It’s celebrating 20 years in our community and has seen more than 5,000 souls pass through the home, including my own father’s in 2007. He had lung cancer and was living at home, becoming increasingly ill. He came from a time where you don’t ask anything of anyone, including your own children, and managed for a long time on his own. However, it was getting more and more obvious that he couldn’t do it for much longer. My older sister, who worked in the community and knew a lot of people, managed to get him into the centre. He was so relieved. I remember he woke up one morning while there, and a nurse was standing over him. He looked up at her and said, “Oh, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” He was happy there, in a place where he had his own room with a patio and a big bathroom. He had refused to go to the hospital, so this was so much better for him. Family and friends came to visit. After 3 days, my Dad passed away. He was at peace; no more suffering. He died a graceful death without beeps and wires and people screaming or running around in the hallways. It was a place of quiet and calm and it made the process easier for us too.

And so, many years later, my friends and I joined countless others and walked to raise money for this amazing place. Our team is called On The Wings of Angels. By 8:15 am we were warming up with others who were running, walking or riding bikes. There were children as young as 3 or 4 who walked and young men and women who were no doubt running for their loved ones, grandmas, grandpas, aunts or uncles. So many people have been touched by cancer and so many have had their lives turned upside down by the illness. But today in the crowd you could feel the love. There was, to me anyway, just this vibe, a very heart-warming presence. Perhaps it was the spirits of all those souls. They were with us. I hope my father was watching as the ladies and I started on our walk.

I didn’t finish the 10k but managed to do 5k, which was pretty good. And that included a hill! So I was happy I at least finished that. There were three of my friends who did the 10k and that was awesome! We managed to raise $3,700 of our $5,000 goal. Teresa Burnatowski was our star fundraiser and brought in $2,700, but we all worked at getting the cash in. And we all donated as well to this cause that is so dear to my heart and to so many other families. Helping to raise this money felt good! And maybe that, too, was what made this event so important. We all felt we were doing what we could to keep this organization running.

With my friends and family along with me, walking by my side, I could not be more grateful or happy! It brings such joy to be with those you love. Raising money for such a wonderful organization is just a bonus.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Growing up, I remember being surrounded by strong women, especially my various aunts who made us kids toe the line. They were short on patience with any lack of respect like backtalk. Maybe they embraced the belief that ‘it takes a village to raise a child.’ They certainly dispensed immediate justice to anyone’s kid.

A good example was when I made the cardinal sin of visiting a friend. In those days, you were left to your own devices all day, except for meal times – which were etched into stone.

As I recalled it years later, I never saw it coming… only a blur, really… when at age twelve, I felt the sting of a wet tea towel snapping across my face by my friend’s mad mom. My crime? – interrupting their lunch. It made my skin welt up like it had just been lacerated. The sudden shock of this left me standing stunned – the door shut in my face.

As for any support at home? – nope! However, even if our neighbourhood acted like a ‘global village’ – my mom drew the line at abusive behaviour. Plus, she vehemently defended her family with a fierce temper towards other mothers. But, most families set the example with a ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ type of discipline: so, best not to complain and risk getting punished twice.

What about women dealing with other strong women?

Take for example the quarrel between Tammy Wynette and Hillary Clinton – over Tammy’s song, ‘Stand By Your Man.’

“Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman,
Giving all your love to just one man…
But if you love him, you’ll forgive him…
‘Cause after all he’s just a man”

During a 1992 “60 Minutes” TV interview, when Hillary Clinton defended her support of husband and future President of the United States, Bill Clinton (despite his alleged affair with Gennifer Flowers) she trashed Wynette by saying: “I’m not sitting here some little woman standing by my man like Tammy Wynette.”

The backlash was swift and unforgiving – including from Tammy Wynette – who reiterated that “Nowhere does it say be a doormat and let this man walk on you.” Unlike most ego-driven men politicians, Mrs. Clinton apologized… fast! Maybe, she could sense a cosmic tea towel zinging her way. Sometimes, your heart just knows what’s true.

I remember women’s forgiveness much more than any punishment. I’ve seen the genuine hurt and deep disappointment in their eyes. And, it may have been a slow – two steps forward, one step back – journey; but, I believe I’m a better person… a better man. So, that’s my story: I’ve been saved by love.

Someone once told me, “Keep ‘tilting windmills’ especially your own!” I can be myself, but I’m… just a man.

