"Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah. It makes absolutely no difference what people think of you." -Rumi
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“Everything is gestation and bringing forth.
That alone is living the artist’s life – in understanding as in work.
There is no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like [a] tree…. It comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful…”
– Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
i want it now:
to Know.
just,
to Know.
to know what and why
who what where when how
am I doing…
how are you doing?
kumusta ka?
and the truth is I am fine – better than fine -
surviving thriving
making friends and drinking red horse
out til late or
having people over for
more
beer and a smoke
a few
laughs or a bootleg movie.
and the truth is I am well – what else could I be? when
there are weekends with family to
catch up on the years that drowned between
Manila Bay and L.A.
eating napping talking
and
eating again
countering questions on sex
returning auntie’s kisses
receiving another plate of pancit
and listening until the stark light
of bare bulbs flicker on
across the city.
but
you know,
my truth is also
hungry yearning needy impatient
inside tearing ripping clawing
a young bright wanting
frantic desperate heaving
striving trying looking searching for
who what where when
how am I really doing
here.
and the truth is that it was gorgeous today an orange evening clear for miles
and i wondered to myself in that same breath of awe
How am I doing Here?
kumusta ako?
and the truth is ‘di ko alam, po.
well, if you really want to know –
the truth is i want. every moment wanting
gasping awake sweating needing
answers to unsolvable questions
addresses to homes unknown or off limits
the truth is i hurt – more than hurt
i am ripped apart by my context and history and location
my fundamental selves at odds
bleeding
should i even be here?
the truth is i am dealing
coping negotiating my own issues
insecurities, identity
coming here to “find myself”
a me i have never seen
though
i am flesh and i exist
fractured and disparate yet sure and undeniable.
knowing that,
the truth is i cry.
weeping gratefully as the bare bulbs burn
“Everything is gestation and bringing forth.
That alone is living the artist’s life – in understanding as in work.
There is no measuring with time, no year matters, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means, not reckoning and counting, but ripening like [a] tree…. It comes only to the patient, who are there as though eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain to which I am grateful…”
– Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
i want it now:
to Know.
just,
to Know.
to know what and why
who what where when how
am I doing…
how are you doing?
kumusta ka?
and the truth is I am fine – better than fine -
surviving thriving
making friends and drinking red horse
out til late or
having people over for
more
beer and a smoke
a few
laughs or a bootleg movie.
and the truth is I am well – what else could I be? when
there are weekends with family to
catch up on the years that drowned between
Manila Bay and L.A.
eating napping talking
and
eating again
countering questions on sex
returning auntie’s kisses
receiving another plate of pancit
and listening until the stark light
of bare bulbs flicker on
across the city.
but
you know,
my truth is also
hungry yearning needy impatient
inside tearing ripping clawing
a young bright wanting
frantic desperate heaving
striving trying looking searching for
who what where when
how am I really doing
here.
and the truth is that it was gorgeous today an orange evening clear for miles
and i wondered to myself in that same breath of awe
How am I doing Here?
kumusta ako?
and the truth is ‘di ko alam, po.
well, if you really want to know –
the truth is i want. every moment wanting
gasping awake sweating needing
answers to unsolvable questions
addresses to homes unknown or off limits
the truth is i hurt – more than hurt
i am ripped apart by my context and history and location
my fundamental selves at odds
bleeding
should i even be here?
the truth is i am dealing
coping negotiating my own issues
insecurities, identity
coming here to “find myself”
a me i have never seen
though
i am flesh and i exist
fractured and disparate yet sure and undeniable.
knowing that,
the truth is i cry.
weeping gratefully as the bare bulbs burn
kanto fried chicken: a love poem in five movements
I.
sittin’ quietly
in a KFC
in a developing country
developing thoughts on the
Mickey D’s
among the trees
across
the street.
crowded jeepneys
drivin’ by looking fly
chrome virgens on the dash
painted jesus ridin’ past
blond hair n’ blue eyes
starin’ at
the unmoving traffic
He’s
stuck
in
prayin’ to his Dad
to forgive his sin
of wishin’ he was in
a private SUV
with the aircon on
blastin’ english songs
‘stead of this public mass
transport
breathing in soot
watchin’ rainbow jeeps
with his mama on the hood.
II.
the smog settles.
revealing schoolgirls on cell phones
texting secrets
to illicit suitors
on scooters
ferrying tourists to
and fro
the megamalls and barrios
where the deal’s a steal
when you play
be it ang mga batang kalye
sneaking away with
your wallet and cell
or a haggled discount price
over your proud prize
an authentic tropical
conch shell
or
your indigenously
meticulously
woven banig to hang on your
loft’s wall
while someone must be missing
a mat to fall
asleep on
It’s wrong
Isn’t it – I think?
while gnawing on
a chicken wing.
