I was talking to my high school teacher and History Day advisor, Mr. Myron Piper, and he was telling me about a project on Rosa Parks, which was being submitted into the competition this year.  He sparked memories of my time in History Day, where I had the fortune of meeting Rosa Parks in 1997 in Washington, D.C.  She was stately, a figure of profoundness.  I am sure she was not much different than in 1955, when she refused to give up her seat on the bus that she was riding.  Her grandson was with her, and he echoed that pride that she held within her.

We were there as part of the National History Day competition.  That year, the theme was Triumph and Tragedy in History.  She was in a wheel chair when she came into the room.  I was sitting down in the audience when she was wheeled over right next to me.  I didn't know who she was at first and she asked if the performance had started.  I responded, "No," and asked her if she knew anyone competing.  She said she was here to watch someone.  She didn't mention that that someone was doing an individual performance in celebration of her stand and the eventual desegregation of the public transportation system in Montgomery, Alabama.

It was only after there was a consistent murmur among the audience and I heard other people talking did I realize that she was Rosa Parks.  I was able to talk to her after all the performances, and she addressed the crowd that had gathered quite eloquently.  We asked what was going through her mind.  She said that when she refused to move that day, she knew she had backup.  She had been president of the NAACP, and was aligned with some important individuals.  When she was arrested and put on trial, it wasn't until then that she said she would challenge the constitutionality of the Montgomery's segregation laws.  She anticipated it being big.  She didn't know it would be this big.

She went to jail on a point of principle.  Would you?  I'd like to say that I would do the same thing.  I've never been faced with that before.  There comes a time that people become tired, though.  Rosa Parks was that.  She continues to be a persistent symbol of human dignity in the face of brutal authority.  She was a calm strength.  Her modesty sustains us.  It's the belief in the power of the individual, that cornerstone of the American Dream, that she inspires, along with the hope that all of us - even the least of us - could be that brave, that serenely human, when crunch time comes.

Integrity of feelings is the art of being real with another person.  It seems to me that people have a hard time of being honest with each other.  Too many people want to spare each other's feelings or save face or mind their own business.  Whatever a person's intent, when they sugar coat their part in conversations and fail to reveal their true feelings on a matter, they essentially lie to that other person and worse, themselves.

Part of the problem is people are often posed with the right and wrong dichotomy.  Realistically, there isn't just one right answer.  In fact, all of our opinions and feelings are valid, aren't they?  What we feel, and what we think are reactions to stimuli based on our past interactions and knowledge, none of which will be like anybody else's.  How I react though, is just as valid as how you react.  I can accept that you have the privilege of feeling that way.  I don't have to agree though.  You may be right, or you may be wrong.  We'll get to find out in time.

Political correctness has contributed to this beating around the bush rhetoric, and not tackling the issue head on.  It has veered away from its roots of being sensitive to all perspectives to being oversensitive to everything. 

The expression of our feelings definitely is an art form, in that it's available to everyone, but few people really exercise it.  To do that with another person, it makes it that much more of a masterpiece. 

My brother Chris, was deployed to Iraq on Saturday.  When he enlisted in the Army, I'm not sure if he knew that he would eventually be shipped out.  Or at least he didn't realize what it was like.  All of our military, I imagine that they all would be willing to die for the United States.  All throughout history, enlisting "proved" loyalty to the country.  For Japanese Americans, African Americans, and Filipino Americans in past wars like World War II, it was one of the only vehicles to make such a statement.  In World War II in particular, either Japanese Americans enlisted or they were imprisoned in camps.

Even today, the rhetoric is that people are unpatriotic if they don't support the war.  I am not in support of the war.  I love this country though.  It's the greatest country in the world.  It has the right ideals.  Equality is great.  However, most of these ideals like equality are not implemented to truly be an equal society.  I would die a martyr for our country, but not for some blind cause.  For the right cause, and the right ideal, I would definitely do it. 