That’s the way I figure it. – FP

As a special note: Some say, regarding the long reign of Queen Elizabeth II, that she had an unparalleled sense of duty… others say to a fault. But, during her June 1997 Royal Tour to Canada, her visiting motorcade passed right through our small town. She looked right at us, but struggled to lower the locked limo window… to more personally wave back. To us, this small gesture showed she cared.

A strong woman, she never asked for the thankless job as monarch, but dedicated her life to it… her leadership becoming intertwined with the role, itself. Plus, she was a global force for peace and stability – highlighted by her reassuring voice and message of hope to millions at Christmas – anxiously received by people of faith, or not.

FP

Photo Credit

Photo is courtesy of the author

First published at fredparry.ca

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry

Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His raison d’etre? “I’m one of those people who believe that if my work serves the common good, it will last; if not, it will die with me. I still believe that’s true.” Fred spent ten years as a columnist for Metroland Media Group – a division of the publishing conglomerate Torstar Corporation.

His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is also available via Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

Lebby was my bohemian. Her large, gold-hoop earrings dangled loosely around her thin neck. Her printed dress oozed many colors, each one bleeding into the other, her cigarette held in her long fingers, nails painted. Just like in the fashion magazines, Lebby exuded exotic; the epitome of sophistication; an Andy Warhol wanna-be. She was a sixties beauty with her dark hair cut short, much like Twiggy’s, and big sunglasses on, the ones that covered most of her face. She took long hauls of her cigarette when she would look out into the street from her chair in the living room.

She was my bohemian; a rhapsody in color. She was older than I was by eleven years and I yearned to be like her. I wanted to spend time with her, this mysterious young woman named Lebby who lived in our house. She had arrived years before as an infant, my mother’s sister’s child. And she had stayed, here in Montreal. As time went by, though, she decided to leave us for good and move back to Toronto with her mother. When she would come back to Montreal to visit I would show her my wardrobe, new clothes handed down to me from various friends of my mother’s. I would stand on the bed singing “Second Hand Rose”, modeling my latest outfits, and she would laugh and clap and tell me I looked fabulous.

She would talk to me about her adventures in Rio de Janeiro. She lived there for a year with her husband at the time. Their relationship didn’t last long and before I knew it she was living in Scotland and sending me fabulous makeup from London, England, the top fashion haven of the world. Not to mention it was the home of the Beatles.

“I’m never getting married,” I would tell her on our visits. This, after listening to her and her girlfriend ruminate over their love lives. “Oh, and I am never, ever having kids,” I would add. She would laugh and light another smoke. “Sure you will,” she would tell me. “Don’t listen to us,” pointing to her girlfriend, “we are very bad examples.” But I didn’t think so at all. I thought Lebby was the bee’s knees, the bomb, the crème de la crème. She just had this very provincial air about her. She was also very sweet and never made fun of me or thought I was too young or too naive. She made me feel grown up and smart.

When I would visit her when she lived in Ottawa she would take me to parties – parties in restaurants. I felt like a celebrity, because for me it was only celebrities that partied in restaurants. The people at these parties were different, too, with foreign-sounding names and they all talked with accents – German and British. My bohemian, that was Lebby. She could sit with the well-to-do Ivy League crowd or the hip and wild crowd.

She introduced me to the symphony, I might have been twelve at the time. I was sure I was going to be bored but I wasn’t. I had never been to a concert before. The music was overwhelming to me. It was just so powerful and loud and it jumped out at me. These small lessons in life with Lebby were delivered with love as gifts. They were tokens of joy for me that continued into adulthood.

As we grew older, our lives moved in directions neither one of us could have probably imagined. Yet the connection we had, deepened as we aged. As it turned out, we both became as traditional and ‘white bread’ as the next person. We both married and had children. But although our lives were mired in tradition and mediocrity, there was still that bohemian living within us that would emerge and transform us both.

Living with an alcoholic for several years certainly sent me down a path I would never have imagined going down. A path where light was muted and the shades were drawn. Without Lebby’s support, that path would have been more treacherous than I could have handled. Yet we muddled through the mire and dirt and ghostly skeletons in our closets. And we were transformed, emerging from that path, our spirits whole.

“What should we do for our ritual, Maaaa?” Lebby would ask over the phone. She and I had taken this journey together. It was a journey of discovery. Our rituals helped us see things more clearly and grounded us as we tried to find meaning in our lives. Having given up on her corporate job, Lebby now embarked on her passion – she started to paint. Using different techniques and mediums, the color was no longer printed on her gorgeous dresses but appeared now on canvases.

