10 Lessons from a Navy Seal

This came up in my Facebook feed today, and I watched it twice. I've seen it before, but like many things, words, songs, movies, advice...everything can sound different at different points in your life.

Aside from the last three words in this video, I could watch this ad nauseam. It truly is worth watching in its entirety. At least to me, but then again, I clicked on the link because an admiral was pictured, not because it said UT Austin.

Here is a Table of Contents, if you will, of the lessons the admiral shares. Please note that the titles listed below are of my own creation/annotation (and are for my own future reference):

• 1:24 Make decisions, or The Butterfly Effect
• 4:40 Make your bed, or Tasks and Goals
• 6:14 The boat crews, or Find Your Teammates
• 7:20 It's about heart, or Size Doesn't Matter
• 8:38 Uniform Inspections, or The Struggle of Perfectionists
• 10:06 Learn from everything, or Own the Circus
• 11:30 Dive head first, or Fly Outside the Box
• 12:50 Don't back down, or Shark Punching
• 14:00 Keep your cool, or Calmness in Calamity
• 15:38 Don't lose hope, or Singing while Sinking
• 17:50 Don't quit, or You Can't Un-Ring a Bell

#BoomerSooner

Facebook is like a brother to me

Facebook, you're a funny thing.

And not in a funny, humorous, "Am I a clown, do I amuse you?" kind of way, but in a fickle friend, somebody-please-give-me-a-warning-if-you're-having-a-bad-day way.

Blogging and tweeting are similar, but not in as personal a way as Facebook is.

For example, a couple years ago I remember talking to my friend about how we love Taco Bell so much and how if we were a Taco Bell menu item we would be _________.

This spurred a Facebook status post asking "If you were a Taco Bell menu item, what would you be?"

I'd say in about two hours there were 50+ comments and at least 75 likes.

BUT

When I share something about Support the Arts, or pose a question of something, dare I say, serious or (for fear of sounding condescending or snooty) intellectual, I'll maybe get three likes and people rarely comment on it to share an opinion or have a conversation about it.

Occasionally, when I see someone else's status and it pertains to something I don't agree with, or would like to learn more about, or have some opinion on in any way, I tend to keep scrolling because who likes getting into actual conversations or (the horror!) an online argument.

I totally get that, by nature, most of us are non-confrontational, but does that mean we can't have conversations through our laptops and smart phones? I know that having a round table discussion about marriage equality, abortion, vaccines, immigration, politics, or whatever can be intense for many people because of volume, interruptions, eye contact, body temperature...whatever physiological reactions may occur, but online you're safe behind your computer wherever you're typing. No one can interrupt you, and you have as much time as you need to think things out, present them rationally, and breathe through whatever nervousness you have.

I guess what I really mean is...

Why have we drifted so far away from actually talking to each other? And why have Like buttons and Shares claimed plots in our land of communication skills?

And why has social media become such a factor in sharing feelings, asking questions, relationships, jobs, and essentially every aspect in life whether it's interpersonal, individual, happy or sad, joyous or sadness?

Why is it so simple for friends/followers to Like, Share, RT or double tap for like anything devoid of emotional response or critical thinking, but when there's an actual discussion that could be had where questions could be asked, viewpoints can be shared, and knowledge can be exchanged, we clear the road like a wild west duel at high noon?

Maybe this is more a question for Facebook programmers' algorithms for News Feed sharing. How do you decide what's important to share in my friends' feeds? Is anything relating to food, sports, or pop culture highlighted? Is it based on #NowTrending topics? Or is there a filter that actually hides posts with emotional/inquisitive words like "feel" or "help" or "why?"

Facebook, you're like a brother to me.

But in the way that I know "brother" as I was raised and not as I learned to use the word brother as in "my brothers were in my wedding party" or "I served aboard a submarine with my brothers".

You're like the older kid that lives in the house with me but doesn't really talk to me. You're that guy that is  used as a model for excellence for when I screw up, and as someone who takes credit for when I succeed. I share with you in hopes of conversation, but all you really want to know is what I had for lunch, how many games of Words With Friends I'm playing, and how many other social media apps you can follow me on.

You don't really care that I have a job, as long as you know I have one. Nor do you really care what's on my mind, how I'm feeling, what I'm watching, eating, reading, listening to, or what. You don't what to know why anything is going on, but more so just what.

