Authors and Books
By Rochita Loenen-Ruiz
December, 2007
If I could talk to you about the books I've read this year, I'd start with the poets whose works have reached out to touch me.
Book Front Cover
There is no denying the strength of emotion awakened by Bino Realuyo's, The Gods We Worship Live Next Door. Ed Maranan's recently released collection of poems, Passage (poems 1983-2006), moves me with its captured moments and insights into the world of a traveler. Ivy Alvarez's, Mortal, touches me and reminds me of my own mortality and of how fleeting and fragile life is, while Eileen Tabios's, Secret Lives of Punctuations, continues to baffle me and amaze me. It is certainly one of those books I revisit because there's always something to think about each time I visit one of her poems. Luisa Igloria's, Trill and Mordent, continues to haunt me with its lyric phrases, beautiful and terrible as they evoke the emotions after 9/11.
These books stay with me, and I confess to being unable to shelve them or keep them away, because I constantly return to read and be inspired to write more and to continue to encourage others to read and support our dear Filipino poets and writers.
I haven't read many works of fiction from Filipino writers this year. Perhaps the standouts would be Dean Alfar's novel, Salamanca, Crista Ermiya's, Surf Scooter (in Wonderwall by Route), and of course the Philippine Speculative Fiction anthology of which the third volume has recently been released. I'm pleased and proud to say that there are more new young writers coming up and fiction seems to be gaining fresh ground in The Philippines. Let's hope it continues to prosper.
The birth of my son in January delayed my writing schedule, but it didn't put a stop to the editing work that needed to be done on the webzine, Haruah:Breath of Heaven. Neither did it hinder the progress of a book project wherein nine excerpts from my poetic memoir have been included.
I've been hesitant to talk about it, but hopefully this sharing will encourage readers and budding writers.
OMF Literature Inc. recently announced the release of a new book entitled, Hope Away from Home. Authored by Evelyn Miranda-Feliciano, this book includes nine extracts from a poetic memoir project that I've been working on. The stories in this book are meant to encourage, enlighten and empower the Filipino who lives and works abroad. Included in this book are courageous stories of Filipino Workers abroad, as well as a list of pointers from the POEA.
Evelyn Miranda-Feliciano is OMF Literature's bestselling author and this book bears testimony to her gift as a writer with a compassionate heart.
This month being December, and the season of giving, I'd say give a book as a gift to friend. Gift them with the words of a favorite poet or a favorite writer. This columnist wishes you all a Merry Christmas and hopes that your 2008 will be filled with Blessings abundant and lots of fresh new reading inspiration.
Following is a short piece which is also included in the book, Hope Away from Home.
By R.C. Loenen-Ruiz
Where I come from, skin is important. Let me correct that, skin color is important.
In a country populated by brown to dark-skinned people, milky white is the ideal skin color. It proclaims to the world that you are either the daughter of a rich man or a mestiza.
While we carry umbrellas to shield our skin from the sun, paleskinned tourists unveil nubile bodies to welcome its rays. On white sand beaches, we watch them roast. From pale, almost ghostly white, they turn pinkish to lobster red, and if lucky, they arise from our beaches with tanned bodies. Brownthe ideal color of the new European.
"Look at them," we say to one another.
We bask in their praise of our latte-colored skin, proclaiming a gospel of "brown is beautiful." It's a gospel we ourselves do not believe.
When I was younger, my friends and I all wanted to be white. I remember Ate Connie sitting for hours in the bathroom, soaked in a mysterious mixture of petroleum jelly, bleach and some other cream while the rest of us knocked on the door and begged to be let in.
Ate Connie just sat there, and we had to wait until the required number of hours had passed before she came out. She'd run upstairs, a towel wrapped around her waist, with her hair in a bun. We would find her standing in front of the mirror, staring at her body.
"Am I whiter?" she'd ask.
We didn't really see any difference, but we nodded anyway.
After a few months, we did see a bit of difference. Where her skin once gleamed like mahogany, it was now covered with a fine film of white.
"And?"
We nodded our heads.
"Yes, Ate Connie. Now, you're whiter."
Later on, Ate Connie married a foreigner who loved the color of her skin.
"Aw, don't go bleachin' your skin," he'd say. "I love you jes the way you are."
She moved to America. And that was the end of the long waiting lines at the bathroom door.
#
I married a Dutchman.
Here in this flat country, in this once upon a time paradise, the color of my skin becomes a wall I slam up against every time.
Like when my son turned to me and said, "Mama, you're a foreigner."
"Why do you say that?" I asked him.
"Because your skin is brown, not white like mine and the others."
For the longest time he was obsessed by skin. How Papa was white and I was brown and he was somewhere in between.
His obsession with skin and color passed, and we moved on to other topics.
Still, the issue of skin color continued to haunt me.
Once, the Netherlands was called the land of the tolerant. When I came to live here, I imagined I'd found utopia. Skin color didn't matter, race didn't matter, and how much money you had in the bank was not of consequence, because everyone was equal.
So when we got off the plane and I inhaled Dutch air for the first time, I felt I could throw off the shackles of an old society.
"We are all equal here," we said to one another during the required language courses.
"We" was a group of newcomers to the Netherlands, and we swallowed the gospel of tolerance and equality as if it were a decree from God Himself.
Our Paradise dream didn't last for long.
These days, you can almost taste the tension simmering under the skin of Dutch society. When you turn on the TV, and when you read the papers, lack of tolerance is subject to constant political and social debate. When you walk down the streets, you can feel eyes watching and weighing your every move.
