Some years ago, a co-worker had accompanied a friend as moral support to a band audition. My co-worker, M, saw a lovely-looking guy exiting the audition room with a saxophone. She worked up the nerve to introduce herself and they chatted about random things: the weather, the L train, the Beatles vs. the Stones, and then the friend was called to perform. During the hubbub, they went their separate ways and never exchanged phone numbers. This is not an unusual story, except for what happens next.

But first there's a little something you should know about M. She was a helpless romantic. She believed in Prince Charming and messages in bottles and that all you need is love. She had plans to get married at Cinderella's castle with Jiminy Cricket singing "When You Wish upon a Star." For Halloween she always dressed as a princess. She was the original daydream believer.

Knowing this, it may not come as a surprise that in the days following her chance encounter, M pined for the sax player. She dreamed of the perfection that was him and before the week was out she'd picked names for their three kids. She finally called the company that had hosted the audition and begged for his phone number. The receptionist must have admired M's chutzpah. She relayed the message to Mr. Sax Player and gave him M's number. He called her and they went on a date. (By the way, this scenario is only remotely plausible if you are in your early 20s like M and her sax-playing man. Then it's earnest and heady and just a touch clandestine. After a certain age it kind of crosses the line to desperate and stalkerish.)

It's not just M who was fabulously optimistic in her pursuit of true love. Patrick Moberg proved me wrong (see "When a woodchuck could chuck wood post, June 3) and fell head over heels on the 5 train a few months ago.

Moberg isn't alone in his search for Ms. Right. Just yesterday there were 100 posts on Craigslist in NYC searching for a "missed connection," whether that took place on a platform or in a Starbucks. Let's say you saw your future husband on the subway but, for whatever reason, you couldn't speak to him. Just post an ad and sit back until your honey comes a-calling.

"i think you live in greenpoint because i've seen you maybe 3 times on the G. you were wearing a blue shirt and white shorts maybe, with long dirty blonde hair in a pony tail. you had a bag that said "ralph" on it. you got off at 5th ave and it saddened me. i've got dark hair, i was wearing jeans and a green collared shirt. i don't think you'll read this, but hopefully next time i will be courageous and make the damn move."

"It was Saturday night around 10 pm at the 2 or 3 train going to brooklyn. You had a slimless shirt with white and blue stripes, some blue jeans and some tennis shoes with a roster logo. I tried to keep eye contact from you, i was wearing some shorts and a green tshirt. I got off the Eastern park way museum stop. I wanted to say hi and talk to you"

"me: at the southern end of the car. Glasses large photo bag. Kept looking your way. You: other end of car. Blue dress. Red hair. Kept looking my way, thought it was at me, could be wrong though. A clown got on the car at union or ninth." (My note: only in NY)

Alas, it seems that you would have a better chance of finding true love at a "foot and back rub" place on the Lower East Side. Moberg wasn't going to take any chances on the love of his life. He decided to create a webpage to find his lady: www.nygirlofmydreams.com. In a city of eight million people, it took him 48 hours to find said girl of his dreams, one Camille Hayton, living in Brooklyn, originally from Melbourne, Australia. Hayton's girlfriend spotted her sketched likeness on the website and called her.

The results? My former co-worker M married — someone else — and apparently is pregnant with their first baby. Moberg and Hayton dated for two months, but they've decided to "just be friends."

An "A" for effort to all parties involved. It gets me thinking. Maybe someone is looking for me and I don't even know it! I wonder what my ad would look like.

You: Gurl with ipod dozing on 2 train. U R so k-ute. Don't worry. It's ok.

(See the "You are so cute" post, October 15.) 

Jacquelin Cangro

At Change.org, there is an honest look into "The Myth of Public Education" by Megan Greenwell:

"But that notion of public universities increasingly belies a less-attractive truth: many public colleges are too expensive for even middle-class students, and they're not providing enough financial aid. A study out this month from advocacy group The Education Trust underscores the growing problem: rising tuition and changing priorities for financial aid have priced many poor students out of their states' flagship public universities. As Kati Haycock, president of The Education Trust, wrote in the report, 'No longer widely accessible, their treasure is bestowed disproportionately on the children of America's economic and political elites.'"

 At the same site, there is also an article about America's drop-out epidemic. Marian Wright Edelman says:

"One-size-fits-all school zero tolerance disciplinary policies are responsible for the growth in the number of school-based arrests of poor and minority children, funneling them into the juvenile and criminal justice systems at younger and younger ages. So many are suspended, expelled, even arrested, for nonviolent infractions such as being 'disruptive' or 'disrespectful.' In the past, many of these problems would have been resolved in the principal's office or referred to a pastor or social worker or by calling the parent (who may no longer be in the house). Too many children today end up with an arrest record and are labeled a troublemaker, increasing the likelihood of dropping out of school."

