There are many times in my life that I miss Mrs. Casey.
Ramblings while on a slow suburban death.
Ramblings while on a slow suburban death.
I saw, I wrote.
There are many times in my life that I miss Mrs. Casey.
On a bullet train ride from Shinagawa (Tokyo) to Hakata, I sat next to an older Japanese woman who had been sniffling during most of the trip. She had a mask around her mouth, and would politely bow whenever she had to cough or make a louder sniffle.
For the opening night of the Cannes Film Festival, Henri Behar granted my request to experience the red carpet paparazzi pit. Henri walked me over to area before the red carpet circus began, making sure both the photographers and security guards knew who I was.
Two years ago, my mother gave me half of all the jewelry she owned. Among the items I received was a beautiful string of pearls, a set of illegally made and rare tortoise shell earrings, a round coral ring that was purchased in Hawaii and a older, large sapphire ring that she claimed was a gift to me from its original owner, a lady whom I will refer to as Ms. N.
When the Golden State Warriors were still the San Francisco Warriors, they used to play at the Civic Center Auditorium. Their offices were on Golden Gate Avenue and Van Ness, a tiny building with a large sized “San Francisco Warrior” sign over the plate glass entrance.
(St. Francis Xavier church, home of my first confession)
Father Guetzloe ushered five of us into his tiny little room where his gowns and sacred chalice were kept. We lined up and waited our turn, although I did not know what we were doing. Perhaps there was instruction that I missed, which was entirely possible since I spent many days in first grade just concentrating on the blinds that covered our giant classroom windows.
(short hair fused with long hairpiece, during the one year we were asked to wear our hair long)
I once had long, thick, straight and beautiful hair until I was 9, when both my grandmother and mother decided that I would survive a humid Japanese summer better with a short cut. We went to the beauty salon, where my hair was tied back and chopped off with one swift stroke of shears.
(Ness Aquino and I at the bar in the Mabuhay Gardens. I was too young to drink.)
My father had watched “Amapola,” the weekend Filipino variety show on channel 18 hosted by Ness Aquino and Amapola, a local celebrity that wore a beautiful Fiipino dress and sang for her TV audience. The show was always simple, with Ness and Amapola sitting on high backed rattan chairs as they spoke in Taglish.
While I was a prolific letter writer during my teenage years, my choices of pen pals were not always wise. Of course, it took a while to dispense of my one prison pen pal, but I finally managed to confine my correspondence to one nice German girl who sent me wonderful photos of her home in Bavaria and from vacations to Spain.
At some point after I began Kindergarten, there was a noticeable change in the behavior of my parents. Along with homework and my own awkwardness in social settings, I lost contact with both my mother or father.