The Continuing Saga of Self in Bacolod

In Dreams From My Father:  A Story of Race and Inheritance, Barack Obama writes:

What is a family?  Is it just a genetic chain, parents and offspring, people like me?  Or is it a social construct, an economic unit, optimal for child rearing and divisions of labor?  Or is it something else entirely:  a store of shared memories, say?  An ambit of love?  A reach across the void?

One thing about America:  You make your own family.  It can consist of a cat, a dog, a beloved teacher, a neighbor or neighbors, your best college chums, your editor(s), your publisher(s), your friendly local librarian —  the permutations are bewildering and endless.

Self was in the Daku Balay again.  She even braved the inner sanctum and took pictures of a few of the employees of the family corporation, Genen.

The cutest secretary in the Daku Balay. Today must have been “Casual Wednesday” — all the secretaries were dressed in their regular clothes (i.e., not in their office uniforms)

The secretaries invited self to share their lunch of what looked like chicken fingers. The food came from Jollibee. In all honesty, self could not partake of their modest repast without huge pangs of guilt. They talked about how wonderful it was when, last March, self brought over seven pizzas from Bob’s. It turned out not to be enough.

Self promised to bring over 10 boxes of pizza, next time.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

2 Comments

  1. October 31, 2012 at 6:32 pm

    As someone who has decided never to go back to Burma, your time in Bacolod is proving quite emotional even for me to travel vicariously through you “home”.

    I used to “go home to” Boulder, CO, Thailand, and now TX and Philadelphia.

    Oh, and sometimes Chicago.

    But it’s true, in America you can set up a home anywhere.

    In the worst phase of my life in mid 90s, when my marriage and country all fell through simultaneously, I went to flea markets and bought 2 water color paintings, several pieces of cut work embroidery and a knife with a bone handle like the one my father used to butter his bread with.

    I then wrote about 350+ poems, a play, an allegory in the form of a poem, and I felt better again.

    Kyi

  2. October 31, 2012 at 10:52 pm

    Oh, Kyi! Your comment “I then wrote about 350+ poems . . . ” made me laugh! You are a true inspiration.


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