No surprise that some professors and scientists routinely say that kids in India and China will take over America in the next decade. Next week we will look into Indian and Chinese education systems and why so many foreign students want to attend U.S. universities.

Bhumika Ghimire

Bhumika Ghimire

When I was 13 years old, I'd decided that if Pat Benatar was right and love really was a battlefield, then I'd be proud to fight for the grandeur of romance, show off all of my scars, and maybe lose a few emotional appendages, too.

By the time I was 16 years old and my father revealed that he'd had two children out of wedlock, and that he and my mom were considering divorce, the idealism of happily ever afters had sunken in so deeply that it wouldn't bleed out of me, no matter how many times my heart broke.

And so it's been, despite  the unhealthy dysfunction of my parents' rollercoaster marriage, and my own many strange and twisted experiments with sex, love, and fidelity: I have always held on to the ideas that love is one of the most beautiful things anyone can know, and that the hope of an enduring, loving, and fully supportive marriage is an ideal worth fighting for.

Even though my American peers and I all know about single-parent households, divorce, remarriage, and blended families, there is a legitimacy behind it all, a logic telling us that what matters is not how a family is made, but the definite love and respect between a family's members. We carry this knowledge like a badge of superiority, an assured and assumably accurate claiming of life experience and maturity. Sure, bad things happen; sure, marriages end and parents divorce; sure, many teenagers navigate the quicksands of dating and relationships at the same time that their parents re-enter those same assailing conditions, but that's life. We act out, we drink too much and do drugs, we go to therapy, we become promiscuous, we cry on our friends' shoulders, and then, eventually, we trudge on with the business of growing up and getting over it all. Throughout these battles, our reverence for love and marriage remain intact.

Apparently, it's a different love story in the Philippines.

There is no divorce in the Philippines, no empathy for unwed mothers or their bastard children, no faith in the loyalty of men, and no hope in happily ever afters. A hard crust of distrust coats the layers of bitterness which enshroud the Filipino's romantic experience, and try as they might to shake off the negativity, "common sense" and experience have taught their lessons well: the only happily ever afters are the ones that exist after you've contorted your romantic ideals into an unrecognizable blob of compromise and resignation.

Women are expected to fulfill their supportive and nurturing role of "girlfriend" or "wife" regardless of their partner's loyalty or lack thereof; cheating and adultery among men is not only accepted, but expected. When a woman cheats, she's a slut or a whore or a lunatic. But when power-wielding men do it, when down-and-out men do it, when young men do it, and when old men do it, the common reaction is "But of course!" Either they do it to show off their power, or to show that they still have some kind of power, or because they have the power of youth, or because they're losing the power of youth. One thing is clear: love in the Philippines is an epic power struggle, and women are not the only ones losing.

Children grow out of these relationships feeling awkward and uncertain about their worthiness of love and their claim on a legitimately successful life. They question the value of romantic relationships and doubt their own ability at finding everlasting love. They half-believe what the culture dictates: that they are somehow less desirable as human beings because their parents do not have a storybook romance and marriage. It is in this climate of hostility that far-fetched notions of acceptable loves are brewed and the significance of the institution of marriage is devalued.

Because there is no divorce in the Philippines, and also because women who have children out of wedlock sentence themselves and their offspring to eternal criticism and condemnation, there is a pervading sense that the solution to the mistakes of romance is not to learn from it all, grow, and move on, but to get married and stay married. And even though some teenagers are lucky to have a teacher deplore this ill-advised measure, the idea of marriage as panacea has sunken deeply into the core of Filipino culture. Shame on you for having sex before marriage. Shame on you for having children before being wed. Shame on you for being born out of wedlock. Shame on you for separating with your spouse and shacking up with someone else. In a country whose culture dictates that everyone know everything about each other and that they all wield the power of judgment, shame is powerful. For these reasons, marriage becomes a last-chance or last-ditch-effort at keeping one's life together and not a lasting tribute to love.

Maria Elizabeth Rubio

It is not all about money, folks. When it comes to international disaster relief, yes, money is the big thing, but it is not the only thing. If you cannot send money, then please spread the word around among your friends, family, and co-workers; maybe someone will be able to. Right now aid agencies are saying that they are not looking for money more than relief materials from the public.

I have decided to donate my one-week online earnings to Save the Children for their work in Haiti. You know during times like this, it is the children, women, and people with disabilities who suffer the most. As a mother, I was drawn toward children.