Or maybe this is really about people I think I connect with on Facebook.

So I'm taking back control of my life online as I am taking back control of my life in the sunlight with my feet on the ground and the warmth on my face. I'm not worried about Likes or Shares or updating my information or if you care how many firsts, or places I've been, or relationship status, or hometown, whatever.

I'm calling the shots. I write my own chapters. I ask my own questions. But if you really care what Taco Bell item I am, then ask someone else. I'm a Sonic Chicago dog with cheese tots and a strawberry limeade. I'm a fresh funnel cake with powdered sugar on top--straight up classic no frills. I'm a chocolate Frosty with fries on a summer day while you sit on the curb with sweat dripping down your calf from the back of your knee.

And yeah, if you care, I love my job as a Service and Training Manager at Old Navy. My hometown is TBD because home is home wherever it is. But I was raised in Oakland and Antioch, California. I don't specify that as my singular hometown, though. The LBC is also my home. As is VB back east. And does it really matter if I select Separated, Single, or Divorced? Because anyone that really wants to know could probably have a better conversation with me than your drop down menu.

My life is my life and sometimes I'm more raw and open about it than some people are ready for.

But the cool thing about social media--whether it's a blog like this, or a tweet, or a Facebook status--is that it's like leaving a postcard on the floor of a club. Most people will probably step on it or over it, but every once in a while, something will catch someone's eye and they may read it.  Someone may even pick it up and share it with someone.

Whatever happens to it, I got it out in the open, and for me, that makes it more real. That puts my thoughts down "on paper," for public consumption, and I stand behind what I say. That's really me. And as much as I don't fulfill the stereotype for musical-loving theatre geek...

Take me or leave me.

PBDC Day 27/31: Something I Made

Orange marmalade. Soy butter. Wheat bread. I took a picture of this not yet assembled sandwich this morning when I made it in case I didn't find anything better to take a picture of for the day.

And then this happened.

Duolingo, I know you're just using words I've already learned, but damn, this hit a major chord in a minor key. In the direct (and possibly most generally interpreted) manner, this sentence says that said soldier has no immediate family. Immediate family to mean nuclear family, parents and/or siblings. Or if they have their own family, a spouse, pets, and/or children. In that case, it's a heartfelt tug for the soldier who is "alone" with no one to write to, get letters from, or greet him/her at the airport or pier upon their return.

But once become a soldier, sailor, airman, reservist, member of the National Guard, Coastie, whatever you may call it, you are part of a family. Perhaps it becomes your second family. Your family away from home. Or even the only family you have. In any case, the soldier serves with brothers and sisters in arms, to protect the flag and everything the stars and bars represent.

And whether you believe in the military, the wars soldiers are sent to, or "stories" you may hear (but veterans and active duty can call experiences and simply "their life") are real things that they go through with, alongside, and in no way without their enlisted and commissioned family.

Just like "home" can be a feeling, "family" is as close, extended, expansive, and diverse as you make it.

That being said, Duolingo presented me with a gruesome pebble of a lie that snuck into my boot right before my division left the compartment to do drills on the grinder. It was that last pallet of supplies on the pier that left me with a splinter in the palm of my hand as I tossed it on top of the others before we untied and sailed off. It was that one local that had way more than any of us in the bar did that night that bumped into me and spilled the "one for the road" shot just before we piled into the duty van to head back to the boat that final night in port.

And so, I really didn't get to truly satisfy the prompt of the day until now. My writing a blog about the picture for Something I Made was somewhat of a prophecy or prediction. But now that I'm here at the end of this post, I can now present something I made.

PBDC Day 3/31: My Name Is

Initial reaction: Roots. And I don't mean The Roots like on The Tonight Show. If you don't get know the reference, watch this clip.

Next up? Marshall Mathers.

(If you didn't get either reference, I applaud the degree of hermitic lifestyle, because you're still reading a blog on the internet yet you can't identify a pair of rather considerable pop culture references.)

Even after a month of taking daily photos, there are still photos that are point blank with little artistic composition (at least to myself).

Yep, that's my name as presented for public consumption every day I go to work. All of our name tags are typed in all capital letters, and that's A-OK with me because it alleviates any confusion.

