Two Women

I am a multi-tasker by nature, and even in reading my books I prefer to read more than one at a time. At present, I am reading the biographies of two women who seem to be polar opposites: Madeleine Körbel Albright, who was once Secretary of State of the United States—the highest any women has ever gone in American politics; and Paz Marquez-Benitez, the first author of a Filipino short story written in English—a woman who was also very much ahead of her time, as well as of her male contemporaries.

It is interesting to see that although both women were from different cultures and eras, and had altogether different realities, their lives share some themes and lessons that make us realize the value of any human life, no matter how insignificant it may seem at first. They are not my idols-apparent—I have always claimed to idolize the late Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn for being women of style, substance, and strength—but they have lived lives that I now only dream of living (and fusing). Albright is a woman who has risen from humble Jewish-Czech beginnings to the savage, male-dominated world of (American) politics; while Benitez chose to live a more quiet and genteel life as a writer, educator, wife, and mother, but reflected a young nation’s dreams and visions of hope in her written work.

As a young woman whose heart is in both politics and art, social transformation and cultural consciousness, I find in both women lives lived well, and worth sharing.

* * * * *

I have not gone far in reading both biographies (Albright’s is entitled Seasons of her Life, written by Time correspondent Ann Blackman; Benitez’s is Paz Marquez Benitez: One Woman’s Life, Letters, and Writings, written by her daughter, Virginia Benitez Licuanan), but both women’s stories show how inextricably linked the seemingly mundane events of our lives can be with the history of young nations in turmoil. In reading their histories, and those of their ancestors, I have come to realize that no war, no crisis, no event of national significance is ever too far removed from the food on our table or the clothes on our back to be deemed inconsequential to daily living.

Madeleine (Madlenka) Körbelová’s father, Josef Körbel (I have learned that females add an “ová” to their surnames), was a diplomat in the young democratic Czechoslovakia at the time Madeleine was born, in 1937. He was popular and well-liked, and sat in the good graces of Beneš administration. He and his wife, Mandula—who was a very good chronicler—lived an almost-enviable life of political sorties, parties, and friends in high places, until the day Hitler decided that Czechoslovakia was his for the taking. Because Körbel was too closely identified with then-president Beneš and was Jewish—although the family did not really practice the religion—he and his young family had to be exiled to Britain.

Paz Marquez, on the other hand, was born in 1894, years before the Revolution which jostled us from Spain’s clutches onto the hands of the Americans. The place which their family called home was Tayabas (now Quezon), then a “hot bed” of the revolution, where serenity was unheard of, and where families had to master the games of habulan and taguan in order to survive. In her memoirs, she writes of moments of anticipation and dread at the thought of being caught by the Spaniards, and of friends and loved ones lost either because of the war itself, or as a side-effect of all the upheaval and illness that are frequently associated with such events.

Both Madeleine and Paz’s families were caught in the midst of wars that rocked their fragile nations, their intimate, personal tragedies and diary entries the reflections of cold and faceless accounts in our news archives and history textbooks.

* * * * *

In a sense, and to echo a lesson I learned in Philosophy class, what is personal is universal, and what is universal is personal. What were then private scribblings in notebooks and loose sheets of paper by then private individuals of no national consequence are now peepholes into a different culture, a different era, a different world. The Czechoslovakia of Madlenka Körbelová’s youth has now been dissolved, and the Quezons and Osmeñas who once graced the Benitez dining hall are now only imprints on almost-worthless currency. And yet, for a time, they were real, they were held dear.

Even Albright and Benitez seem far removed from us now, until we read their stories and find ourselves transported to their world, to the core of their day-to-day existence, understanding (for a brief moment) what it was like to have lived in their worlds.

* * * * *

It makes me wonder about the true weight and value of seemingly insignificant decisions that I have made, or have yet to make. What will my high-slitted, tight-skirted presence at EDSA Dos mean 20 years from now, when my children are in high school, and when they would have read about the second People Power that once again installed a woman president? How will life be for my family in 2020, and how will I explain to them the choices that I would have made with each election from now until then? Will I be able to afford to send my children to my beloved Ateneo? Or will the desire for true social involvement and change tear me from this comfortable life, to pursue other goals on another path? What will my diary entries and Spoonful issues mean for another generation who may (or may not) read them?

