“Pass me the screws,” my dad said with a power drill in his right hand and a beautifully crafted overhead kitchen cabinet propped up against his left shoulder. I picked up a few screws from the tool bucket on the ground, handed them to my dad, and helped him shoulder the burden of the heavy wooden cabinet. Generally the heavier the cabinet, the better quality it is, and this cabinet was top-of-the-line. The tough edge of the front of the cabinet dug roughly into my thirteen-year-old shoulder, and I pushed it up as hard as I could with my little hands.
The first screw forcefully squealed into the wood backing as it made contact with the stud behind the drywall. Dad placed another screw through the back of the cabinet and another loud squeal attacked our ears. Four squeals later, and the cabinet was securely installed in the corner of this old kitchen. The home itself was probably built in the 1970′s judging by the ochre-tinted appliances and plainly “modern” facades of the light avocado-shaded cabinets.
Every few minutes the owner of the home, a gaunt African-American lady in her 50′s or 60′s, would peak into kitchen to observe our progress. Because she was tall, I could easily feel her presence as she supervised the remodeling project, and her gaze on the back of my head felt like hot nails. As a self-conscious thirteen year old, I tried as much as possible to avoid eye contact with her for fear that she might ask me a question, so whenever she was around, I would turn my back to unbox another big cabinet or to put away scattered tools.
“Go get the second cabinet. The smaller one that goes above the cooking range,” my dad ordered.
Casually I sauntered to the garage to sort through a maze of cardboard boxes and new kitchen cabinets. The summer heat permeated the old garage and heightened the aromatic mixture of finely crafted oak and ripped-apart cardboard. Cabinets that came up to my waist and others that were taller than the reach of my outstretched arms were strewn about in a methodical madness. The mess created a miniature metropolitan skyline. I weaved in and out of the imaginary city streets. Boxes and cabinets were skyscrapers that created thoroughfares and alleyways, and for a moment I pretended I was a messenger delivering an important package to a downtown firm. Zip. Zoom. Dive.
“Huuuyyyy. Nasaan ka? Hey. Where are you?” my dad shrieked.
The daydream faded away and I was back in the overcrowded garage somewhere in Orange County. “What size is it again, dad?” I yelled back.
“The small one about four feet by two feet.”
After sifting through more boxes, I found it on top of what I had imagined was the city’s public library. I snapped the plastic ties off the box, swiftly released the little cabinet from its cardboard and styrofoam confines, and bear-hugged it through Main Street, all the way back to the kitchen.
“Is this it, Dad?”
“Oo, ilagay ito dito. Yes, place it here,” Dad ushered while gesturing at the empty spot next to the first cabinet.
Thud. Cabinet banged against the wall. Squeal. Screws forced in place. Snap-snap. Another one unboxed. Shimmy-shimmy. Cabinet dragged to the kitchen.
After examining the floorplan, I became slightly better at predicting which cabinet my dad would need next. In an attempt at being efficient, I lined them up from the garage to the kitchen, like wooden soldiers getting ready for battle. We repeated the cycle until the bare walls started to look like a kitchen again. Three hours and fifteen installed cabinets later, my dad said, “Pahinga na tayo. Let’s rest.”
I used my t-shirt sleeve to wipe the sweat from my brow, exhaled a sigh of relief, and wished that the lady would turn on the AC in her house. Dad sat down on a step stool, opened a large plastic Coleman container full of water and ice, and took four generous gulps of the cold refreshment. I collapsed myself on top of a bright orange toolbox, and dad passed me the Coleman and a pandesal (lightly sweet Filipino bread roll) with American cheese neatly encased in a plastic sandwich bag. I quenched my thirst desperately and inhaled the little pandesal in two bites. As we ate and rested, the old lady curiously poked her head through the open doorway to inspect our progress. She looked at the half-finished walls and then glanced at my dad. “It looks like it’s coming along really nicely,” she commented with a mischievous smirk, and then she placed her gaze on me, “it looks good. You did a good job.”
Sheepishly and with my eyes fixed on the unfinished cement floor, I replied, “Thank you.”