Usually, when I introduce myself to people, I give them one of two taglines.

• Marlon, like Marlon Brando without the Brando.
• Marlon, like Nemo's dad from Finding Nemo.

I know that the latter is technically "Marlin" (ooh, like the sport fish!) but when it comes to pronunciation, it works just as well.

Around 2005, I was at a Starbucks in northern California, and after placing my order the young girl behind the register asked for my name.

Cashier: And your name?
Me: Marlon.
Cashier: What?
Me: Marlon. Like Marlon Brando without the Brando.
Cashier: Who?
Me: Marlon Brando. The Godfather? Streetcar?
Cashier: *blank stare* Uh, no.
Me: So, Marlon, like Nemo's dad in Finding Nemo.
Cashier: Finding What?
Barista: Finding Nemo. P. Sherrrrman 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney. Do you live under a rock?
Me: *deep breath* Marlon. M-A-R-L-O-N.

Obviously, had I just spelled my name out in the beginning, there would be no shameful expose of her lack of both a current pop culture reference and an homage to one of the greats. But I attribute my apparent whirling dervish of trivial pursuit to my shock that I was 0 for 2 in my references that, to this day, is the only instance in which neither option helped to clarify.

Most Marlons I've met have been Hispanic or Black. I've met one other Filipino Marlon, and one white Marlan. Yes, MarlAn. And he was the only Marlan I've ever met.

Occasionally, what starts as me saying "Marlon" at the register morphs into "Marlen" or even further than the original, "Marlene," to which I receive sideways glances when someone who is not a female as they anticipated walks up to the pick up counter.

Other times, What was scribbled as "Marlon" is read as "Marion," and the same confused glances are shot out. I did meet one Marion who is a guy, but he wasn't fond of his first name because he thought it was too feminine, so he went be his middle name, Lynn. True story.

My middle name has provided an additional layer of administrative awkwardness.

Until about junior high, I understood middle names to be the place for the mother's maiden name. After all, that was the structure of my name as I learned it.

Marlon de La Cruz de Leon.

"de La Cruz" was from my mother's side and "de Leon" from my fathers. (For more on the "de Leon," see February's Day 20/28: The Written Word.) Not surprisingly, when I enlisted, and I mean literally as I was enlisting aka filling out and signing all the paperwork at MEPS, I learned the true story of my middle name.

I didn't have one.

All of my papers I had signed with the full three-segment name from a few lines up. When they asked to see my Driver's License, I admitted I didn't have one. So they asked for my Social Security card, which only listed a middle initial of "D." When turning to my birth certificate for corroboration of "D." as the middle's place holder, we were faced with blank. Literally. There is no listed middle name on my birth certificate.

At that moment, I finally learned my official, legal name.

MARLON D. DE LEON

As the aforementioned Day 20 post outlines, my last name has evolved into "Deleon," but the "D." has held fast.

A few Google searches revealed that there are plenty of "Marlon Deleons" in the world, but I'm the only one consistently listed as "Marlon D. Deleon," so I hold onto it very tightly.

And so the issue of the Dee Period rears its head. Similar to Hiram Ulysses Grant, or as you may recognize it, Ulysses S. Grant, the middle initial is a floater. In Grant's case, the "S" was ill-placed by another gentleman, but then played it off saying it stood for his mother's maiden name (that sounds familiar...). As for myself, I've considered a few options

1. Righting the traditional omission and making my middle name Delacruz.
2. Leaving it as "D."
3. Picking a brand new middle name for myself that begins with the letter "D".

The third is my favorite option, and having a theatrical background and personality, I thought of one candidate that would be a wonderful conversation starter.

Danger.

Listed at the top of my resume, Marlon Danger Deleon, to which I would honestly reply, "Yes, 'Danger' is my middle name."

In response to the well-known Shakesperean question, "What's in a name?" I give you this post. But before I sign off, I will share the story behind my being named "Marlon", of which I only learned in the last ten years.

My mother's name is Maria Elena. To many she became Marilyn. And if you say it fast enough (try it with a Filipino accent) and masculinize it, it becomes...Marlon.

For a while it was nice to think that I may have been named after the great actor Marlon Brando, and sometimes it still does put a smile on my face to find a thin connection with such an icon, but learning the truth behind those six letters together drove another stake into the metaphorical plot of land I know as my life.