How will my thoughts, beliefs, decisions, and actions shape my little world, and how will little life this fit into the grander—universal—scheme of things?

How will yours?

(Written: March 11, 2004)

Two Women

I am a multi-tasker by nature, and even in reading my books I prefer to read more than one at a time. At present, I am reading the biographies of two women who seem to be polar opposites: Madeleine Körbel Albright, who was once Secretary of State of the United States—the highest any women has ever gone in American politics; and Paz Marquez-Benitez, the first author of a Filipino short story written in English—a woman who was also very much ahead of her time, as well as of her male contemporaries.

It is interesting to see that although both women were from different cultures and eras, and had altogether different realities, their lives share some themes and lessons that make us realize the value of any human life, no matter how insignificant it may seem at first. They are not my idols-apparent—I have always claimed to idolize the late Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn for being women of style, substance, and strength—but they have lived lives that I now only dream of living (and fusing). Albright is a woman who has risen from humble Jewish-Czech beginnings to the savage, male-dominated world of (American) politics; while Benitez chose to live a more quiet and genteel life as a writer, educator, wife, and mother, but reflected a young nation’s dreams and visions of hope in her written work.

As a young woman whose heart is in both politics and art, social transformation and cultural consciousness, I find in both women lives lived well, and worth sharing.

* * * * *

I have not gone far in reading both biographies (Albright’s is entitled Seasons of her Life, written by Time correspondent Ann Blackman; Benitez’s is Paz Marquez Benitez: One Woman’s Life, Letters, and Writings, written by her daughter, Virginia Benitez Licuanan), but both women’s stories show how inextricably linked the seemingly mundane events of our lives can be with the history of young nations in turmoil. In reading their histories, and those of their ancestors, I have come to realize that no war, no crisis, no event of national significance is ever too far removed from the food on our table or the clothes on our back to be deemed inconsequential to daily living.

Madeleine (Madlenka) Körbelová’s father, Josef Körbel (I have learned that females add an “ová” to their surnames), was a diplomat in the young democratic Czechoslovakia at the time Madeleine was born, in 1937. He was popular and well-liked, and sat in the good graces of Beneš administration. He and his wife, Mandula—who was a very good chronicler—lived an almost-enviable life of political sorties, parties, and friends in high places, until the day Hitler decided that Czechoslovakia was his for the taking. Because Körbel was too closely identified with then-president Beneš and was Jewish—although the family did not really practice the religion—he and his young family had to be exiled to Britain.

Paz Marquez, on the other hand, was born in 1894, years before the Revolution which jostled us from Spain’s clutches onto the hands of the Americans. The place which their family called home was Tayabas (now Quezon), then a “hot bed” of the revolution, where serenity was unheard of, and where families had to master the games of habulan and taguan in order to survive. In her memoirs, she writes of moments of anticipation and dread at the thought of being caught by the Spaniards, and of friends and loved ones lost either because of the war itself, or as a side-effect of all the upheaval and illness that are frequently associated with such events.

Both Madeleine and Paz’s families were caught in the midst of wars that rocked their fragile nations, their intimate, personal tragedies and diary entries the reflections of cold and faceless accounts in our news archives and history textbooks.

* * * * *

In a sense, and to echo a lesson I learned in Philosophy class, what is personal is universal, and what is universal is personal. What were then private scribblings in notebooks and loose sheets of paper by then private individuals of no national consequence are now peepholes into a different culture, a different era, a different world. The Czechoslovakia of Madlenka Körbelová’s youth has now been dissolved, and the Quezons and Osmeñas who once graced the Benitez dining hall are now only imprints on almost-worthless currency. And yet, for a time, they were real, they were held dear.

Even Albright and Benitez seem far removed from us now, until we read their stories and find ourselves transported to their world, to the core of their day-to-day existence, understanding (for a brief moment) what it was like to have lived in their worlds.

* * * * *

It makes me wonder about the true weight and value of seemingly insignificant decisions that I have made, or have yet to make. What will my high-slitted, tight-skirted presence at EDSA Dos mean 20 years from now, when my children are in high school, and when they would have read about the second People Power that once again installed a woman president? How will life be for my family in 2020, and how will I explain to them the choices that I would have made with each election from now until then? Will I be able to afford to send my children to my beloved Ateneo? Or will the desire for true social involvement and change tear me from this comfortable life, to pursue other goals on another path? What will my diary entries and Spoonful issues mean for another generation who may (or may not) read them?

