What Home Is

I have become too obsessed with PostSecret.  Honestly, I thought they were dumb when I first heard about them, and now regret ever thinking such blasphemous things.  Trust me, this will not be the only mention of PostSecret in this blog.

I am currently sitting in Terminal 5 of John F. Kennedy International Airport.  I am waiting for my flight out to Rochester back to school.  For the past four-ish months, I’ve been back home in the Bronx where I had some well-needed rest, reconnected with friends, disconnecting with others, and making completely new connections with great people.  It has been a great summer.  I finished my freshman year of college with flying colors.  I had my first job.  I organized myself and my life better.  I started to like my family a whole lot more.  And I found a teensy, weensy bit of direction in life, too.

Here’s where the PostSecret comes in.  I have a folder of postcards that I have saved over the past few months, and one that I can recall like the back of my hand says, “College has made me lose the sense of what home is.”

At this point, I’m feeling a tiny bit antsy about going back to school (but being at the airport has made it better, and I’m sure that by the time I actually get there, I’ll feel better about it).  I feel like a freshman again.  A crapload of new obstacles are being placed in front of me, and I’m not sure how well I’ll deal with them.  And just as I feel like I was getting settled back at “home,” I’m jetting back to Rochester.  Actually, thinking about the situation again, I feel like a sophomore.  I’m stuck between home and school, and I don’t know which I like more, and I don’t know... a lot of things.  I just don’t know enough right now.  I know more than I did as a freshman, but that’s why it’s even more daunting to return to school than it was to go for the first time a year ago.

As a freshman, I had no expectations.  I was leaving everything that I thought was home behind and being put somewhere completely new.  And it was great.  And now, after going back home, I see how much I love being there while missing what it was like to be at college.  And now, I’m straddling between the two, and I’m just confused.

It’s a little too early for me (and I had far too little sleep) to really think of something profound to say, but there’s definitely a point to what I’m writing.  I hope.

I think my flight will be boarding really soon, so I’ll cut this short.  But I hope that I’ll be able to figure out what home is.  For me.

A Fortune Cookie

The other day, I ordered Chinese food at work (General Tso's Tofu... it was good).  It was the first time that I had indulged in some in a while, so it was nice.  Anyway, it came with a multicolored fortune cookie.  The Chinese take-out places around me are stingy with their fortune cookies, so it was a pleasant surprise.

For some reason, I take these things really seriously.  Fortune cookies, dreams, palm reading, horoscopes (occasionally), and all that crap.  It's a bit of an obsession.  I smiled as I read it and stuck it right in my wallet.  If you've seen my wallet, you'd know that things get hidden in there for safe-keeping and stay there for a minimum of roughly two years.  One day, I'll be going through my wallet and come across this fortune and smile in the same way I smiled when I first got it.

In the matter of a few days, I'll be heading back up to the University of Rochester for my sophomore year of college.  This fortune couldn't have come at a better time.  I've been very excited and anxious to go back, but I'm a bit nervous to leave again, and I'm scared of what will come to me this upcoming year.

Cheers to not getting too comfortable.

No Idea.

He had no idea.  I saw him from the platform as the 1 train pulled into Columbus Circle.  I entered through the doors nearest to him even though they weren’t the ones nearest to me just so I could take a better look at him.  He was very handsome.  I tend to do this a lot.  It’s a dirty habit.  I scope out attractive people on the subway.  What else is one supposed to do for forty-five minutes?  Read?  Oh, please.

He had no idea.  It had just struck midnight, so there weren’t very many people on the train.  Well, there were still enough people that some were standing up.  There were a few of the mustard/tangerine seats from which to choose including one all the way at the edge of the bench, which was prime real estate on the subway, but I decided against it.  Instead, I sat across from him.  It gave me more to look at.  There was a seat next to him, too, but that wouldn’t have been very conducive in my efforts of taking a good look at him.