“So are you going to remodel kitchens too when you grow up? Are you going to follow in your dad’s footsteps?” she asked benignly.
I don’t remember quite how I responded to her, and it really doesn’t matter. I might have given her a half-smile and then looked away, but I distinctly remember what I thought the moment that she asked:
“No.”
~
I love my dad and honor him for the rigorous and relentless work ethic that he instilled in me. My brother, sister and I joined him all throughout our childhood years at different jobsites as he worked hard to establish himself and his small business as credible and high quality. I credit my dad for truly living and breathing the entrepreneurial spirit and the American dream, and inspiring me to work hard, challenge myself, and do my best. If it were not for the weekends, school holidays, and the summers that we spent tearing out old houses and creating beautiful masterpieces, I can easily say that I would not have been able to go to college or be an American citizen.
However, I knew it then, and I know it now: my path would lead me down a different direction. And although my thirteen-year-old self was vehemently opposed to following in his dad’s footsteps (because really, what thirteen-year-old would want to do that?), I can see now that I did not veer completely off. Yes, I work and have been working with youth in the educational nonprofit sphere for years, and my passion clearly is to positively change the lives of youth, but everyday I use the lessons I learned from working with my dad to remodel kitchens.
My dad, an architect by trade, taught me how to read blueprints and floor plans, which planted the seeds of my ability to be visionary in my approach to leadership and creativity. I observed how my dad efficiently organized the chaos of a jobsite from the shipping of all of the cabinets to the installation timeline, and I rudimentarily practiced efficiency and systems-building in customers’ homes. He treated his clients jovially, fairly, and assertively, and he was my first model of how to be a leader and an effective negotiator. He built houses that stood on a solid foundation, while I built curricula and programs that stemmed from a solid foundation.
See, although I’m not quite remodeling kitchens, I suppose I can answer that old lady’s question differently now. When I enter into a nonprofit organization, when I engage in a new project, or when I get my hands dirty on a new program, I take the same approach my dad taught me years ago. We took out the old things that were obsolete and unnecessary; we carefully, meticulously, and systematically replaced them with new and better things; we tested the things to make sure they worked; and then we made sure the clients were happy with the new things. You can replace “things” with anything: cabinets, curriculum, culture, core programs, operations, etc. And of course, you can add steps and other systems to fit the needs of the project or team better, but I digress.
If the old lady were here now, I’d tell her, “Yes, I am following in my dad’s footsteps,” and I’d also thank her. Her simple question stuck with me for over fifteen years. Back then I used it as fuel to study smarter, work harder, and achieve more in school so that I could go to college and become successful… So that I wouldn’t have to do manual labor again (let’s be honest, if you give a teenager the choice between manual labor or studying in a comfortable, air-conditioned room, he’d pick the latter). Even though I was not that enthusiastic about giving up weekends and summers to work with my dad and even though the manual labor was exhausting and physically draining, I now realize that my dad’s footsteps did not lead me astray. In fact, they led me to where I am today, and for that I’m extremely grateful.
I can’t believe my Aussie trip down under is more than halfway done. I had all of these grandiose plans to visit other parts of the country (like Melbourne or the Great Barrier Reef), but alas, those plans did not come to fruition as I realized that the real reason why I am here is to spend time with my extended family. And I have done plenty of that so far while exploring ridiculously beautiful Sydney.
Week two was slightly more relaxed and chill than week one. I didn’t go on any 5-hour bike rides, but I did wander the city one day by train, bus and ferry (Good Lord, the view from the ferry was just amazing). And below, you’ll see pictures from Michael’s fun-filled Bucks Party (aka Bachelor Party), which took up the entire Saturday from 7:30 am (that’s when we started playing paintball… who plays paintball at 7:30 am??? Apparently Aussies do) to midnight, when we continued the party at his house with not one but TWO evening entertainers. To protect the innocent, I haven’t posted any scandalous pictures up, but I’m sure you can use your imagination.