How will my thoughts, beliefs, decisions, and actions shape my little world, and how will little life this fit into the grander—universal—scheme of things?

How will yours?

(Written: March 11, 2004)

Chasing Dreams

The other day I wrote about Losing Safety Nets, and I'd like to apologize for reviving this column, for the nth time, on a negative note. I'd like to make up for it and reclaim the throne to my exuberance by telling you why I decided to resign in the first place.

It has always been my dream to empower and inspire other people through my writing. When I began A Spoonful of Sugar almost four years ago, people's responses to my articles told me that the world needed a friendly "voice" to egg them on. Often in our lives the words that we hear debilitate instead of motivate us. From our parents, teachers, or bosses we've heard about the things that we couldn't do ("don't be an artist; you'll starve") instead of seeing the possibilities that we can bring to life ("your life can bring hope and inspiration to young kids"). So I made it my personal mission to bring some sunshine into people's lives through my perky prose. And you may have noticed that the column hasn't been out regularly; it's because it's really been just a hobby, an outlet to vent my frustrations and psych myself up for better days.

In recent months, however, this little voice inside of me began telling me how resentful she is that I've "abandoned" my writing. I had become far too busy to write anything meaningful, and whenever I did try to write nothing would come out. I was stressed, frustrated, and in pain. Nothing inspired me anymore, and it began to show even in my work. Those were the first signs. Then, the little voice grew louder and more insistent that I get back to my craft. Again, I ignored it. THEN came the sleepless nights, the trying-to-write-but-nothing-comes-out nights, the trying-to-make-sense-of-things moments, UNTIL a voice just told me: "LEAP. TAKE THAT LEAP OF FAITH NOW."

Then I felt at peace. And everything made sense once more. The little voice inside me was happy, and I felt much lighter and alive. True, I've hardly even begun my journey, so maybe this peace will be short-lived, but it doesn't really bother me. Know why? I know that the road ahead will be tough–tougher than any road I've taken, any challenge I've overcome, any heartbreak I've experienced. BUT I'M TAKING A CHANCE ON MY DREAMS and, whatever happens–broke or not–I know I'll end up a winner.

So, what keeps YOU awake at night and keeps you going in the morning?

(Written: A Spoonful of Sugar, 6 June 2003)

Welcome to my Blogspace.

Those who know me well know that I am an irrepressible blogger. In 1999, I started writing A Spoonful of Sugar, which was then an email newsletter sent out to my friends and colleagues at Globe Telecom. It covered anything and everything in my rose-colored world that I felt was worth writing about: idealistic dreams, far-reaching goals, views about politics and society, takes on love and romance, and everything else in between. As the small mailing list quickly expanded, a close friend of mine (and an idol and mentor, really), Palanca Award-winner Christian Vallez, encouraged me to post my thoughts in a blog. So I did.

Four years later, in 2003, when I embarked on a freelance writing career and established myself as a "real writer," Spoonful also took off–although not in a big, commercial way. I started getting emails and comments from people I didn't know. People I had almost forgotten about (classmates and acquaintances from high school and college) would write me, saying how my posts made them realize this, or changed their lives in that way. I was humbled and emboldened at the same time. I knew I had something good to say, and that I should keep saying it. Around that time, too, I was reunited with an old friend–who later on became the Love of My Life and who encouraged me to take flight. Spoonful became an open diary of sorts, a story of our friendship, love, romance, and–as usual–everything else in between.

Now, it's 2007, and it once again has been four years since the time I pursued my passions as a writer, and I'm realizing that my life seems to be moving in four-year cycles. I now maintain (or at least try to) four blogs: A Spoonful of Sugar; Via Filipina, about my search for authenticity as a young woman; Soul Work, about my spiritual journey and the tools that I use along the way; and Niña's Notebook, my online portfolio.

So this blog will be a compendium of my favorite entries, the "best of" everything that I have contributed so far to the blogosphere–a mishmash of spoonfuls of soul work and views of a Filipina trying to make her way around the world. 

I hope you'll enjoy reading (or re-reading) the entries here, and I do hope to hear from you sometime.

~ NT, 29092007