He had no idea.  We had the same shoes.  Well, they may not have been the same, but they were very similar white canvas sneakers.  Like Keds.  Except mine weren’t Keds.  Mine were cheap Keds knock-offs that I bought for seven dollars at Target.  His shoes probably weren’t seven dollars and from Target.  I didn’t care enough to investigate further.  I was just happy that we were wearing similar shoes.  Well, I actually wasn’t wearing them at the time.  I was actually wearing my new Birkenstocks.  A lot of people raved to me about them, so I bought myself a pair.  They hurt like a bitch when you first wear them, but they were getting better.  My pair of white sneakers were in my bag.  I wear those at work.  They don’t allow you to wear Birkenstocks where I work.  His sneakers, like mine, were really worn out.  I only like them when they are brand-spankin’ new and sparkly white or when they’re downright disgusting.  You could hardly tell that his were white as one point, but that’s what gives them character.  They can show where a person has been.  I always wanted to display an art show like that.  I wanted to give a whole bunch of people the same white canvas sneakers, and a year later, I wanted them to give them back to put them on display with the wearer’s portrait and biography, and people can see what they’ve done and where they’ve been for the past year by looking at their shoes.  I have a lot of ideas for art shows.  I think I’m an artist sometimes.

He had no idea.  He was biting his nails.  It’s kinda like a subconscious thing.  I wonder if he saw me biting mine.  I’ve been biting my nails ever since I can remember, and the farthest back that I could remember is when I was five.  Maybe I was biting them even earlier than that.  All I know is that I’ve been biting my nails constantly ever since.  Well, except for that one month during my sophomore year of high school when I started chewing a lot of gum to get me from biting my nails.  Except I started biting my nails while chewing gum.  It didn’t really work.  I wondered if he had as much difficultly trying to break the habit as much as I’ve had.

He had no idea.  I was writing about him.  I always wrote in my sketchbook on the train.  It’s where a whole bunch of stuff is stowed away.  Especially stories like this.  There were reminders, mementos, fashion drawings, doodles, and everything under the sun in that sketchbook.  I bring it with me everywhere.  I always think about whether or not the people I wrote on the train realize that I’m writing about them.  They often see me looking at them; we often exchange glances for a split-second until we awkwardly turn away from each other.  But I wonder if they’re thinking that I’m writing about them.  I usually am.  I wonder what their reaction would be.  I wonder if they’d like to read about themselves.  People always love to hear about themselves.

He had no idea.  I existed.  I really don’t know if he noticed me at all.  That’s what it’s like on the subway.  I’ll probably never see him again.  I probably won’t recognize him if I did.  And I’m sure he wouldn’t recognize me, either.  I guess that’s just the way it is.

I have no idea.

(Painting by Gerard Boesma)

For Erica

First of all, Happy Birthday to Erica Press, one of the most hilarious, artistic, and Un!qu3 (that says "unique") people I know.

We talked about this last night (or rather, this morning when we celebrated her birthday with Red Velvet cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery).  This was my college essay, and I realize now that I've never shared it.  I realize now that: 1) It's terribly short, and; 2) I haven't looked at it in more than a year.

Here it goes.

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            I see her almost every morning.  The complete stranger, a petite Hispanic woman no older than thirty-five, is probably a single mother.  Without fail, she accompanies her child to school every day.  Her young daughter often yanks on her left hand as they share frivolous banter.   Her casual work attire and matching high heeled shoes provide a high contrast to her daughter’s denim outfit and bright pink sneakers.  She always kisses her daughter on the cheek as they approach the school gate, and she watches her child run ebulliently into the building.  This is just the beginning of a long day for a hard-working Bronxite.  She is merely one of the many forgotten heroes of the Bronx.  She embodies the attitude and values that I yearn to possess.  She inspires me.

            I live in the Kingsbridge Heights section of the Bronx in New York City.  It has been my home since my family immigrated to the United States from the Philippines when I was one year old.  It has been a truly unique experience to grow up in a place that many consider an inner city ghetto.  Nestled between the housing projects, the graffiti, the makeshift fire hydrant sprinklers, and the bodegas, I found solace.  I seemed out of place, yet I knew it was where I belonged.  As physically and intellectually different as I am from typical Bronxites, I identify most with these people.

            Bronx residents understand that there is so much more in this world past the borders of their neighborhood.  The Bronx is a place to dream of what is to come while being able to look out the window to see the harsh reality one must overcome to get there.  My neighborhood has always been full of hard working and dedicated people who never give up because they know that there is always more to be seen, learned, experienced, and seized.  They have an undying curiosity for the future.  Interacting with these people has led me to adopt the virtues that they uphold.  I share with them an insurmountable perseverance.  Like the mother whose undying love for her daughter inspires her to work hard to support her child, I am motivated to better myself for the benefit of those around me.  It is enlightening to know that I embody the spirit that continues to shine brightly in the hearts of those in my neighborhood.

