Death Anniversary Take 2
Seriously, an anniversary should be a once a year thing.
Ever heard of a death anniversary being held twice in a year?
Well. Meet the family.
Just because we're tsinoys (Chinese born in the philippines), we get to have two different religions. One, a very distorted view of Buddhism. And the other as a Catholic. Talk about utter confusion.
We recently celebrated my grandad's death anniversary at the Chinese temple, two saturdays ago. Kneeling coupled with the monotonous chanting of old lady monks can be a bad combination on a Saturday morning.
Ooh, and guess what?
Tonight, we're celebrating it again. With a proper catholic mass and dinner for everyone. Umm...hello this is a DEATH anniversary, it's not like we WANT to celebrate it TWICE in a row. HELLLOOOOO?
See, utter confusion.
We even have two birthdays. One, of the chinese date and the other from the Roman calendar. Why? I could never understand.
Looking back at the funeral, a year later, Buddhist monks were invited for a prayer session every 3pm for the whole week to help usher the dead to heaven. And at 6pm of the same week, we get to have a catholic mass with the exact same goal. Ewan ko lang kung pinagagawan ang kaluluwa ng lolo ko sa langit.
This is the one of the reasons why I really don't believe in religion too much. The common denominator of all religions is faith. And I'm fine with that.
* * *
People have always been asking me why I harbor a sense of dislike on being chinese. Even complimenting me that I don't act very "chinese." (yes, I've taken those opinions as compliments) I wear black whenver I want to even before there was a death in the family. I speak in Filipino most of the time and insist on speaking in Filipino or English. There was even a time where I hated the color red, just because symbolizes all the nonsensical superstitious beliefs of the culture.
Being born chinese in the Philippines is like being born with a curse. Mind you, I don't hate the chinese race, because I am chinese whichever way I look at it. I only dislike all the "family honor" crap that goes with it.
Looking back at my childhood, my dislike was probably acquired from the continous nagging of relatives to live up to the family name. Pressure from everyone because I was the eldest granddaughter. And I hated my parents for succumbing me to that. AngPaos (red envelopes) were given to the grandchildren who excelled most in class. While the others who averagely passed were "shun" away from the "limelight." Those who obeyed without thinking were placed on pedestals, not only in grandchildren but also with the daugter-in-laws. I even remember a time when my grandfather was alive, I was only 11 then. I wasn't known to be a "bookworm" in the family, just because I didn't bring pocketbooks with me to our grandparents house. And I wasn't on the list of grandchildren who were given angpaos. My grandfather, a journalist, decided to give away some of his old books. So he called on all the other grandchildren, well, except for me and my brother, to line up and get the books. I bet you can feel the love, right?
There were a couple more incidents similar to that. All of them left me feeling insecure and worthless. My grandparents had three boys. Each one had their own families. I was barely into puberty when I decided to be our family's "defender," for the reason that they looked down on my mother, me and my siblings. Every time my grandmother would comment against anyone of us, I'd retort back, even if I wasn't in the conversation. After that, my temper became the talk of the town.
Back then, my mom would often urged me to go up to the stage and sing whenever it was my grandfather's or grandmother's birthday because she was also pressured to live up to their standards. I hated singing for show and I didn't have much interest on being in the limelight either. But I did it a few times to humor them, until I got so sick of the pressure to live up to everyone's expections that I didn't really care what they thought.
I wish they'd care more about practicality than superstition and reputation.
Ever heard of a death anniversary being held twice in a year?
Well. Meet the family.
Just because we're tsinoys (Chinese born in the philippines), we get to have two different religions. One, a very distorted view of Buddhism. And the other as a Catholic. Talk about utter confusion.
We recently celebrated my grandad's death anniversary at the Chinese temple, two saturdays ago. Kneeling coupled with the monotonous chanting of old lady monks can be a bad combination on a Saturday morning.
Ooh, and guess what?
Tonight, we're celebrating it again. With a proper catholic mass and dinner for everyone. Umm...hello this is a DEATH anniversary, it's not like we WANT to celebrate it TWICE in a row. HELLLOOOOO?
See, utter confusion.
We even have two birthdays. One, of the chinese date and the other from the Roman calendar. Why? I could never understand.
Looking back at the funeral, a year later, Buddhist monks were invited for a prayer session every 3pm for the whole week to help usher the dead to heaven. And at 6pm of the same week, we get to have a catholic mass with the exact same goal. Ewan ko lang kung pinagagawan ang kaluluwa ng lolo ko sa langit.
This is the one of the reasons why I really don't believe in religion too much. The common denominator of all religions is faith. And I'm fine with that.
* * *
People have always been asking me why I harbor a sense of dislike on being chinese. Even complimenting me that I don't act very "chinese." (yes, I've taken those opinions as compliments) I wear black whenver I want to even before there was a death in the family. I speak in Filipino most of the time and insist on speaking in Filipino or English. There was even a time where I hated the color red, just because symbolizes all the nonsensical superstitious beliefs of the culture.
Being born chinese in the Philippines is like being born with a curse. Mind you, I don't hate the chinese race, because I am chinese whichever way I look at it. I only dislike all the "family honor" crap that goes with it.
Looking back at my childhood, my dislike was probably acquired from the continous nagging of relatives to live up to the family name. Pressure from everyone because I was the eldest granddaughter. And I hated my parents for succumbing me to that. AngPaos (red envelopes) were given to the grandchildren who excelled most in class. While the others who averagely passed were "shun" away from the "limelight." Those who obeyed without thinking were placed on pedestals, not only in grandchildren but also with the daugter-in-laws. I even remember a time when my grandfather was alive, I was only 11 then. I wasn't known to be a "bookworm" in the family, just because I didn't bring pocketbooks with me to our grandparents house. And I wasn't on the list of grandchildren who were given angpaos. My grandfather, a journalist, decided to give away some of his old books. So he called on all the other grandchildren, well, except for me and my brother, to line up and get the books. I bet you can feel the love, right?
There were a couple more incidents similar to that. All of them left me feeling insecure and worthless. My grandparents had three boys. Each one had their own families. I was barely into puberty when I decided to be our family's "defender," for the reason that they looked down on my mother, me and my siblings. Every time my grandmother would comment against anyone of us, I'd retort back, even if I wasn't in the conversation. After that, my temper became the talk of the town.
Back then, my mom would often urged me to go up to the stage and sing whenever it was my grandfather's or grandmother's birthday because she was also pressured to live up to their standards. I hated singing for show and I didn't have much interest on being in the limelight either. But I did it a few times to humor them, until I got so sick of the pressure to live up to everyone's expections that I didn't really care what they thought.
I wish they'd care more about practicality than superstition and reputation.