And to top off the week, I took the twins, Jeff & Chris, to our first live footy (that’s what they call rubgy down here) game. The Sydney Roosters lost to the North Queensland Cowboys, and even though our home team lost, it was a great experience for all of us.
This week we’ll see a HUGE influx of family flying in from all over the world, including my parents, who I’m picking up tomorrow (I haven’t seen them since April, so we’ll be reunited, too. So this week is all about spending quality time with all of the family, and of course, the whole reason why we’re all here is Michael’s wedding to Charmie on Saturday. And then just like that, I’ll be whisked away to the US on Sunday and back to work at BUILD after a three-month sabbatical on Monday! Excited about getting back to my home and work, but not looking forward to leaving this beautiful place. Check out the pics below.
Painting of Sydney Harbour at Art Gallery of New South Wales
Went to Manly Beach, which is a 30-min ferry ride away from Sydney
Gorgeous day, but it was way too cold to swim
"Manly" was everywhere, and I couldn't resist...
Random Family Time
Sefton Playhouse... not my idea, promise
Delicious Japanese food with Kristie and Jeff
Eating Meat Pies (Really popular in Oz) with Beef, the dog
Kristie's lola's birthday party
Michael’s Bucks Party: Part 1 – Paintball Wars
Chris, Mike and Jeff are up really early to play paintball
So butch
That's Mike's Best Man shooting at him!
We played about 10 games at different fields. Quite the testosterone filled actvity!
So far my brother and I are having a great time in the Philippines with our family. I can’t believe a week has flown by, but we’ve done a lot! Check out some pictures below or on my Flickr account. You can also follow my tweets on Twitter.
Nanay Ising’s 80th Birthday Party
Family Potrait
Cousins
Roasted Cow (Lechon ng baka)
All Nanay's children and grandchildren in attendance
All of Nanay's children (except my dad!)
All of Nanay's grandchildren in attendance
Check out more pictures after the jump or on my Flickr…
On Wednesday afternoon, I wrote Ms. Van Hunnick a quick postcard to tell her that I enjoyed being a judge at FBLA’s annual state leadership conference the week prior. Since she was on the board of directors for California FBLA, I thought she’d be there, but she was curiously absent from the weekend event.
Later that evening, I dropped the postcard into a postbox on my way to have drinks with Kenyon, Vickie and new roommate Lance. Vickie had wanted to go someplace “mistake-like� so there we were in the middle of loud and oddly clientele-d Bar on Church. While MIA blared, I received a phone call from Joanne, but could barely hear anything. I faintly caught her say, “I’ll text you,� and a few seconds later, I received it, a matter-of-fact message that was shocking and saddening: “Ms. Van Hunnick passed away. I’ll forward you the email with details.�
Over the din, I yelped. Or maybe screamed. And then hugged Kenyon. For a split second the memories flooded in, but the cacophony of the bar dammed my thoughts.
The following morning I woke up and drove to work numb. I thought about where I’d be if I hadn’t met Ms. Van Hunnick. I thought about all she had done to propel me to be successful. But it wasn’t until I got to work and sat down at my desk did I pause. When I stopped, I was inundated by sadness and mourning.
Five second later, Karla called my office line and said something like, “Look at how you are honoring her and her life.�
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. But the floodgates released. And there I was in the middle of my office, balling, with salty streams running down my face. I hurriedly tried to wipe them away so my staff wouldn’t see, but it didn’t work. I think I scared them. They’d never seen me cry before (I hadn’t cried at work since 2007!).
When I joined a conference call after a 15-minute fit of tears, I had to put the phone on mute and my head in my hands to try to get myself together. It didn’t help that I suffered another loss just a week before—not as serious as a death—but it was still significant and sad. I contemplated taking the day off to process, but I think Ms. Van Hunnick would have kept working in a situation like this, and she would not have wanted me to let any of my kids down.
Ms. VH and Rey on 11/2/2008
The Last
We used to affectionately call her Ms. VH, which kind of fit her no-nonsense and matter-of-fact style. I last saw Ms. VH on November 2, 2008, the Sunday after USC’s homecoming. I knew she was undergoing chemotherapy to fight her cancer, and I brought her some flowers and a USC teddy bear because she couldn’t make it to the homecoming—she loved going to the games, and was a Trojan, through and through.