Here is a list of organizations now accepting online financial donations:

Save the Children

 Yéle Haiti

SMS text “HAITI” to 90999 to donate $10 to Red Cross relief efforts 

You can also visit Google's Haiti crises page for more. And here is part of a  press release I received from Tampa, Florida, just to show that every bit helps:

Spinelli, president of the Association to Conserve Tampa Water, and Aquafree Toothbrush will be joined with Kalos International and the Haitian Association Foundation of Tampa in a major press conference today with emergency officials announcing local efforts by Tampa residents to assist in the earthquake that caused a major disaster in Haiti. The press conference will take place today, Thursday, January 14th at 12:00 p.m., Hillsborough County-John F. Germany Library, 900 North Ashley Drive  in Tampa. The city of Tampa recently went through a water shortage, which is happening in Haiti right now. Over 100,000 water-less Aquafree toothbrushes invented by a local resident will be handed out to children and families in Haiti.

Bhumika Ghimire

Yesterday marked the "Ninth Annual No Pants Subway Ride," wherein thousands of exhibitionist New Yorkers got down to their skivvies and boarded the subway. For what, you ask? Well to get a date, silly.

"It's a place to meet people that's not your traditional bar scene," said Brady Kirchberg, 26, who was taking part in his third no-pants ride. At least we singletons now have another option beyond eight-minute dating and online dating. It sorta eliminates a lot of awkward moments later on, no? Though I should note that the temperature hovered at about 20 degrees yesterday, so you'd have to take that into account.

As you'd expect, most New Yorkers were fairly blasé about the whole thing. Gintas Norvila said, "It's the first time I've seen it. It looks very interesting," and went back to reading Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground.

Here's a clip from last year's No Pants Ride.

Jacquelin Cangro

According to Reporters Without Borders

"Arrested in December 2008, Liu spent nearly a year in prison before being formally charged with subversion on 12 December. His trial on 23 December was accompanied by a high degree of police surveillance. Dozens of foreign journalists, foreign diplomats and Liu supporters were kept away from the courthouse. Liu’s wife, who had wanted to attend, was prevented from leaving her home.

This is not the first time that the Christmas period has proved to be particularly dangerous for Chinese human rights activists."

 

Jonathan Fryer, a freelance writer who writes for the BBC and The Guardian, has also commented about Xiaobo's sentence in his blog. He calls the whole episode shameful.

"Shameless governments have a habit of doing nasty things over Christmas, when they hope most of the world’s journalists aren’t looking — or are on holiday. Think the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, Israel’s Operation Cast Lead and now China’s disgraceful sentencing of the dissident writer Liu Xiaobo to 11 years in prison for his political and human rights activities. Perhaps best known abroad as the founder of Charter 08, the Chinese group calling for constitutional reform, Mr Liu has been a sturdy champion of fundamental rights since he took part in the quashed 1989 pro-democracy movement. His jailing, for an unusually long time, is a moral outrage which should be protested most strongly by all decent politicians and NGOs around the world."

Here is Xiaobo, speaking to the PEN American Center about free press and freedom of speech. This video is at YouTube.

With all China has achieved in last decade, it is really shameful that they chose to end it by sentencing for eleven years a man whose only mistake was advocating for freedom. China has successfully integrated capitalism into its communist structure; how long will take for the country to embrace and integrate democratic values too?

Bhumika Ghimire

Lara Gabrielle Blanco Heintz

New Yorkers have very specific fears that don’t necessarily translate to other parts of the country. But for some people, the paranoia gets the better of them. Just a few days ago, a man who’d had it with roaches decided to exact his revenge by spraying the hell out of them with extra-strength Raid. In fact, he sprayed so much of the stuff in his tiny apartment that one lit match ignited it, blowing out the front windows and charring more than 80 percent of his place. At least the roaches are gone.

But New Yorkers’ fears aren’t limited to the vermin/rodent category. Here are some other things that freak us out (in no particular order): getting run over by a bike messenger; a transit strike; a black-out during a heat wave; George Steinbrenner; falling debris from high-rise construction work; the mysterious steam that comes out of those orange cylinders in the middle of the street; and, oh yeah, Al Qaeda.

A very pregnant friend tells me that she hyperventilates at the thought of going into labor on the subway. She has reason to be worried. She knows the story of Francine and baby Soleil. Francine, pregnant with her first child, starts feeling a little uncomfortable, so the doctor tells her to come to the hospital to be examined. Without enough money for car service, presumably, or thinking she has all the time in the world, she hops on the F train with her husband, Max.