The two of us were sitting in her living room one night, the heat spilling into the room even with the air conditioning on. It was hot. The humidity and heat just seemed to bring out a ritual for us that night. I grabbed a huge stainless steel bowl, cold and lovely to the touch, and on that hot night I started to sing. I didn’t sing anything in particular, words just came out in that kind of sing-song sort of way. The bowl seemed to sing too, beneath my touch. Slowly, the sound from the bowl and my singing grew louder and louder. Lebby joined in, grabbing a pot as well. Before we knew it the two of us were caught up in a sort of ritualistic drumming session with stainless steel. It didn’t matter what we were singing, what mattered was the pounding of the bowls, the irresistible desire to smack the hell out of them as loudly and as powerfully as we could. We became the music. Like the symphony of years gone by, we were the music. The jazz of life.

Lebby is still my bohemian, and the music of life continues to play on. Her hair has changed to grey but I would prefer to say it’s silver. She stands at her easel and studies her work; immerses herself in it. Her studio is filled with light as the sun shines through the glass windows. A paintbrush is now in her long fingers rather than a cigarette. The smell of garlic is in the air, as there is always something cooking in the kitchen. Music is playing quietly on the CD player in the background, the sound of Neil Diamond, or is it Paul Simon? Art books are piled in every corner of her studio. Gold hoops have been replaced with delicate studs. Each day I am thankful that I have this lovely woman in my life, a woman who watched me grow up and who connected me to things that I would not have otherwise known about. 

Lebby looks at her canvas and splashes orange across it. “Isn’t that just the most scrumptious color Maaaaa?” she says out loud. “It sure is,” I reply.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Known to some under such aliases as tatas, boobs, melons, orbs, tits, and one of my favorites: the girls. As a young prepubescent girl who loved to do any kind of boy thing, the whole development issue was one I tried desperately to avoid. This was rather difficult in my house, though. My older brother (who is also intellectually handicapped), made it perfectly clear to all concerned at dinner one night, saying to my mother and everyone else within hearing distance, “Mom, Martha’s growing breasts.” Yes, this was when I seriously considered running away from home for good.

Now, it seemed to me that after this hideous incident, everyone on the planet must be staring at the ever-increasing size of my developing chest. Hence, the need to cover up said body. I wore every kind of plaid there was in the late ’70s to make sure nobody had an inkling of what might be underneath. Shy was not even the word I would use to describe how I felt about my body. I didn’t want anyone looking at me – ever. What was a girl to do? So I wore clothes that covered up my long legs, my curves and my breasts.

Oh, how I wish I had that body now – fit, lean and tall! Yes, when I look back on it, I realize just how insane my behavior was. As I aged, my breasts and I became somewhat more comfortable with each other. Let’s just say, I began to appreciate their value. I wouldn’t say I flaunted them, but when I needed to use the girls, they were there. We had, as they say in some circles, ‘an understanding.’

But by the time I was in my mid-thirties, my breasts had once again become a burden to me. They had expanded several sizes, along with the rest of me. I was no longer the young, thin curvaceous chick. It seemed my body was going through yet another drastic change. Having had two children by this time, I realized something had to be done with all the weight I carried in front of me. My breasts had to go! Not entirely, but certainly a good portion would have to say “ta ta.” This decision did not occur overnight; it was one that I took very seriously. I knew it would break my husband’s heart. He, too, had become fond of my breasts and had a certain rapport with them, yet he knew all too well what my issue was with them. For my own health, I had to at least look at what it would mean to have a breast reduction.

At forty I decided it was time! I wasn’t going to have any more children and I had drummed up enough courage to go through with the surgery. It wasn’t easy and was downright scary. It was day surgery, but it seemed to me at the time that the recovery was endless. But I survived and haven’t regretted the decision once, although I think sometimes my husband still gets a little misty-eyed about ‘the old set of girls’! Frankly, another reason for having the reduction was that one of my doctors suggested it would be much easier for them to detect any kind of breast cancer. When there is a lot of mass, it’s a lot more difficult for the mammogram to detect anything suspicious.

In my mid-forties, several years after my reduction, I discovered a lump in my right breast. Elective surgery is one thing. You weigh the pros and cons; your decision is your decision and you live with the outcome. When your body decides to rebel against you? Well, that’s a whole other story.

The lump was easy to detect. It felt ugly, and I was panic-stricken at what it meant. The first thing, of course, was to call the doctor. An appointment was set up and my husband and I went to see him. A mammogram was done as well as a biopsy. None of it was pretty. It was a hundred times more frightening than breast reduction surgery. This was just the beginning of the journey.