It's fun to realize how much I can actually say about my name. I don't think it to be conceited or narcissistic, but just generally interesting. And to think that my name is an anagram for "normal"...

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 20/28: The Written Word

"I don't have a bible in my apartment." That was my thought when I read the prompt for today. And then I told my Catholic guilt to pack it up and kick rocks. A three-word prompt of "the written word" can certainly be interpreted as a suggestion for religious text, but that's the thing, it can be interpreted as such.

Yes, I acknowledge that there is a distinct difference between "written" and "printed," but this execution of artistic license fits right in with my point. If you haven't noticed, the label on the container is read "Lavender hand soap," and the contents are a neon pink.

"So they reused the container and bought different soap."

Excellent deduction, my dear Watson. Bloody good job.

Words are wonderful things. I have a few tattooed on my body (yes, implying more than one), and if you had not heard already, you can visit the latest one in the post from Day 9: Under.

Within these words, are letters (at least, in English and a few others, but I'm not a linguist so I won't get into a discussion about characters and glyphs and the like). And these letters can be interpreted and molded to a degree as well.

The URL for this blog is dailyownx4.blogspot.com, and I'll let you in on a little secret. The first cluster of letters, "dailyownx4" can help you remember how to pronounce my last name--Deleon.

Daily-like daily newspaper, daily vitamins, daily workout.
Own-as in I own this town, you just got owned, and Jane and John own a house.

The "x4" was added since "dailyown" was unavailable when I registered for my Gmail account, and it's a reference to the different disciplines I've been privileged enough to train in: acting, directing, music, and singing. Those were the four I thought of at first. I occasionally change it up depending on how I'm feeling about a particular skill set, bundling acting/directing into one label of "theatre" and adding "dancing" into the mix. In more recent past, "writer" has replaced "dancer," but the concept still applies.

Fun fact: One of my recruiters shared a story with me about how the number four is the most important number in the world, and since I have yet to find it refuted in the last 15 years, I'm sticking with it. We can chat about this at a later time.

But yes, I read dailyownx4 as "Deleon times four."

That being said, I want to address my given name, Deleon. I've seen it written a few different ways, a couple of which I have used myself.

• de Leon
• De Leon
• deLeon
• DeLeon

I've been informed by my elders that the traditional form of "de Leon" is the preferred form. I don't mean any disrespect to the de Leon line by my letter regrouping resulting in "Deleon." I have a perfectly good reason of why I've interpreted it this way (there's that "i" word again...)

When I enlisted in the Navy, my paperwork listed my name in all caps as MARLON DE LEON. I don't have a legal middle name, but I can get to that later. That being said, quite a bit of my papers had been lost early on in my in-processing to basic training, and eventually we had discovered the issue. Someone had thought that "DE" was my middle name, and that my last name was "LEON," so they filed my paperwork under "L" instead of "D" as I had informed the petty officer at the desk (who, of course, was not pleased with my "failure to recognize" my own name and was then holding up the process).

On our uniforms, last names are embroidered on each piece, in all caps, without spaces, labeling me "DELEON."

I used to sign my name "de Leon," but having written my name altogether (aka without the space) for several years, and only capitalizing the "D" with it at the head of my surname, I molded it into what it is today--Deleon.

Every once in a while, someone will write/type my name with a space in it, or automatically go for the lowercase "d" and uppercase "L," but if I have the opportunity to edit how it appears, I go with my preference.

So there's a little trivia about me. I'll share the story of my middle name at another time, but I'm seriously considering making "Danger" my middle name,

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 17/28: On My Mind

Facebook, you never cease to amaze me. It's like  you know I'm doing this Photo and Blog a Day Challenge. Oh, wait. If you can tell when people are about to get in a relationship, and you share all my posts for me, you definitely do know.

 But do you really want to know what's on my mind? And even if you do, does everyone else? That's the interesting thing about social media, it allows us to stay "connected" but it simultaneously enables us to remain distant. Status posts let us know what's going on in our Facebook friends' lives without actually interacting with them. Twitter lets us toss 140 character post it notes on a perpetual conveyer belt for anyone to look at at any time. Instagram gives us the ability to share things we see, or want others to see. Blogs, like my own, gives writers a plot of land in the electronic fields to sow our own creative seeds.