III.
lounging comfy
with Colonel Sanders
watching pusacals meander
domesticated predators
eyein’ the tasty thighs,
freedom fries
and ice cold Sierra Mist
this
domesticated preda/tourist
missed
during weeks of cultural immersion
a version
of trying to understand and belong
i think
can that be so wrong?
as i Purell my greasy hands.
IV.
the strays scatter away.
i eye the last fry and
someone takes my tray to
bus it for me
it’s weird to see
the service industry so
clearly.
i pause before i go.
V.
sitting anxiously
at a global chicken chain
urging my brain to
retrain
past the shame and blame
and heat and rain—
lookin’ past the glass exit
and the doorman with a gun
there are cocks
under cardboard boxes
hiding from the sun
their cry for the day to begin
lost earlier in
the wind
i caught ringing in my ears
along with my fears
this morning.
i count my fare slow.
handling each peso and centavo
while watching lolas
futilely sweeping the
uneven concrete
past carts selling buko and calling cards
the memory of the morning
bittersweet
i rubbed my eyes awake to
new skies and then
only to find myself in
the familiar again
and again
and again
unable to exit this air-conditioned
fluorescent haven/hell
conditioned to crave the
smell
of country comfort
cheap fast bright clean cool
the traffic light turns red.
jesus stops and above his
airbrushed head reads:
Quiapo
i get up and go.
kanto fried chicken: a love poem in five movements
I.
sittin’ quietly
in a KFC
in a developing country
developing thoughts on the
Mickey D’s
among the trees
across
the street.
crowded jeepneys
drivin’ by looking fly
chrome virgens on the dash
painted jesus ridin’ past
blond hair n’ blue eyes
starin’ at
the unmoving traffic
He’s
stuck
in
prayin’ to his Dad
to forgive his sin
of wishin’ he was in
a private SUV
with the aircon on
blastin’ english songs
‘stead of this public mass
transport
breathing in soot
watchin’ rainbow jeeps
with his mama on the hood.
II.
the smog settles.
revealing schoolgirls on cell phones
texting secrets
to illicit suitors
on scooters
ferrying tourists to
and fro
the megamalls and barrios
where the deal’s a steal
when you play
be it ang mga batang kalye
sneaking away with
your wallet and cell
or a haggled discount price
over your proud prize
an authentic tropical
conch shell
or
your indigenously
meticulously
woven banig to hang on your
loft’s wall
while someone must be missing
a mat to fall
asleep on
It’s wrong
Isn’t it – I think?
while gnawing on
a chicken wing.
III.
lounging comfy
with Colonel Sanders
watching pusacals meander
domesticated predators
eyein’ the tasty thighs,
freedom fries
and ice cold Sierra Mist
this
domesticated preda/tourist
missed
during weeks of cultural immersion
a version
of trying to understand and belong
i think
can that be so wrong?
as i Purell my greasy hands.
IV.
the strays scatter away.
i eye the last fry and
someone takes my tray to
bus it for me
it’s weird to see
the service industry so
clearly.
i pause before i go.
V.
sitting anxiously
at a global chicken chain
urging my brain to
retrain
past the shame and blame
and heat and rain—
lookin’ past the glass exit
and the doorman with a gun
there are cocks
under cardboard boxes
hiding from the sun
their cry for the day to begin
lost earlier in
the wind
i caught ringing in my ears
along with my fears
this morning.
i count my fare slow.
handling each peso and centavo
while watching lolas
futilely sweeping the
uneven concrete
past carts selling buko and calling cards
the memory of the morning
bittersweet
i rubbed my eyes awake to
new skies and then
only to find myself in
the familiar again
and again
and again
unable to exit this air-conditioned
fluorescent haven/hell
conditioned to crave the
smell
of country comfort
cheap fast bright clean cool
the traffic light turns red.
jesus stops and above his
airbrushed head reads:
Quiapo
i get up and go.
I don’t know my own name. I can’t pronounce the damn thing correctly. Twenty-two years old and my name sounds strange off my tongue.
Krystal Banzon.
CHRIS-tul BAND-zahn in the states.
Krrris-TAHL BAAN-SOHN in the Philippines.