When I look back on that visit, I didn’t realize it would be the last. When I first entered her house, I could tell that she was in pain. I’d never seen her walk with a walker before, yet she still offered to get me water from the kitchen when I could have easily gone into the kitchen myself. It pained me to see her like that, but I was grateful to have had the chance to see her that one last time. Even though physically, she seemed less agile and a little frailer, her mind was as sharp as ever. She was a fighter, and this time she was fighting a tough battle with cancer. I remember sensing that her spirit seemed strong. And in typical VH fashion, she rattled off names of people who I had not thought about in over ten years, and she recounted stories of weddings she’d been invited to, conferences she was attending, and the work that she was still doing with our high school. She was the same ol’ Ms. VH: devoted, passionate, ambitious.
The First
I suppose I can’t talk the last time I saw Ms. VH without talking about the first time. VH was an institution at John F. Kennedy High School in little La Palma, California. Her stark white hair and bulbous nose were the features that a caricaturist would probably display most prominently. She was fierce and strong on one hand and kind and warm on the other. She balanced both fairly well.
She taught me how to use Adobe Pagemaker in a class called Desktop Publishing, which was my introduction to the world of graphic design. I attribute that class to my eye towards design for all things, whether it’s designing a business card or curriculum for a program.
She encouraged me to join an organization at school called Future Business Leaders of America (yes, the same FBLA that I spoke about earlier), and FBLA became one of my vehicles for growing as a leader and a professional. We became close because I kept getting more and more involved, which meant that I stayed to work on campaigns or annual reports after school almost every day.
It was through FBLA that I grew to love business and entrepreneurship, and Ms. VH knew this. I remember driving around in a clunky old Anaheim Union High School District automobile to go to USC for the first time ever. She was an alum of the school, like I am now, and she shared the Trojan family with me even before I was admitted. She set up a private tour with some faculty at the business school, and even though I didn’t know it back then, I fell in love with SC when I was a sophomore in high school. I set my sights on that school, and after she wrote me a stellar letter of recommendation, I got in.
She nurtured my leader within. She could see the burgeoning leader hidden, tucked away, inside my quiet, awkward, immigrant-conscious high school self. And I wonder if my students can tell that I see the same thing in them sometimes.
But she wasn’t always right. She once told me during my junior year that I had to choose between being a California state officer for FBLA or being a second-year president of our 200-person band. How could I choose? I loved both. I remember going to class after that conversation, thinking that she was absolutely nuts, that she had no right to give me an ultimatum like that, and that there was no way that I was going to give either up. And I didn’t. But now I see that she had my best intentions in mind, and now I have the same kinds of conversations with my kids. “Prioritize, Sean, Yasmin, or insert student’s name here. It’s better to do a great job at one thing instead of a half-ass job at many things.” I think I still have a few more years before I truly learn that lesson, though.
The Best
Karla asked me, “What did you like best about her?�
And I replied, “She devoted her entire life to her work and her students. To FBLA. To JFK High School.�
She didn’t come from humble means—she grew up with money because her family had owned a lot of dairy farm land in the area, which translated into expensive Orange County real estate. I remember a story about how her father bought her a corvette for her sixteenth birthday or maybe it was her high school graduation, but she didn’t like the color, so she father got her a different one when she went to college. Although she didn’t have to work, she devoted herself to her students and chose to work every single day to be a true servant to youth and her community.
She saw my potential. She believed in me. And I only hope to live up to that potential that she saw. When I try to tell people about who she is, and why I am so affected by the passing of a teacher with a funny Dutch name, I tell them that she was to me as I am (or hope to be) to my students now. Because of her, I will always strive to motivate and inspire kids as much as she motivated and inspired me.