And when is the last time someone asked you that question? The answer is, probably the last time you greeted someone. At work, at school, in a restaurant, it happens all the time. We just brush it off though.

A: How's it going?

B: Fine. You?

A: Good.

And we've moved on.

How about this situation? Have you pictured this? Because I have. Several times.

A: How's it going?

B: Sucks. I don't know what I'm doing. I like my classes, but I'm scared about what kind of job to even look for when I graduate. I'm kind of looking for jobs now, but I've been spending more time going out and trying to get drunk and laid to distract me from my frustration with my Philosophy teacher who is boring as hell.

A: (eyes wide, jaw-dropped)


B: And then my mom calls me to tell me I never call her, and that dad works all the time because he's trying to pay for my loans that are paying for the education that I don't know what I'm going to do with. Are you hungry? I really want pizza, but I'm too busy trying not to get fat.

A: OKAY STOP! I DIDN'T REALLY WANT TO KNOW.

So why do we ask? Why do you say what you say? Do you care how they're doing when you ask? Would you even know how to listen?

What's interesting is that people are probably more honest with their Facebook statuses than they are with people they see every day. Maybe you aren't. But maybe you spend more time talking to your bartender, co-worker, or sister more than you do your husband, mother, or manager. Are you speaking up for yourself? Do you listen to others when they need an ear?

I'm not throwing the first stone. But I will offer two ears (or eyes if you want to email/text/chat me) if you need it. That's what I think of whenever there is news of a suicide, or an quiet death alone (accidental or natural). Were they just so alone that they checked out? Did they ask for help, but no one answered because they thought they had it all already?

Asking for help is really difficult. Almost as difficult as saying "no." (Or vice versa, we're all different.) One thing I've noticed is that most people do ask for help-just not in the form of a question. Yes, there are signs. For everything. Positive and negative. But are you listening? Are you seeing?

That's what's on my mind, Facebook. And I'm about to answer your question by sharing this blog in my status. But I guess by the time you read this, I already have. I think I just caused a glitch in the matrix.

What's on your mind? What's in your wallet? (Don't sue me Capital One.)

Snowmance

“How can you not get romantic about baseball?”

–Brad Pitt as Billy Beane in Moneyball.

That’s the voice I heard in my head as I drove home from work today. In a light snow, well after the sun has set, I thought, “How can you not be romantic about winter?”

Don’t get me wrong, I miss my California family, and I’m excited as all hell to see them for Christmas, but the more I think about it, the more I’m not really looking forward to the warmer weather.

Call me crazy, and many of you already do when it comes to this, but the lack of four seasons where I’ve lived on the west coast isn’t my preferred weather cycle.

Yes, I love 70 degree weather and the days like April 25^th where all you need is a light jacket (don’t judge, it was on tv yesterday and my wife was watching it), but this past year, seeing the seasons actually change here in one of Jason’s “flyover states,” I miss having four seasons even more than I thought I would when I left Virginia to come back to California years ago.

Tonight, as I drove home, and also when I admired the fresh powder on the grass walking up to the door, I realized why I love snow in the winter so much—it has been a part of a few winters along the path of growing up.

In the winter after boot camp, I was still in Illinois for a couple months before transferring to South Carolina. For this California kid’s first winter in the Navy, the snow from the Great Lakes piled higher than waist level around base.

On a North Atlantic deployment with The Mighty Rickover, this time twelve years ago I was in Norway. Yeah, it was cold. Definitely the coldest place I’ve ever been in my life, but damn was it gorgeous. Taking the tram up the mountain and seeing the fjords as snow drifted down from the heavens is something I’ll never forget. Walking through the plazas past decorated buildings, snow filling the cracks of cobblestone walkways. Truly breathtaking. Standing outside the club eating pizza from a place nearby because we felt like a food break between shots and dancing.

A couple of weeks in Maryland, working at Aberdeen Proving Ground and getting a taste of Baltimore.

My last winter in Virginia Beach, playing in the park during the day and driving around in my truck at night to see the Christmas lights.

And now this winter, living with my wife, driving home from my one, full-time job to spend time with my wife in our toasty, little apartment with our mild-mannered Christmas tree and a couple of dorm-lifestyle chairs.