So I end up mumbling it incoherently when people ask, which requires them to ask me again because they can’t hear or understand me. So I repeat it louder, my lips clumsily tripping over syllables that have belonged to me my whole life, my eyes shifting, embarrassed that I don’t know my own name. Humiliated that I can’t correctly pronounce the ethnic tones that formulate my Visayan last name, the letters that connect me to my father’s heritage.
“KRRRISTAHL BAANSOHN!! Oh, very formal!” people exclaim.
“Krystal” here apparently doesn’t have the same suburban cheerleader connotations it has in the States.
I’ve realized that a similar narrative exists with people who grew up in more than one culture, that some of my own friends have had to resign themselves to be renamed a similar, but simpler nickname for the comfort and ease of the dominant culture, or have had to fight to get their name pronounced correctly, rolled-R’s,long-A’s and all. And then there are the ones like myself, who mumble their birth name all throughout their lives, for some reason never asking their parents for the correct pronunciation, and muttering it inconsistently for years before finally settling on an mess of vowels that is easy to say, but difficult to claim.
Banzon. BAANzon. BanZON. BanSON. BENson. BenZON. BANDzon.
a predicament
of hybridity
of imperialist hegemony
a speech impediment
culturally,
sneakily,
imposed
like bank repos
taken and resold.
it’s the therapy of society
to help you fix
that confusing ethnic
lilt
to train
your brain
to enunciate
PRO-NONE-SEE-ate
For the convenience of the bank men
The understanding of white friends
To avoid bureaucratic dead ends
And prevent corporate interview
career-killing trends
Make it effortless.
No distress
No questions
No shame(?)
in that mutter
stutter
slur
that is Your Name
I don’t know my own name. I can’t pronounce the damn thing correctly. Twenty-two years old and my name sounds strange off my tongue.
Krystal Banzon.
CHRIS-tul BAND-zahn in the states.
Krrris-TAHL BAAN-SOHN in the Philippines.
So I end up mumbling it incoherently when people ask, which requires them to ask me again because they can’t hear or understand me. So I repeat it louder, my lips clumsily tripping over syllables that have belonged to me my whole life, my eyes shifting, embarrassed that I don’t know my own name. Humiliated that I can’t correctly pronounce the ethnic tones that formulate my Visayan last name, the letters that connect me to my father’s heritage.
“KRRRISTAHL BAANSOHN!! Oh, very formal!” people exclaim.
“Krystal” here apparently doesn’t have the same suburban cheerleader connotations it has in the States.
I’ve realized that a similar narrative exists with people who grew up in more than one culture, that some of my own friends have had to resign themselves to be renamed a similar, but simpler nickname for the comfort and ease of the dominant culture, or have had to fight to get their name pronounced correctly, rolled-R’s,long-A’s and all. And then there are the ones like myself, who mumble their birth name all throughout their lives, for some reason never asking their parents for the correct pronunciation, and muttering it inconsistently for years before finally settling on an mess of vowels that is easy to say, but difficult to claim.
Banzon. BAANzon. BanZON. BanSON. BENson. BenZON. BANDzon.
a predicament
of hybridity
of imperialist hegemony
a speech impediment
culturally,
sneakily,
imposed
like bank repos
taken and resold.
it’s the therapy of society
to help you fix
that confusing ethnic
lilt
to train
your brain
to enunciate
PRO-NONE-SEE-ate
For the convenience of the bank men
The understanding of white friends
To avoid bureaucratic dead ends
And prevent corporate interview
career-killing trends
Make it effortless.
No distress
No questions
No shame(?)
in that mutter
stutter
slur
that is Your Name
Filipina-Americana-1st Gen.
MixedCultureWomon
queer-P.O.C.
workinclassbrowngirl
with a Smith degree
artist.activist.scholar
straddling the picket fence of
privilege
one unshaved leg
on each side gyrating – trying
to find the right
S-s-s-spot G !!! /slash/ Place to Be
It is the negotiation of location
when you are Ohh-So-Close!
so close to being yuppie up-by-my-bootstraps puppy
so close to low-credit-score-call-now-1-800-debt-free
so close to wanderlust-backpacker-the-world-is-my-oyster
so close to slaved-for-saved-for-remittances-money-wire-transfers
a white picket fence wedgie’s
the true reality of a
degree wieldin’
hummus-loving, recycling, organic-vegetar-I-eatin’
creditcreditcredit charging
lola and lolo respecting
independent self-reliant woman/familial separatist
good-girl-no-boyfriend!
no-boy-period! this-lady’s-lady-chasin’
family hurting
family loving
P.O.C.