As it turned out, the doctors who consulted on my case all agreed that the lump needed to be removed. They wanted to make sure it wasn’t cancerous. A date was set for surgery and once again the girls and I were the recipients of our surgeon’s expertise. This surgery was hardly as brutal as the reduction, but the implications after surgery were far more anxiety-provoking. Again, I had to summon every ounce of courage and hope I could in order to get through the long wait for the results of the biopsy. Although the doctor assured me right after the surgery that he didn’t think it was cancerous, you want that in writing. The wait was excruciating.

Everything turned out well, and the girls and I have become like old buddies again. I watch over them and make sure I don’t feel any other signs of lumps or bumps or anything out of the ordinary. We are content, it seems, with the outcome of each of our surgeries, and I hope and pray that there will be none in the future.

For me, and for my breasts, the journey so far has taken us down several roads, and we (the girls and I) have discovered just how fragile and sacred life and our bodies really are. I was one who was blessed with a positive outcome and did not have to fight the battle to maintain the health of my breasts. So many women have, though, including some friends of mine. Their courage, determination and hope inspire us all and give us pause to celebrate their warrior spirits in the face of this devastating and horrendous disease.

My breasts (or whatever you want to call them!) are growing old gracefully. Our journey, I pray, will not be over for years to come. I cherish and am grateful for my good health right now, and I understand that aging is a time-warranted event. I still really, really wish I could have that young, thin, curvaceous body back. Just so I could really appreciate it!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Long Neck woman with her son

I had to force myself to overcome a sense of awkwardness that came with looking at these women as oddities, and frankly, I was never really at ease. These were human beings, after all. But I had paid an entrance fee of $12 Canadian to wander through the village and take their pictures, so I just got on with it. Every traveller knows what wonders a heart-felt smile can bring. When I smiled at them, they smiled at me. Good enough!

Traditional Karin hill tribe house

During my tour of the village, I probably saw 15 women sitting on their front porches waiting for tourists to come. Many of them had their young daughters with them, although not all the young girls had coils around their necks. Entertaining tourists was how these women earned their daily bread. My entrance fee was collected by one of the women with the understanding that this money would be distributed among the members of the community to pay for clothing, food and school tuition for their children. I wanted to believe that was true. I only saw one man while I wandered through the village, and he was sitting in the background minding his own business. The women were front and centre.

Brass tubing used to encapsulate
a woman’s neck

All the women wore coils of brass tubing around their necks, and I’m not exactly sure why. Like everything else I’ll tell you here, I have no idea what the truth is. There is simply no reliable information to be had. I heard several stories to explain why the women wear them. One story says that these coils made the girls look ugly and therefore unattractive to slave traders. Another story says just the opposite – it makes the women more attractive and therefore better marriage material. Another story says that tigers only attacked the women at their necks, so the coils protected the women from tiger attacks. Others say that the original reason is lost to history and the practice continues today only to attract tourists! What I can tell you for sure is that all the Long Neck Karin women were universally attractive – or maybe only the attractive ones were out on display.

The women’s long necks are an optical illusion! Their necks are not long at all. If the coils actually stretched their necks, they would die. But they looked and acted quite healthy to me! Rather, these heavy brass coil rings shove the women’s collarbones down and create the appearance of a long neck. I heard that it is the custom for husbands to remove a few rings if their women are unfaithful. The women’s neck muscles completely atrophy after the coils have been around their neck for some time. If they take the coils off, their heads will drop to one side and they must lie down for the rest of their lives or they will die.  Truth or fiction?

Long Neck woman with her daughter

The term Karin refers to a type of hill tribe that came from either China or Burma (again, no certainty at all). Apparently the Karin people were oppressed in their home country and fled to Thailand. However, our guide told us that the Karin are not considered Thai citizens and don’t have land ownership rights, nor can they get passports. Interestingly, the various Karin communities don’t recognize any sense of belonging to a larger Karin people. Each community has a dialect that the other communities don’t understand.

Not all the young girls have coils on their necks. Some mothers are opting not to put their daughters through the torment of this bizarre custom and, instead, are allowing them to grow up normally. The only loss to these young girls is that they will never qualify as circus attractions.

Long Neck woman playing guitar

One woman played a guitar for the tourists. I thought she was talented and an exception. Later, I learned that the Long Neck Karin women pride themselves on their musical talents. Another woman I met in the village offered to sell me a remarkably beautiful hand-woven scarf. I bought the scarf for the modest price of $4 Canadian, partly because I felt obliged to do a bit more than gawk and partly because I knew a woman back in Canada who would enjoy the scarf.