Someone recently told me that just because a loved one is gone that doesn’t mean you’re your relationship with that person ends. You’ll remember the things that she said to you, and that relationship will continue and will grow in a different way. I’ll end this post by sharing with you a message that I will always vividly remember from Ms. VH:
The last few weeks have been felt like a glorious whirlwind. I crossed a few time zones, befriended some beautiful souls, and reunited with friends and family (some of whom I had not seen in over nine years).
Summer 2009 will mark my third summer in training as a Rap Director, and I have been so grateful for this opportunity. Not only have I gotten a chance to connect with a team of amazing leaders from across the nation, but the training and workshops have changed my life. Training is like a playground–you know the floor is made of that soft squishy stuff, and if you fall, it’ll hurt a little bit, but your team is there to help pick you back up. I have gotten to explore and learn the language and tools to communicate and build relationships with one person or an auditorium of people, and the funny thing is that everything I needed, I already had. I just had to unravel all the junk that’s been piled up around it.
Derek, one of my trainers and mentor, reminded us of two things:
Apparently, Derek went to school with Barack Obama (Columbia), and he told us that Barack, when he was our age, was no different from us now. If he can make social change, then we can do it too.
Our power lies in our hearts.
In yoga, we talked about the second point, and they call that the “essential nature,” which I learned after taking a 4-week long yoga immersion at Yoga Tree SF (it was really empowering, btw, and I recommend it). I had always been wrestling with the whole notion of opening up my heart. After training and the yoga immersion, a big question that was answered for me was “What is the capacity of my heart?”
Yoga Teacher Dina was describing the aim of meditation and breathing, and she said it is to realize our “essential nature.” Everyone has this vessel of light within that unfolds, and we have tens of thousands of rivers of energy flowing through our bodies. And the neat part is that this vessel of light… is limitless. I felt like a fountain, yet I felt re-energized as energy was flowing out. It was a completely new feeling. The revelation was deep.
Leading up to Rap Director Training in Chicago a couple of weeks back, I set a a couple of powerful intentions, which have since been coming into play on many different levels in my life:
I want to learn how to empathize rather than demonize with people who have seemingly differing or completely opposite views from my own.
I want to learn how to give love without expecting it in return.
I think an update on how these intentions have been playing out would be too exhaustive at this hour of night, but let’s just say they are a work in progress. In the meantime, check out the pictures from my 10-day trip from California to DC to Chicago after the jump:
March 6, 2009 marked the seven year anniversary of a life-changing accident that forever altered the course of my life and I’m sure several others’. To celebrate my Rebirthday this year, I’m taking a multi-city trip first to Santa Rosa for our chorus retreat, then to Washington, DC to visit Karla and friends, and then to Chicago (where I am now) for College Summit Rap Director Training.
I wanted to share with you all a message and reminder that I got from Kristy last Friday, that includes an old email from me and an old post from Ryan about our paths and processes. Happy Reading.
With love,
Rey
hey guys,
today is our anniversary. our “re-birthday”, as rey calls it. i did some research, and found an old email from rey i wanted to share, as well as a blog post from ryan. i’m not the best writer, so i’ll let their words do the talking. i know that facebook can often be quite impersonal, but it’s been one of the best ways i know to keep in touch. i hope this email, today, finds you well and happy.
love,
kristy
email from rey, 2004: Remember two years ago?
Everyday, the scars on my face, chest and legs remind of a rainy March 6, 2002. There’s no longer any pain, other than the occasional ache, but if the body is able to feel the opposite of pain, that’s what I feel—I guess you can call it love.
These scars are devoid of pain and are instead filled with the love that I felt two years ago—and the love I continue to feel today. Whether it’s philos—the love between friends and family—or eros—the love between lovers—I still am holding on to the love you gave me, not for sentimental or nostalgic reasons, but because it reminds me everyday of what is important in life.
We almost died two years ago. Let’s not euphemize the situation—we almost died. But thanks to the grace of God, we are alive today.