By the time they get to the East Broadway stop, Francine is feeling much worse. Max tells the conductor who radios ahead for an ambulance. He ushers Francine, who is by now having serious contractions, onto the platform, and the train leaves the station. Then New Yorkers, who love to be in the middle of everything, spring into action. They lay Francine on the platform (blech!) – a man offers his briefcase as a pillow, a woman holds her hand, several people give their clothing to the cause, another man runs to the street level to guide the EMTs and, as luck would have it, a nurse steps off an arriving train and lends a hand. In fact, Wendy Brown, a woman from the Bronx who offered moral support, noted at least four trains came into the station and some people from every one stopped to help. When baby Soleil makes her appearance, all the passersby applaud and jump on the next arriving train.

What a welcome to the world! 

Jacquelin Cangro

What I do know is that in order to get to my aunt’s neighborhood, you have to take a series of one-way streets. This is the reason that my brother doesn’t know how to get home from Malabon: he always gets confused from all the one-way streets. My aunt accompanied us home, and when we reached the neighborhood in the video, whose name, by the way, roughly translates into “messes with you” – AND I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING ABOUT THAT – my aunt tells us a not-so-sweet little story.

Years ago, my aunt, Tita Quel, was in an Oner with her brother-in-law, Tiyo, and they were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the rough part of town. There was a traffic officer at the intersection, and because the Philippines is the land of corruption and irony, the fact that the traffic jam was as bad as it was didn’t seem out of place. Tita Quel had her purse on her lap, and she looked out into the sea of traffic with weary eyes. Night was only now taking root in that part of the world, and the dusty sidewalks looked like they belonged on the set of a Clint Eastwood western.

A man made his way through the crowded street. He was non-descript, even slightly attractive. He wore neatly-starched and -pressed clothes, and this wasn’t some thread-bare outfit either. The fact that he was walking through traffic was as normal as the fact that roosters were fenced in on the tiny triangles of grass that divided the wide boulevard. Tiyo faced the front of the car, but his eyes scanned the entire scene: a police car was about 75 feet away; a few Oners were scattered in the crowd, easy targets because of their lack of doors; one Oner had two female passengers who wore lots of jewelry.

As the well-dressed man made his way through the crowd, Tiyo muttered under his breath that Tita Quel should put her purse in the middle console. Quickly, she did as she was told. The good-looking stranger walked past and, though she found him attractive, she couldn’t help but shiver with fear as he neared. She covered herself with the curtains that clung to the car where doors should have been. She held her breath, hoping that she wouldn’t be noticed. She smelled predatory instinct in the air: danger, blood-lust, potential violence, and sweat mingled in the sweltering humidity. Her eyes followed the stranger as he deftly maneuvered through the muggy cacophony of mufflers, voices, and exhaust fumes.

The stranger stood by the side of the Oner that had the two bejeweled passengers. He brandished a knife, and held it to the neck of the closer woman, who sat in the passenger seat wearing a purple dress. He instructed the woman in the purple dress to give all her jewelry to her driver friend, who wore a pink dress. With shaky hands, the purple-dressed woman did as she was told, and then the man said something that made her begin to cry. Her lips quivered as she looked from the man to her friend, who also began to cry. The man tauntingly danced the blade close to the woman’s face, then slid his penis out of his trousers. The woman sucked him off while the crowded street of cars watched. No one tried to stop it.

Tita Quel’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. She couldn’t help it: her voice, raised an octave, began to squeal on the stranger.

“Sshhhhh!” admonished Tiyo. He warily eyed the traffic officer, who was probably in on the scam and purposely keeping the cars in gridlock. Who knew who else was in on the assault? The officers in the police car? Passengers of other cars? Were men hiding in bushes? Did the stranger have accomplices milling in the traffic? Anything was possible. A shoot-out could occur from a single concerned act. “Stop. Looking.” Tiyo said, glaring at my aunt.

She did what she was told. The stranger came in the purple-dressed woman’s mouth, then zipped up as if he’d just taken a piss on a public wall (another common occurrence here), and told the pink-dressed woman to hand over all of the jewelry. He sauntered off into the crowd. The cars had hardly moved. My aunt had barely breathed. The Philippines had only proven its tough-as-nails image.

Until this day, my aunt wonders about the purple- and pink- dressed women. Did they seek counseling after the incident? Were they able to go on with their lives just as if nothing had happened? And what about the stranger: Was Tiyo right? Were the police officers and the traffic cop in on the assault and robbery? Or was the stranger a lone criminal, taking advantage of the fact that people would assume he had accomplices? What would have happened if someone had rushed to the aid of his victims?

I feel like, if that same incident happened today, I would say something, do something, do anything. But who knows? Being here makes me question everything I thought I knew about myself. 

Maria Elizabeth Rubio