The thieves were there.
On that day, that momentous day so very long ago, the thieves saw and heard everything.
One mocked Him. The other was blessed by Him. And the one who robbed and who murdered, he was set free.
The thieves were there.
When the Twelve had fled, when they were all in hiding, the thieves were there with Him.
Why?
Why were the thieves there?
Of all the people, why the thieves?
Is there some special message in their presence?
Were they there to bear witness?
Was He so cast down, so abandoned by the human race that the thieves could be his only company?
Were the thieves more worthy in some way?
Were they more loved?
Were the thieves there for a reason? Or was it all just cosmic accident? With no more meaning, of no more consequence than the belch of a baby?
Two perished with Him while another lived to steal and murder again.
A sinner was set free and another was blessed while He was punished for all of the world’s sin.
Sinners are chosen and blessed all the time. They multiply and thrive while the virtuous are sacrificed to their own righteousness.
Is that the true nature of this life?
Are our beliefs, is our faith nothing more than a misconception of what truly is?
What if virtue is actually despised by God?
What if the sin is blessed and the sinners are His chosen?
What if those who harass, pander and beg to paradise with their prayers are punished?
What if God is incensed by our pleas and our adulation?
Nature does not worship.
Birds do not pray. Beasts do not cross themselves before they feed. Is it man’s monumental vanity that leads us to believe that we know the desire of God and that all other life does not? Do we bow our heads, attempt to appease that which we cannot see to ease our own fears rather than to please God?
My soul rebels so often against my reverence.
It begs me to scream out during devotion. It entices me to assassinate the silence and blaspheme against the righteous serenity that clings to the barren walls of this cloistered space. I am sorely tempted to giggle out loud and dance a dirty jig during Vespers.
My spirit taunts me. It teases and tempts me.
Faith will not give herself me. She will not be held by me. She will not come to me even for a moment.
Faith is a virgin and I am too unclean to touch her.
I weep sometimes at the aloofness of Faith to me, that she lingers so far beyond my reach.
They assume I weep so because I am moved.
But I weep because I am immovable.
I weep because belief cannot penetrate, will not penetrate my soul.
I am alone.
Truly and terribly alone.
Thomas doubted.
Peter denied.
Judas betrayed.
Luther rebelled.
I can do none of these things because I lack the conviction and the courage to act.
I can only fear.
Alone.
I came here to this place to find a way closer to God.
I came here to find Faith.
But in escaping the outside world I could not escape myself.
Here in the seclusion and in the silence there is only me.
If God is here he is not listening. If Faith is here she will not lower herself to me.
Not to me.
The only sound here in this vast emptiness is the hollow echo of my isolation.
The only light in this never ending darkness is a dim reflection of my own fear.
I am alone.
I suspect that I have always been alone.
The rest has been nothing more than desperate illusion.
I am trapped by myself within a prison that is what is left of my soul.
I am my own prisoner.
I am my own prey.
There is only one true escape and I lack the courage even to think about such a thing. Yes, I fear the darkness and the solitude.
But I fear what is on the other side of this life more than I fear any other thing. I long to extinguish this weak flame but I fear that it can never be truly and completely put out.
Not by me.
Not by me alone.
I fear.
I will leave this place.
I must leave this place.
I know that the solitude and the fear that found me within these walls will follow me wherever I go but I cannot spend another day contemplating the vacant darkness.
God is not here.
He is not in this place any more than he is in any place.
At least there will be noise outside. There will be that kind of movement which has no substance or sense, but is at the very least distraction.
I will leave this place and live amongst the thieves
I will worship their distraction.
I will venerate chaos, however temporary or fractional it may be, because within it I may find some small respite.
From my thoughts.
From my fear.
From myself.
Diversion may not be my saviour, it may not be my salvation. But at the very least it is…
Other than this.
Other than me.
Perhaps that is what the thieves knew.
Perhaps that is why they were there.
To provide distraction.
From fear.
From uncertainty.
From thought.
I will go into the world and live amongst the thieves.
I will lose myself among the sinners.
They may be my final hope.
They may be my final salvation.
Perhaps I too, if I live like a criminal, like a sinner, shall be set free.
I will become a fugitive among the discarded.
From my fears.
From my thoughts.
From God.
From…
Me.