Eventually the winters will be spent in California again, and when they are, I’m sure we’ll enjoy our time with our family and friends who are much closer geographically than they are now. But at some point, I’ll think back to the snow. The places where jackets are actually needed for warmth and snowball fights and snow angels aren’t just pipe dreams.

Because, how can you not be romantic about a white Christmas?

A cave on the beach

 Being scared of putting yourself out there isn’t a new concept to most people. Whether it’s romantically, professionally, or socially, among relatives, classmates, coworkers, or strangers, taking a step forward is difficult for everyone at some point. Here’s a visualization I created for myself when explaining to others what I’m feeling.

I’m standing at the mouth of a cave on a fairly deep beach (deep as in distance from waterline to said cave, as opposed to wide as in distance running along the water). Enjoying my time on the beach is where I want to be, not necessarily at the waterline the whole time, but out of the dim, musty cave that I’m currently standing in. I take a couple steps out and feel the breeze across my toes, but as I get farther into the beach, the sand gets a little too hot and I retreat back to my cave.

Unbeknownst to me at that moment, I’ve entered the cave a few feet in from where I started. The cold sand feels good on my feet, and although I can see the light on the sand, it’s comfortable to sit in the cave that whistles to me while it holds me.

After a bit I gather a bit of courage and take some bold steps onto the sand, exiting the cave on my own willpower and desire to be on the warm beach. The warmth feels good on my back. The sun rejuvenates my love for the beach that I knew I wanted to be on. Life is good.

Taking a few more steps towards the water, the calm crashes of the waves shows me a serenity that I did not know was there. The sand beneath my feet, the breeze rushing through my hair, the warm sun on my face, and the rushing symphony of the crashing waves fills me with energy and passion that I knew I wanted in some form but did not know how to harness.

Until a wave knocks me on my back and the seemingly calm water has now taken my over and dragged me chest deep with my toes barely touching.

I panic, become disoriented, and with eyes closed and erratic breaths, find the sand with my feet and hands and crawl back up to the waterline, shaking the water out of my ears, wiping my face, and spitting the salty ambush from my mouth as I run back towards the cave.

I stop running when it gets dark and the water still dripping down my body is starting to make me cold in the dim rock shelter so I collapse to my knees and hug myself to keep warm.

My breath stabilizes and I can’t distinguish between tears and ocean, but I bury my face in my hands atop my knees and sit in silence in the cave that I did not know was this deep.

I feel like I’m being punished for my bold steps onto the warm sand. Distracted by the elation of the symphony of peace, I let my guard down and trusted the world. For a brief moment I forgot my fear of drowning and total disorientation, and in that seemingly perfect moment I lost myself. When I finally gathered myself I ran as fast as I could on solid ground until I knew I was safely away from the grip of the rushing waves.

And just like life, the cycle continues, the desire for the beach keeps me coming out, and whenever I am beaten by the waves, sunburn, or sand in my eyes (all things I know are possibilities of being on the beach) I retreat further back into the cave. Sometimes I run so far back that the outside is but a tiny pinpoint of light. Occasionally, someone comes into the cave with a torch to show me the way out. But the more they approach, the more I recoil. If I trust them enough I may come forward to join them. Depending on what I see up ahead, I may come barreling forward knowing that whatever is motivating me is worth the risk of being knocked on my back by the waves.

There have been times when I stand at the waterline with a friend. There have been other times when I’ve shut my eyes in the cave and stayed there until I’m too cold, and I’m forced to come out onto the sand just to stay alive, but I don’t step too far out, and the light is painful to my eyes that have adjusted to the darkness.

Obviously, this visualization is perfect for me since I love the beach, the sun, and can’t swim. For you, your beach may be a forest. Or your cave may be the ocean as you look for trees and land. Wherever you end up, you make the decision to step towards the light or retreat further back into your cave. Sometimes you run forward, and sometimes you crawl back. Maybe what you think is the sun glimmering into your dark prison is someone’s smile, and that’s all you need to open your eyes. I can’t answer that for you. All I can do is decide how far out onto the beach my feet take me, and if I get knocked down, I can rinse off in the water, and curl up at the mouth of my cave when high tide comes in to rest—until the next day when I step out onto the sand again.