(the rest of this piece appears in Hope Away from Home. Route Online (UK) has also published this piece in its entirety in its Skin Byteback Book)
For your comments and suggestions, please feel free to email me at:
[email protected]
For more information about Hope Away from Home please visit the OMF Lit. website at:
http://www.omflit.com
If you are interested in reading Route's Skin Byteback Book, go to: http://www.route-online.com/routev7/books.asp?idno=25
Hope Away from Home
By Rochita Loenen-Ruiz
December, 2007
If I could talk to you about the books I've read this year, I'd start with the poets whose works have reached out to touch me.
Book Front Cover
These books stay with me, and I confess to being unable to shelve them or keep them away, because I constantly return to read and be inspired to write more and to continue to encourage others to read and support our dear Filipino poets and writers.
I haven't read many works of fiction from Filipino writers this year. Perhaps the standouts would be Dean Alfar's novel, Salamanca, Crista Ermiya's, Surf Scooter (in Wonderwall by Route), and of course the Philippine Speculative Fiction anthology of which the third volume has recently been released. I'm pleased and proud to say that there are more new young writers coming up and fiction seems to be gaining fresh ground in The Philippines. Let's hope it continues to prosper.
The birth of my son in January delayed my writing schedule, but it didn't put a stop to the editing work that needed to be done on the webzine, Haruah:Breath of Heaven. Neither did it hinder the progress of a book project wherein nine excerpts from my poetic memoir have been included.
I've been hesitant to talk about it, but hopefully this sharing will encourage readers and budding writers.
OMF Literature Inc. recently announced the release of a new book entitled, Hope Away from Home. Authored by Evelyn Miranda-Feliciano, this book includes nine extracts from a poetic memoir project that I've been working on. The stories in this book are meant to encourage, enlighten and empower the Filipino who lives and works abroad. Included in this book are courageous stories of Filipino Workers abroad, as well as a list of pointers from the POEA.
Evelyn Miranda-Feliciano is OMF Literature's bestselling author and this book bears testimony to her gift as a writer with a compassionate heart.
This month being December, and the season of giving, I'd say give a book as a gift to friend. Gift them with the words of a favorite poet or a favorite writer. This columnist wishes you all a Merry Christmas and hopes that your 2008 will be filled with Blessings abundant and lots of fresh new reading inspiration.
Following is a short piece which is also included in the book, Hope Away from Home.
My Skin
By R.C. Loenen-Ruiz
Where I come from, skin is important. Let me correct that, skin color is important.
In a country populated by brown to dark-skinned people, milky white is the ideal skin color. It proclaims to the world that you are either the daughter of a rich man or a mestiza.
While we carry umbrellas to shield our skin from the sun, paleskinned tourists unveil nubile bodies to welcome its rays. On white sand beaches, we watch them roast. From pale, almost ghostly white, they turn pinkish to lobster red, and if lucky, they arise from our beaches with tanned bodies. Brownthe ideal color of the new European.
"Look at them," we say to one another.
We bask in their praise of our latte-colored skin, proclaiming a gospel of "brown is beautiful." It's a gospel we ourselves do not believe.
When I was younger, my friends and I all wanted to be white. I remember Ate Connie sitting for hours in the bathroom, soaked in a mysterious mixture of petroleum jelly, bleach and some other cream while the rest of us knocked on the door and begged to be let in.
Ate Connie just sat there, and we had to wait until the required number of hours had passed before she came out. She'd run upstairs, a towel wrapped around her waist, with her hair in a bun. We would find her standing in front of the mirror, staring at her body.
"Am I whiter?" she'd ask.
We didn't really see any difference, but we nodded anyway.
After a few months, we did see a bit of difference. Where her skin once gleamed like mahogany, it was now covered with a fine film of white.
"And?"
We nodded our heads.
"Yes, Ate Connie. Now, you're whiter."
Later on, Ate Connie married a foreigner who loved the color of her skin.
"Aw, don't go bleachin' your skin," he'd say. "I love you jes the way you are."
She moved to America. And that was the end of the long waiting lines at the bathroom door.
I married a Dutchman.
Here in this flat country, in this once upon a time paradise, the color of my skin becomes a wall I slam up against every time.
Like when my son turned to me and said, "Mama, you're a foreigner."
"Why do you say that?" I asked him.
"Because your skin is brown, not white like mine and the others."
For the longest time he was obsessed by skin. How Papa was white and I was brown and he was somewhere in between.
His obsession with skin and color passed, and we moved on to other topics.
Still, the issue of skin color continued to haunt me.
Once, the Netherlands was called the land of the tolerant. When I came to live here, I imagined I'd found utopia. Skin color didn't matter, race didn't matter, and how much money you had in the bank was not of consequence, because everyone was equal.
So when we got off the plane and I inhaled Dutch air for the first time, I felt I could throw off the shackles of an old society.
"We are all equal here," we said to one another during the required language courses.
"We" was a group of newcomers to the Netherlands, and we swallowed the gospel of tolerance and equality as if it were a decree from God Himself.
Our Paradise dream didn't last for long.
These days, you can almost taste the tension simmering under the skin of Dutch society. When you turn on the TV, and when you read the papers, lack of tolerance is subject to constant political and social debate. When you walk down the streets, you can feel eyes watching and weighing your every move.
(the rest of this piece appears in Hope Away from Home. Route Online (UK) has also published this piece in its entirety in its Skin Byteback Book)
For your comments and suggestions, please feel free to email me at:
[email protected]
For more information about Hope Away from Home please visit the OMF Lit. website at:
http://www.omflit.com
If you are interested in reading Route's Skin Byteback Book, go to: http://www.route-online.com/routev7/books.asp?idno=25