All in all, I would say that my one-hour visit was a delight. Anyone committed to seeing all that life has to offer should visit this hill tribe.

Photo Credits

Photos by Jan Wall – all rights reserved

When I stumbled off the bus, I found no less than a dozen Vietnamese hill tribe women who had come to meet our tourist bus. They vied with one another to invite us to come to their homes for ‘home stay’ and a trek through the mountains. If I had not already booked a tour with an agency in Hanoi, I would certainly have gone with any one of them.

The women waiting for the tourist bus

The women were striking for several reasons – the first was their faces. They were deeply etched and lined with a character I had never seen in any other people. The second was the sense of palpable joy I felt from all of them. They loved what they were doing and were not shy at all. They were there to catch a tourist and they would be happy whether they did or not. The third was their clothing. They wore headdresses and coats – some were colorful and some were black. Some women carried woven baskets on their backs; some carried their young children; some carried nothing. They all carried small purses with colorful inlaid beads and all the purses held cell phones. This was National Geographic in front of my very eyes.

It was clear they were poor but none were in poverty. This was quite jarring because I have been trained to equate lack of money with hopelessness and even crime. Nothing could have been further from the truth with these women. (Interestingly, I only saw women catering to tourists.)

Several taxis picked us up, took us through the town and delivered us to several hotels. Our driver dropped us off at one of the hotels and told us to go inside. We did as we were told. Like me, the other tourists in my group had the uncomfortable feeling that no one was in charge. When a waitress asked us to sit down and have breakfast, we did. Our breakfast was nondescript but at least it filled the empty space in our stomachs after our seven-hour overnight bus ride from Hanoi.

After breakfast, a woman with a take-charge demeanor showed up and started reading names from a list, which thankfully mine was on. She told us to follow her and, again, we did as we were told. The woman led our straggling group of some 20 tourists through the streets of Sapa. Later I had a chance to chat with our guide and learned her name was Yo. I was beside myself when I learned that she was only 18 years old because she had none of the self-consciousness or awkwardness that is so characteristic of North Americans her age. She spoke English quite well so I was certain she had studied our language from an early age. “No,” Yo told me, “I learned English from tourists during the last year and a half.” I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of inadequacy over my own failed attempts to learn even more than a few words of the language of the countries I had visited.

About 2 kilometres out of town a hill tribe girl who could not have been more than 8 years old joined our group. Although she was not as accomplished in English, she clearly understood everything and enjoyed the tourists immensely. I had never before seen a girl her age display such resolute self-confidence.

A woman dressed in a colorful coat

These women were H’Mong. Excluding the Kinh people or ethnic Vietnamese, there are eight different ethnic minority groups in and around Sapa. They are the H’mong, Dao, Tay, Giay, Muong, Thai, Hoa (ethnic Chinese) and Xa Pho (a denomination of the Phu La minority group).

Sapa is at roughly the same altitude as Denver (about 1,500 metres above sea level) but the similarity ends there. This city is remote; it is in the far northwest of Vietnam in the Hoang Lien Son mountains, also known as the ‘Tonkinese Alps’, and borders China. But remote does not mean undeveloped. Sapa is a compact, bustling tourist town. The streets are lined with cafes and hotels.

The geography outside Sapa was as stunning as the people I had already met. Even though the mountains were high and the valleys broad, everything looked quite accessible. The mountain people carved rice terraces into the mountainsides to grow their rice, the universal staple of Asia. I could never tell where property lines were supposed to fall. Instead, I could see that the people let the lay of the land dictate rather than surveyors when it came to the boundaries of their homes and farms.

After strenuous trekking for a few hours, our group was relieved to find the home that would serve as our base for the night. Our guide pointed us to a ladder leading up to a second floor that was little more than a sleeping platform. Each of us chose a pallet on the floor that would be our bed.

The dinner preparation that evening was unforgettable. The oversized kitchen had a concrete floor with a recess measuring about one metre by two. The recess was no deeper than 15 cm below the rest of the floor. This is where our hosts built a wood fire to cook our dinner. Since the kitchen was not blessed with a chimney, there was no escape for the smoke. In fact, our hosts took advantage of this by hanging meat from the ceiling over the fire to smoke it while preparing our meal. Meanwhile, I fought hard to repress my fear of cancer from breathing this smoke.

Late the next morning our guide rounded up her flock and led us on another trek for a couple hours that ended at a small restaurant at the side of the road. After our lunch, we climbed onto our bus to head back to our hotel. I felt a genuine sense of sadness on this bus trip back because I realized that one of the most remarkable experiences in my life had just come to a close. 