Routes about Roots-Beer beats pudding

http://www.unc.edu/~tammyj/Viscosity.htm

Blood is thicker than water. I mean really, in scientific terms, blood is in fact thicker than water.

As far as the saying goes, well, sayings are about quips and concise wit. This one in particular, is exactly that for me—just a saying.

In typing the last two entries (Cycling and Negative Instructions, one specific word continued to stand my hairs on end as I typed it—biological. I use the qualifier at length because that’s how I feel about said connection (read: “not a relationship”). Biological…father, mother, brother, sister, sibling, what have you.

Internationally speaking, family is something that has been cherished for centuries. Wars have been waged and vendettas have been vowed. Tribes, villages, colonies, empires, the list goes on, and because of this innate cultural gravity, I feel like what I’m about to say in this blog is as blasphemous as any God-fearing soul can imagine.

I respect my elders. I acknowledge the past, and I learn as much as I can moving forward. I know it’s a privilege to drink clean water and have a warm bed under a roof. I get that any self-respecting parent would want the best for their child.

But what I refuse to hand over is an entitlement of blind respect, unquestioning submission, and an attitude to bend over and bow down to selfish cowards.

I do not have to respect someone that blames, blackmails, lies, and alienates. I do not have to love someone who manipulates trust and uses immature tactics. And I definitely do not have to deal with someone who does not listen.

It’s a rough moment when you realize that someone you thought was strong, rational, mature, and above all else, a friend, turns out to be a conniving coward who can’t answer simple, straight-forward questions or communicate without feeding a chemical dependency first.

I don’t feel bad them, nor do I pity them. I don’t waste my time trying to reach out or do anything else for them. I focus on my safety and health and realize that I now know the true meaning of disappointment.

I feel bad for my friend who has never met his father, for my friend who doesn’t know she’s adopted, for my friend who’s afraid to get married because they don’t know how a marriage is supposed to work. I feel bad that I can harbor these types of feelings for a figure that someone I care about only wants to have in their life.

But that’s just it. These biologicals? They’re figures. These genetic roommates? They just happen to have the same set of sperm and egg donors as you do. That doesn’t make you an emotional family. It makes you a statistic, and it gives you a template that you can decide to follow or not.

You can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends…

So choose your family to be your friends,

or choose your friends to become your family.

The latter is the choice I’ve made, and it’s a decision that’s often difficult to defend because so many people choose the former and feel it’s the only way.

NOTHING IS EVER THE ONLY WAY.

My biological older brother got married a few years ago, and because I acknowledged we were never that close, I did not assume (nor ask to be) in his wedding. My mother already assumed I would be, and I came to find out he thought the same. If he wanted to, sure, but I just wanted him to ask me like any grown man would ask anyone he would want in his wedding. By the way it was handled, you’d think George McFly was asking Biff to borrow his truck.

When I got engaged a couple years later, my mother assumed both my biological siblings (there is a younger sister as well) would be in the wedding, and she was disappointed to hear that I requested neither of them.

However, I did have my brothers and sisters in the wedding, and those that weren’t standing up there with me were probably in the seats and hung around for the whole reception.

Yeah, my side of the wedding party looked more mixed up than Peter Klaven’s in I Love You, Man, but dammit, my family was in my wedding.

My kids will have cool uncles, aunts, and cousins, and that’s because all the parents will get along too. Not because we’re supposed to because of some invisible-to-the-naked-eye double-helix structure, but because we want to.

Blood may be thicker than water, but water’s in beer and what does blood make, pudding? I’ll take beer over pudding most days.

Routes about Roots-Cycling

Last week I found out via Facebook post that one of my uncles had passed. The last time I saw him was…over 20 years ago, but I still felt it. I wanted to reach out to my two cousins who just lost their father, but at the same time I felt grossly awkward for wanting to feel so close after being so far for so many years.

A couple months ago, I received an email invitation to a wedding for a cousin I have never actually met. I’ve met her sister (for the first time just two years ago), but not her. I appreciated the gesture of inviting my wife and I, and I felt guilty for not inviting them to my wedding just this past January.

When I was seven, I think, I went to New York with my parents and older brother and we stayed at my (mother’s side) uncle’s place. Aside from him being “really tall” (because who isn’t when you’re a seven year old Filipino?) I don’t remember much else. Not if he had a wife, children, or anything.