I’m going to kill somebody today.
I’ll walk up to someone, stick my knife deep into his or her belly. Cut up. Cut down. And then across both ways. Just like the ninjas did.
And then I’m going to walk away without saying a single word.
Not one single word,
I don’t even know who it’s going to be yet.
That’s the best part.
That’s the best part about the whole thing.
It’ll be random.
Totally by chance.
I’m going to just walk up to some complete stranger and cut his or her intestines to ribbons for no good reason.
Then I’ll just walk away. Without saying a word. Without even looking back.
It’ll be so cool.
Nobody ever did that. I’m pretty sure nobody in history ever did it completely random before.
Son of Sam. Jack the Ripper. Dahmer. Bundy. Even the Zodiac killer, even that guy in Russia didn’t do it completely random. They picked people, types, situations, even if it was just out of a crowd it wasn’t completely random.
Mine are going to be completely and totally random.
It’ll be so cool.
They’ll never be able to figure it out.
Well. Unless somebody puts up a fight.
What if whoever it is puts up a big fight?
What if they know tae kwon do?
That could happen. If I’m not careful, if I don’t pick just the right victim it could happen. He or she could put up a fight and end up getting away.
He or she could kill me.
I could end up getting killed instead.
Geez, I’ve got to be careful about it. It has to be somebody weak. I’ll kill somebody slow and stupid who doesn’t know tae kwon do.
But then it won’t be random.
If I pick a person who won’t put up a fight then it’s not random at all anymore, is it?
Fuck.
That fucks everything up.
Okay.
No knife then.
I’ll use a gun.
Yeah.
Yeah. Sure.
I can walk up to anybody and put a bullet in them before they even know what’s happening. Pow pow they’re dead. Just like that.
Right in the belly.
Yeah. Like in the movies. Being gut shot is the worst.
But that was in the old days, in the old west, when they couldn’t get you to a hospital in time or save your life right in the ambulance. Nowadays…
Medical science.
Fucking medical science.
It’d be no good at all if he or she survives.
I’d just be a joke.
No. Not in the belly then. I’m pretty sure people who get shot in the stomach don’t always die anymore thanks to fucking medical science.
In the chest.
Right through the heart.
Two shots just to make sure.
People survive head wounds sometimes but never a bullet right through the heart. Right?
It’s not as cool as a gut shot though. Not even as cool as a head shot. Not enough blood. Not enough wreckage. But if it’s on the left side, his or her’s left side not mine, then it’s a guarantee.
Going to have to be in the chest.
Shit.
I don’t have a gun though.
And if I try to buy one from a store I’ll probably have to wait. I’d probably have to fill out forms.
I hate filling out forms.
And I wanted to kill somebody today.
I really really did.
Fuck.
Oh well.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’ll go out and see about that gun.
Tomorrow or maybe the day after that.
I’m not going to fill out forms. There’s no way I’m filling out forms but if I can get a gun without filling out forms I’ll definitely get one.
Then I’m going to kill somebody.
Definitely.
I will definitely kill somebody when I get a gun.
Guns are expensive.
I’ll have to save up. I’ll have to get another job and save my money.
And then I’ll kill somebody.
Then I’m going to kill somebody for sure.
And it’ll be completely random. Well, as random as I can make it.
It’ll be historic. They’ll write books about me and make a big Hollywood movie about the whole thing.
Yeah.
I’m going to do it alright.
Long as I don’t have to fill out forms.
I really hate filling out forms.

A new bill was introduced in the California state legislature on February 20, 2004.  It is Assembly Bill 2512.  The bill would amend Section 51221.4 of the Education Code, to encourage the inclusion of instruction in the social sciences for seventh graders to twlefth graders of the role of Filipinos in World War II.  The law would also encourage the use of personal testimony, through oral or video history.  For the text of the bill go to:

http://www.leginfo.ca.gov/pub/bill/asm/ab_2501-2550/ab_2512_bill_20040220_introduced.pdf

This isn't law yet, but if people wrote their state congress people, this can happen. 

It's good working for the Department of Education.  We don't always see the results of the work that we do, but when we do, we are reminded of how important our work is.  On top of that, I enjoy it.  Sure, sometimes things go nuts and it really sucks, but for the most part, it's definitely a pleasure to be here.  I hope everyone finds something that they enjoy doing.  It's good for the soul.