If I ever have the good fortune to go back to Sapa, I will not take a tour. Instead, I will meet one of the women at the bus station and let her lead me to her home. She will introduce me to all the members of her extended family. She will not ask me what I want to eat; she will decide for me. She will make me feel like an honoured guest. She will guide me through the mountains and I will stay for a memorable week at a bargain-basement price.

Photo Credits

Photos by Jan Wall – all rights reserved

My clear sense is that they have very hard lives. There seems to be a pattern – although it is not universal – for young women to meet the men they love, marry, and have a child or two or three. There is nothing remarkable about that.

Grace Suyom, Filipina

What I found remarkable is that their men frequently found one or two women to keep on the side and they spend their time with those women. Eventually, these men leave their wives and children to live full time with their new women. They abandon the responsibilities of their wives and children with amazing regularity. Furthermore, Philippine society is organized in such a way that this is tolerated. Over the centuries, the Philippines has developed ways of handling this state of affairs.

Since it is such a common event, men don’t judge other men harshly when they abandon their wives and children. It seems to be accepted as a regrettable but normal state of affairs.

The women don’t take legal action against their husbands for several reasons – they see it as pointless. They may not be able to find their husbands to file papers; the courts are slow and unwieldy; the women barely have enough money to survive, much less pay for legal action. And their husbands are poor so they have little to contribute to the welfare of their children even when they are served with court orders, which are rarely enforced.

It was equally surprising to me that women would put themselves in this sad state of affairs. I am certain that these abandoned women, at one time, had confidence in their men and were willing to take their vows and have children. It seems to me that there is a cultural blindness in the Philippines that prevents women from assessing their prospective mates objectively and selecting their husbands with more stringent due diligence.

There are, I believe, two forces that prevent women from carrying out a more deliberate assessment. First, there is the Catholic Church – which still has a pervasive influence throughout all parts of society in this country to an extent not seen in other countries since the Middle Ages. It encourages young couples to marry and have children (presumably Catholic children!). Marriage and children, then, become aims in themselves. Society in general and the Church in particular drive women to marry.

The other facilitating force is the barangay. The barangay is a form of political and social organization I have not come across in any other country. A barangay is a community of some 400 to 700 families that live in a particular area and has an elected (if nevertheless corrupt) governing council that deals with all local issues. These issues span situations such as conflicts between shopkeepers and customers, the cleaning of streets and providing for local schools, to vouching for the character of its members who want to apply for jobs or passports.

Tuk Tuk on Sequihor, Philippines

Extended families live within these barangays. Whenever anyone in the family needs help, the other members of the family are there to provide that help. As this plays out in practice, many members of the family fail to take steps to look after their own welfare because they know that the other members of the family are morally required to meet their needs. The result, from my perspective, is that the members of these families seem to live in one of two states. On the one hand, there are those who live in a state of on-going crisis. Deserted mothers and children certainly fall into this group. On the other hand there are the somewhat productive members of the family in the barangay who are constantly called on to share their meager earnings with those in crisis. This, interestingly, inhibits those with promise from getting the education they need or starting business ventures at hand because they can never set aside the necessary resources. They need to contribute those resources to meeting the extant crises of the other members of their extended families.

To really appreciate how this operates, we need to take the values about personal responsibility and self-development we share in the West and turn it on its head. Unfortunately, this inverted logic creates a climate that actually assists women to have children, be abandoned and live lives of poverty and desperation.

As a Westerner who met these Filipinas on a one-on-one basis, I felt compelled to assist the women in their moments of crisis. After a couple months, I realized that I was falling into a trap. I had unwittingly adopted their value system. I realized that the women were manipulating me – as they manipulate others – to assist them in handling their crises even though they had created the crises themselves!

In order to improve the lot of the women in the Philippines, the entire culture must undergo shifts in its values on the same order of magnitude as the women’s liberation movement in the West some 30 years ago. Specifically, Filipina women need to come to understand that they hold their destinies in their own hands. Further, they need to feel a moral obligation to manage their own lives to their benefit. This is the task of generations yet to come.