I hope you’re living your life everyday as if you are fully alive. Not like you’re almost alive or like you’re almost dead. I hope you feel worthy enough to eat the freshest strawberries, juiciest pears, and creamiest cheesecakes. I hope you feel adventurous enough to climb the highest point you can climb—whether it’s in Idyllwild, on the Eiffel Tower, or on Mt. Fuji. I hope you are caring enough to look after a friend who’s sick (or hungover) or call up an old friend or family member for the sole reason of saying “Hello.� I hope you’re generous enough to feed someone who’s hungrier than you or to realize that there are people who are hungrier than you. I hope you feel silly enough to sing your favorite song out loud in public or make a funny face to a kid who least expects it. I hope you’re brave enough to do something different and challenging and not easy, like learning a foreign language or growing up. I hope you cry, laugh, punch a wall, hug someone, or show your emotions and your heart to someone, anyone, because letting that person into your heart is the first step to love.
I hope you feel like you deserve love—and not just any love, but the love that consumes your every muscle and bone. The love that makes you feel like you’re gliding in air. The love that fills up your lungs and when you’ve breathed in too much of it, you feel suffocated and fulfilled at the same time because of the intensity of it. You deserve love and happiness. As my good friend Cindy once told me, “You need to be ridiculously happy.� And if you’re not, ask yourself, “Why not?� And then change it. You deserve it. You deserve love.
So this is my present to you all on our so-called “Re-Birthday.� Take from it what you will, and, above all, take it as my love for you. Thanks for reading and God bless.
Tomorrow, February 11, at 3 pm I’ll be heading to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services office to “appear for an interview on [my] Application for Naturalization” (aka take my test for American citizenship).
I can’t exactly put to words how I feel about this impending moment. Imagine patiently (and sometimes impatiently) waiting, wishing, wanting, praying for something to happen for 19 years.
Nineteen years I’ve waited for this moment.
Even though the test itself is going to be cake, I can’t help but feel this overwhelming sense of anxiousness, nervousness, sleeplessness, giddiness. I think about all of the bumps on the road that my family and I traversed to eventually lead me (to lead us) to this day, this test, this final formality, and my heart feels an overwhelming sense of desire to breathe a deep and ancient sigh of relief. Like I had been holding my breath for nineteen years, waiting for someone to pinch me and tell me that it wasn’t all a dream.
I feel eight years old again. Open, curious, excited, happy. And falling-over dizzy because I can finally see that the world is truly full of endless possibilities. There’s so much possibility and love that I can hardly take it all in.
My heart is full. Has been full for a few weeks or maybe months now (maybe even years?). I’m thankful for my beautiful family who endured the struggle, who never gave up, and who constantly teach me about the true meaning of family–now I can rightfully join you all! I’m thankful to my coaches, mentors, team, you know who you are–constantly pushing and challenging me to shine. I’m thankful for friends new and old, for walking with me and sometimes carrying me when all I wanted to do was slap you away.
When I walk into that sterile government office tomorrow, I’ll be bringing you all with me in my heart, mind, and soul, because you’ve always been with me.
Here’s to releasing, nay, exhaling the last 19 years and starting a brand new chapter–a chapter from an eight year-old boy’s dream, from a mother’s wish, and from a father’s determination.
“Pass me the screws,” my dad said with a power drill in his right hand and a beautifully crafted overhead kitchen cabinet propped up against his left shoulder. I picked up a few screws from the tool bucket on the ground, handed them to my dad, and helped him shoulder the burden of the heavy wooden cabinet. Generally the heavier the cabinet, the better quality it is, and this cabinet was top-of-the-line. The tough edge of the front of the cabinet dug roughly into my thirteen-year-old shoulder, and I pushed it up as hard as I could with my little hands.
So this week is all about spending quality time with all of the family, and of course, the whole reason why we’re all here is Michael’s wedding to Charmie on Saturday. And then just like that, I’ll be whisked away to the US on Sunday and back to work at BUILD after a three-month sabbatical on Monday! Excited about getting back to my home and work, but not looking forward to leaving this beautiful place. Check out the pics below. 
Tomorrow, February 11, at 3 pm I’ll be heading to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services office to “appear for an interview on [my] Application for Naturalization” (aka take my test for American citizenship).