I close my eyes for Mozart.
I cannot sleep.
I can never sleep.
But I can close my eyes.
I lie back when Mozart plays and let his music fill me up.Every sound, every nuancefills my entire body with wonder.
I do not dare close my eyes for Beethoven.
His music is a tempest, a raging storm of unbridled emotion. His muse was borne on the winds of madness.
I do not dare close my eyes for Beethoven.
The headaches come more frequently now.
They fill my head with a blood red darkness and every thought, every sound becomes agony. I turn out the lights and throw Mozart at the darkness. Sometimes Brahms or Bach will do. Johann Sabastian. Some days Debussey or Haydn. They can be wonderful in their own way.
But only Mozart can always make the darkness light.
I do not dare entice the bloody dark with Beethoven.
There are no windows here.
In this room. This ugly airless closet.
The stink fear leaves no room to breathe. When I turn out the lights here the darkness is absolute. The sound of my heart can be deafening. The pounding thunder inside my head could drive me mad if I linger in silence too long.
I’ll get used to it.
We become used to everything eventually.
Until then Mozart gives me some respite.
I tried to smile at this woman today. I passed her in the street and I started to smile at her.
She just glared at me. Blank. Hostile.
The boy with her tried to do the same thing. But he can only pretend. He hasn’t learned yet to mistrust the world they way his mother has.
The bed’s starting to spin again.
That nausea and the dizziness are close behind.
I won’t throw up.
I refuse to throw up.
Not yet. Not that easily.
It’s a long trip through hallway to the bathroom. I’m not making that trip till I’m good and ready. If I’ve got to be sick, I’m going to be sick on my terms.
For now.
Sooner or later my stomach won’t give me a choice. The human body, even in failure, can rarely be denied.
But for now I can wait here on this sweaty mattress and pretend that I actually have some say in the matter.
Mozart helps. His very existence in the world soothes my tired aching mind.
Mozart makes it almost possible to breathe.
I might have slept today.
Dreamed.
It’s hard to tell.
When you haven’t slept for a long enough time the distinction between what’s real and what is dream gets lost in the soup of fever and fog. If I did dream, I dreamed that death came to visit me. Death came to me as a boy. A child. This infant angel hovered beside my bed smiling down at me. He reached out his hand. My every being wanted to take that offered hand but I could not move to reach for it. His hand lingered in the air, soft, white and gentle.
Forever.
And when I woke, if I did awake, he was gone.
There was only Mozart.
I wept that death had not stayed. I laid there in the darkness and cried.
And waited for the next hour to pass.
The hour after that.
I’m still waiting.
Praying that death will come for me again.
Perhaps soon.
Perhaps not.
I won’t wait too long.
I won’t be able to wait.
But until then I have Mozart.
And when the lights are on, when I dare it, there is Beethoven.
They make life possible.
I can close my eyes for Mozart.
For a little while.
It’s almost like sleeping.
Almost like dreaming.
Almost like being somewhere else.
Someone else.

It stinks of my own fear.
These walls, these bare and unforgiving ancient walls reek of my terror. The ravenous silence here and the thirsty darkness swallow my fear and vomit it back out at me.
My knees are bloody from my weak and wretched oblations. This rough unyielding floor is scabby with my prayers.
God will not come unless I kneel.
God will not come unless I sow the earth with my penitence.
And without God I am alone.
Utterly and desperately alone.
And it is that which feeds my fear.
It is that which bleeds the smothering stench into this damp desolate air and clings to everything I know.
My fear.
My awful dread that I am alone. That there is nothing and no one else, that the only past and only future is me.
That I am my own eternity.
I do not seek God out of reverence but out of fear. I do not worship God nearly so much as I revile my own solitude.
And everything I touch, everything I come into contact with stinks of it.
God will not come to me.
God smells the stink of my desperation. He will not accept my counterfeit contrition.
But still I must try.
Still I must beg and scrape the floors with my blood.
I must pray because I do not dare Not pray.
The floors, the walls, the world, all of existence has been fouled by my fear.
It stinks.
Everything that is, everything that I know reeks of it.
My fear.
My desperation.
That God is not listening.
That God is not there.
That God…
That God…
Is not.

Auditioned today, which went okay.  I really can't guage how I did.  I just have to hope for the best and maybe get feedback at a later time.  Tomorrow, I have an assignment to sing the Philippine National Anthem.  I feel ready, but I hate going in front of people.  I watched the Oscars too, and it further affirmed the notion that I haven't seen any movies.  I saw "Lord of the Rings: Return of the King," which won a lot of awards, but I haven't seen anything else that got nominations.