Photo Credits

Photos by Jan Wall – all rights reserved

Color continues to be my nemesis as it requires me to step outside my comfort zone. Imagine that – a comfortable artist!! One of many spiritual teachers once wrote: ‘Confusion is the only suffering. Put your confusion on paper, investigate it, and set yourself free.’ I absolutely loved that. Within the drawing process, I become self-investigating and self-witnessing, hopefully becoming a better me. Am I free? Mostly…the other part continues to engage with myself and others in this wonderful ‘life as a human’ and draw the process out. The titles of my work have become as important to me.  I take inspiration from my fave poets: Mary Oliver, Khalil Gibran, Federico Lorca amongst many other beautiful dreamers or my own ramblings.

When painting, I cut out phrases and add words, sometimes overpainting them to add information not always visible at first glance….sometimes beauty is in the long-reveal.  

‘Lynn Gray’s images are described as fiery ethnic portrait and self-portrait drawings. She feels it is the viewer’s responsibility to complete the drawing through self-reflection and questioning what it means to have and engage in an inclusive community spirit and presence.’

Image Credits

All Images Are © Lynn Gray

Lynn Gray Artist Bio

Lynn is a multi award winning artist (including the prestigious ‘Myfanwy Spencer Pavelic Award’, ‘Best In Show’, ‘Honorable Mentions’, ‘People’s Choice’) whose work is purchased on an international basis.  Her fine & visual art background includes an Associate of Arts in Visual Arts through Camosun College (Victoria, BC – Canada) and Bachelor of Fine Arts & Art History courses at the University of Victoria (Victoria, BC – Canada).

Blog / Website:  tyva-marketing.com

Follow Lynn Gray on: Fine Art America

The instructor greeted the group in the lobby of the art studio and they were toasting some bubbly to Crystal’s engagement when Dave walked in. Six feet, 4 inches tall, wearing motorcycle pants, his long dark hair falling into his twinkling brown eyes, he looked at the women and said, “I’m the guy who’s supposed to be in his underwear.” Crystal’s face went from excited, to confused, to elated. “We aren’t drawing a bowl of fruit at this art lesson, Crystal!” one of the friends said.

Crystal and Dave the Model

And that is how the Drawn to Men Art Party began.

Dave stripped down to his underwear and the women picked up their charcoal and started doing some quick gesture drawings, to “capture the essence of Dave”, as the instructor put it. They drew Dave using charcoal, conte, and vibrant coloured pastels as the art instructor put Dave into some poses that showcased his chiseled physique. For the last exercise, long strips of newsprint were taped to the walls so that full sized portraits of Dave could be created with India Ink and bright contrasting tempera paints. At that point Crystal sent her fiancé a text message telling him she was bringing home a life sized portrait of a nearly naked man to hang on their living room wall.

“Package Delivery”, courtesy of Drawn to Men Art Parties

At the end of the art lesson the women sipped champagne and critiqued their art. Everyone had a favorite piece that they had made, but the best part was that they were all quite surprised with the art that had come out of them. None had any formal drawing experience and some of the pieces were really good! Now, you might say it was the champagne, but I beg to differ. I think that when people are allowed to create art in a casual, fun and flirty environment, the best can come out.

“The Gallery Experience”, courtesy of Drawn to Men Art Parties

This party wasn’t about learning how to draw the perfect figure drawing, it was about having fun and being creative. This was a group of dentists, teachers and physicians. They weren’t “artsy”, but they were open to the experience and I think (like most people are), very curious about the creative process. In our fast paced modern world, the majority of us don’t get to spend much, if any, time on that part of ourselves, because of the type of career we chose or because of other responsibilities in our lives. As the focus on play – based learning continues to grow in our young children’s schools, shouldn’t we allow ourselves the same opportunity? So go ahead, give that right side of your brain some exercise – we’ll supply the cute guy to inspire you!

Guest Author Bio
Nicole Andrews is the owner of Drawn to Men Art Parties and is also a veterinarian. When Nicole is not working with animals or nude men, she is running after her two sons Casey and Parker. She is married to well known comic book artist, Kaare Andrews, and they all live together in Coquitlam, British Columbia.

Blog / Website:  DrawntoMen.com

Follow Drawn to Men on:  Facebook | Pinterest

The hunks are waiting … As Seen on the Real Housewives of Vancouver!

Her mother’s eyes finally found her amongst the disembarking passengers and her face burst into a delighted grin. Asya’s hand froze in mid wave when she realized that it wasn’t her mother after all.

When they walked through the cordoned-off area toward the luggage carousels the woman who looked so much like her mother hurried over. “Asya!” she exclaimed. “Look at how grown up you are.” She smiled at the stewardess, then knelt in front of the small girl. “I can’t decide if you look more like your mother, or your father,” she said.

“I have my father’s eyes,” Asya said.