            The dedicated single mother is just one of the inspirational Bronxites whose influence may be overlooked.  Her daily routine is not the most glamorous way of life, but it is one that is very respectable.  She is inspirational because of what she represents: the remarkable men and women of the neighborhood that has shaped me into the person I am today.  I see myself in her because I know that I am inspired to become successful on my own terms.  This woman lives a modest lifestyle, but her aura is far from demure.  It continues to shine brightly enough to inspire even the most random of strangers.

I am Holden PAULfield.

I think that I just may be Holden Caulfield.  Well, to be witty, I think that I may actually be Holden Paulfield.  Get it?  That's my first name.  Ha.  Ain't I the most clever person you've ever met?


Anyway, I know that just about a million and one people have also identified with the protagonist of J.D. Salinger's classic The Catcher in the Rye, so you're probably thinking, "What does this guy think makes him so damn special?"  Nothing, really.  I'm not insinuating at all that I am special or that I have anything remotely special to say.  If anything, I'm acknowledging the fact that I am quite cliché.  That's usually never the case, or at least I would never admit to being very common.


I'm pretty sure that the reason why the novel has become such a classic is because we all can identify with Holden to some extent at one point in our lives.  I'm also pretty sure that every single high school English teacher in America and abroad has said that exact thing to his or her class.  I'm not trying to delve into that discussion right now because, to tell you the truth, I'm pretty bad at discussing matters of literature.  I'm not really trying to write some sort of scholarly analysis or make some profound statements.  I'd rather just rant.  I'll save the analyzing and the being profound for another day.


So I finished the book in a matter of a few days during my daily commute on the subway and sitting in Central Park and such, and it's probably the first book that I chose to read (and finish) in a very long time.  I don't often willingly read books, and it's truly a shame because I really would like to.  Most of the time, I just can't get myself to do it.  Only now, I felt different.  The Catcher in the Rye stared me in the face the second I walked into Strand Books, and I couldn't resist picking it up.  I had no real idea how I had avoided it in the past; it seems like everybody read it in the ninth grade.  Except me.  But now, I'm very happy that I read it now as opposed to 5 or so years ago when I doubt that I would have appreciated it, understood it, or even read it to begin with.  I was never good at reading assigned books.  And hell, I don't even completely appreciate or understand the novel right now.  I have no idea how confused to would have been reading it as a 14 year old.


Merely hours after I finished reading the book, I was off to the subway station heading to work when I had my first real "Oh my gosh, I'm Holden Caulfield" moment.  On my block, I passed a wooden lamppost that had the words "FUCK YOU" written quite menacingly in chalk.  I began to think of how many kids must have seen it.  If you know anything about the book, at one point near the end, Holden visits his younger sister's school and sees the same words on the wall of the staircase, and he tries to rub it off.  Part of me was very determined to wash the obscenities off the lamppost, but I was in a bit of a hurry.  The weird thing is that I've never been a stickler for not cursing around children.  I absolutely hate it when parents ask me to stop swearing when they have kids around.  I don't give a damn.  Your kids will hear them eventually.  These are the same kinds of parents who blame people like me when their little angels start rebelling and hating them.  It wasn't my fault.  Blame puberty.


Anyway, when I saw this big-ass "FUCK YOU," I started having this internal dialogue which sounded far too reminiscent of that which Holden had in the book during the same predicament.  I thought to myself, "Fuck.  I'm Holden."  Maybe I'm just pushing it a little.  The character of Holden is kind of like a well written horoscope.  He's so universal and can apply to anyone.  It's kinda like how my horoscope said that I shouldn't worry about my finances and that my love life will clear up.  That can apply to absolutely anyone.  Whatever.  Let me think that I'm just like Holden.  This blog will eventually prove just that.


I have tried many a time to start up a blog.  I've had numerous attempts (I even tried making a video blog about a year ago), and all past endeavors have not necessarily been very fruitful.  So here I am for the umpteenth time, trying this again.  But now, I have Holden on my side as inspiration.  Let's see how this turns out.