I sweat effortlessly and within seconds of stepping out of the shower. The heat also wakes me up at 4AM and since I can’t go back to sleep, I end up either reading or just listening to my iPod until my standard wake-up time comes.
But in a wry turn of the weather vane, it rained yesterday night (Saturday). And I am writing this blog while enjoying to cool, damp morning. Good thing the rains were quite hard; a light rain will just make the air unbearably humid.
April rains has been romanticized in prose and poetry. I just feel happy when it rains.
***
I am currently reading The House Of The Sand And Fog. I bought it because of the Oprah Book Club stamp. She really has some great choices. I discovered Anita Shreve through her Book Club endorsement also. This book was also a finalist for the National Book Award.
I am midway already in reading and it is quite riveting. It is basically an immigrant’s drama and the collision of three separate lives. If I am not mistaken, this book has been turned into a movie and Ben Kingsley was nominated for an Oscar for his portrayal of, I suspect, Colonel Behrani.
What enraged me in reading the books is its dire portrayal of Filipinos. I am on page 184 and I found three references already.
On page 23, this is a though train of Col. Behrani, the Iranian immigrant: When I step into the hallway and walk to the elevator, I pass a Filipino maid pushing her cart and I take notice that she smiles. And even bows her head.
On page 163, again a thought train of Col. Behrani: I recall the rude way she (the daughter) repeatedly apologized for the family’s present living condition by recalling our old life. How will she regard her mother, brother and me living in a cottage in a place such as San Bruno perhaps? Or Daly City, will all those Filipino people? Will she be too ashamed to visit?
On page 178, this is a recount of Sheriff Lester: Once, outside El Granada, I drove up to a 7-Eleven right before they closed. Some boy had just pulled a Stop and Rob, but I didn’t know it yet, and I was getting out of my cruiser just as he came out the front door, this real skinny Filipino kid, no older than sixteen or seventeen, holding a bunch of bills and a silver revolver.
I think writer Andre Dubus III has a certain lack of fondness for us, Filipinos. But I can’t call him racist just yet. This is a novel that banks on realism; art imitating life. A realism that is so close to the truth, it hurts. We can’t deny that the scenarios he painted are impossible. After all, they have portrayed this in local OFW-inspired flicks like Caregiver and Milan.
It’s just unfortunate that of the many nationalities in the world, we will be singled out this way.
No comments:
Post a Comment