“You most certainly do. And I have your mother’s face,” the woman said. “I am Kesi, your mother’s twin sister.”

Asya stood for a moment, undecided, then suddenly threw herself into her aunt’s arms and began to sob.

~

John looked down at his sleeping wife’s face and was filled with a love so fierce that it shook him to his core. Asya, the only time she was ever still, looked as beautiful as the first time he had seen her. Her caramel-coloured skin and the long dark lashes resting against her cheeks sent a surge of longing through him.

“Time to get up sleepy girl,” he said, then ran a gentle hand down her cheek.

“Mmm,” she groaned. “Just one more minute.”

He bent down and kissed her lightly on the lips. “You’d better get up; you don’t want to miss your flight.”

Asya’s eyes flew open and she pushed herself up in one fluid motion. A smile, dazzling white, lit her face and she suddenly laughed. She was finally off to collect her mother and bring her back to live here with her and her husband.

~

The airport in Nairobi was crowded with people of every size and colour. Body odours mingled with fried bread, fumes, and dust. Asya clung to her bag as people stared openly at her Western attire. Some were already sizing her up as an easy mark. They looked around for a protecting husband or security.

Her eyes flickered around the room searching the crowd as well, but she did not find the face she was looking for. Two men moved toward her having decided that she was an “easy mark” after all.

“Asya,” a gruff voice called above the melee.

Then there he stood, his hair now salt and pepper, but his shoulders still thick with muscle and the scars on his face and arms more pronounced. The two unsavoury men melted away into the group of people and Asya found herself alone in a large cleared area, everyone giving them a large berth.

“Otee,” she said. She smiled, then moved into the arms of the giant and hugged him. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

He grinned down at her and then almost crushed her in a long hug. “You certainly have,” he said. “Little Asya. You are no longer so little.” He twirled her around once and whistled. “Beautiful, tall, and so sophisticated. Your mother will be so proud.”

The journey back to Ngaliama was much different today than it had been so many years ago. Otee’s new truck was sturdy and reliable; he used it to carry supplies to the orphanages that he and her mother had founded a year after she had left. His many long letters had described the daily lives of the countless girls and boys who had finally found a safe place to live and learn. With food in their bellies, new clothes, and school every day the children felt as if they had been transported into a sort of paradise. Most had grown up to be stable and productive members of society.

“Your mother is so excited she hasn’t been able to sleep properly for months,” he said. “I drove through Ngaliama last month and she made me tell her at least ten times how I was going to pick you up. I believe she has the entire village worked up about your visit. The prodigal daughter returns,” he said, then laughed a deep, rumbling laugh.

Asya smiled. “I gathered as much from our phone calls,” she said.

They arrived in Ngaliama late in the afternoon, the sun at its hottest, dust coating everything. Asya was surprised to find the village exactly the same as how she pictured it for these many years. It did not seem smaller, bigger, cleaner, or filthier; it was as if time had stood still here. She said as much to Otee.

However, when they pulled up in front of her mother’s house Asya’s hands went up to her face. It was so much improved she would not have recognized it. It was tidy with new windows, a new addition, and a beautiful garden encircling it. And who but her friend Keisha, so fat now, and Mr. Uluchi stood there to greet her. She gave a delighted smile but could not help feel a little disappointed that her mother was not there to greet her as well.

Keisha raced to her friend and hugged her over and over. She dragged Mr. Uluchi over, who turned out to be old Mr. Uluchi’s son, little Holumi, from the boys school.

“Is my mother inside?” Asya asked after a few minutes.

Then suddenly she knew. Keisha could not look her in the eyes and Holumi Uluchi just stood wringing his hands.

~

Asya stood in the graveyard in front of the freshly turned mound of earth. It was dark and wet in contrast to the baked lighter ubiquitous clay all around. Tears ran unimpeded down her face and followed the contours of her cheeks to drip onto her blouse as she stood grieving for her mother. Otee stood far back keeping the rest of the village away, allowing Asya to grieve on her own.

She bent down and opened her black doctor’s bag and removed a small silk purse. A blue bead rolled out onto her hand. “Do you remember Kgosi, mother? I named it for the star of love,” Asya said. “May it keep you surrounded by the love of your daughter, your husband, whom you referred to as the kindest man you ever met, and the little one who will soon be here.” She patted the small bump on her stomach.

Then she made a small hole in the newly turned earth and dropped the bead in.

The End

Image Credit

“1 Year ago: kids at the orphanage” by Joris-Jan van den Boom. Creative Commons Flickr. Some rights reserved.