat from the sun or the blowing wind – to remind me that man doesn’t live in high technology alone – the Creator has given us free resources to enjoy life still.

Lastly, this is where I cool down at night or day time if necessary when the sun isn’t that friendly at times. 

Thank God for this veranda!

Here are some photos of my daughters from the village visiting taken from my veranda...  

Grace Amidst Violence

Even in my dream I had to flee and run for my life – a post trauma effect which I never had in the past – a disturbing paranoia from one’s violent act. To be watchful, to be vigilant, and to be stronger than ever before from this intimidating attack – then I’d be forced to fight back protecting myself in case another assault happens. Help me, God!

This psychotic man has been a miscreant, a big loser even with the past teachers. No one could stand his temper or ego or his lousy behavior. The teachers and all the volunteers had to evade from his unbearable presence. And so did this little man (me) as the newest victim as far as I know.

I have featured him once two months ago in my effort to protect my children in the village; a fake philanthropist whose intention but evil desire sexually harassing some of the kids. We all knew it, and I was the last one to know. 

“Come on, is this what I get for running away from trouble?” I murmured in pain falling from the bicycle.

The onrush happened exactly a week ago after teaching my late evening class. He had been harassing me, sending threat messages, and disturbing me a lot of times prior to this. Like a timid creature in disguise, he was standing outside our school. The moment he saw me, he was transformed quickly into a hungry hyena ready to devour his prey.

As a normal reaction, I tried to ignore him and did what I was taught about – to avoid as much as necessary – I thought would help. When I noticed his strange move, I pedaled my bike immediately as fast as I could in the middle of a busy, main road to save my life; and for another chance to live. I could hear him screaming violently, freaking out crazily, cursing and cussing endlessly, and running after me as fast as he could to hurt me or maybe wanted me dead.

When I was away, and became invisible in his presence, that’s when another careless motorbike rider ruined my day – I fell from my bicycle wounded and bleeding.

A man in his thirty's behaving such things? I haven't seen such a British guy like this in my entire life - only here and only him so far. I wonder how he is like back in his country. It chills me to the bone.

Thanks to my supportive boss, and to the rest of the staff for the support they had during this awful situation.We had done our best to pacify the incident and made every possible way for a truce, even if I'm faultless.

Unfortunately, I don't trust him and so I'm always careful about what this insane man can do. It is better safe than sorry, I was told. I've been constantly telling my self and others that I'd be forced to fight back in case the same thing happens again - not that I hate him or want him dead, but purely self-defense.
   

At first, I wanted to just keep it here and didn't bother to tell my family and friends back home. That wasn't a good idea, I know. More than all this hazardous concern, just didn't want to talk about him because he isn't worth writing or mentioning at all. But rest assured I wasn't in total silence and told my friends here instead about this attempted murder. They have been praying for me. Thanks for the prayers.

As I was preparing my lesson the other day, I happened to browse a page in one of the books - a slogan which gave me the courage to stand up against violence - a memo of God's strength - a sufficient grace in the midst of violence.

And in this grace I am reminded to respond in love and not in hatred. That's so human tendency to be filled with anger and hate after all these things, but then as God's child I understand that it shouldn't be counterfeited this way except for preliminary measures putting the matters legally for the sake of everybody's peace.  

And in this grace I am exhorted of to trust in Him who sees every little danger rather than do it my way. Of course, I have to watch and pray.

And in this slogan, a provision of grace is where I took the boldness to put all my thoughts into writing - my worries and fears, every bit of paranoia, being a victor, and so my thanksgiving and praise for the safety each single moment.   

For thirteen years away from home, I never had such serious craziness like this one, not even an accident. But again, it is in this someone's insanity I have come to fully grasp the feeling of being assaulted, threatened to death, a victim of violence, a prisoner of fear and silence, and being weak to fight for the truth - not anymore.

Above all this, I have learned to cry for more mercy and grace.