1. As a child, I only saw my cousins, aunts, and uncles of our parents coordinated it.

2. My parents’ relationships with their siblings affected my relationships with my cousins, aunts, and uncles.

3. Now that I’m older I’m able to contact my cousins, aunts, and uncles on my own.

4. It’s awkward, but (compared to before) it’s better than nothing. (Or is it?)

5. I have a one year-old biological nephew, which means I have the opportunity to be a cool uncle.

6. My (non-existent) relationship with my biological brother affects my (non-existent) relationship with my nephew.

7. As my wife and I have kids, my decision to not communicate with my biological siblings affects their knowledge/relationship with their biological uncle/aunt/cousins.

8. They will have chosen uncles/aunts/cousins with my chosen family.

9. As our children get older, they may want to reach out to their cousins, aunts, and uncles.

10. It may be awkward.

History does repeat itself, and although the reasons may be different, the result is the same. This feeling does not sit well with me.

My goal as a husband (and eventually, as a father) is for the health, safety, well-being of my family. Right now this is centralized on my wife and myself. My decision to maintain a safe distance from my biological siblings and parents has been made clear. As kids come into the picture, there are new relationships that must be acknowledged: uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents.

There may be some blood-related folks out there that I do not wish to have involved in my child’s life.

I don’t make a lot of wishes, but I wish it could be less complicated.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Art.  Arthur Edward Ponce 6/25/54-10/1/13

--Art will never die, and without it there is no heart or earth.

Routes about Roots-Negative Instructions

In an open confession with my Youth Pastor before my Confirmation, I shared with him that a lot of my troubles had to deal with my parents. He then said to me something that we all know, but am definitely glad he said—when kids are born they don’t come with instructions.

We all know that this is true, but to some extent, growing up with whomever we’re raised by, we just kind of slide into the understanding that they’re supposed to know what to do, and we maybe think they’re a little bit invincible in the fact that they’re supposed to protect us.

In the last year, I learned just how human my biological parents are, and as I’m newly-married and thinking about raising a family in the (relatively) near future, raising kids without instructions is something I think about quite often.

I was raised in nuclear family: father worked, stay-at-home mother, older brother, younger sister. Throughout grade school it was rare (for me) to know someone that didn’t live with both of their parents, and I definitely didn’t know any openly gay couples, or people for that matter. From an early age I wanted to get married and have a family of my own, and it just felt natural that I would feel that way.

After high school, while in the Navy, and even more so after I got out, moved back to California and started in community college, I met so many people who were felt strongly about “never” getting married or having children. Many of these opinions were followed up with a statement of how they didn’t have a good example growing up of a good marriage or healthy childhoods, so they didn’t feel comfortable going into a marriage or raising kids, let alone even entertaining the thought.

Who did have an excellent/perfect/normal childhood or have indestructible/flawless parents, though?

Exactly.

And even though I realized this at a fairly young age, the more I thought about my life growing up, the more I realized I had a clear blueprint of how not to raise children. Bad times and scary stories stick with us more vividly than good times, right? Well, after so many you start to think that you just don’t want to deal with it, but I flipped it and realized I had the perfect template of what not to do.

Now that I’m married, I’ve started reflecting on aspects of marriage, and I’ve found it to be just as helpful, I know that there are certain things I don’t want to do in a marriage.

About a week ago, I wrote this blog (click me!) and talked about how I caught myself early emulating a life that I observed growing up. How did I refocus myself for I really wanted? By recognizing what I did not want.

My wife and I do want to have kids, and I know there won’t be instructions on the placenta, but I have, in effect, written my own instructions by living my life and listening to my past. How that turns out, I’ll have to let you know in a few years.

Until then, I need to figure out how I’m going to branch off this family tree stuff into the local weather—leaves of different trees strewn about the yard.

Roots- A Prologue

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“In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” –Benjamin Franklin

See also: “Blood is thicker than water.”

There’s a blog I’ve been wanting to write for a while, but it’s been spinning around in my head (and snowballing) for multiple reasons:

Honor.

Shame.

Privacy.

Respect.

Honesty.

Emotion.

Clarity.

Asian-culture.

American.

Perspective.

Pain.

The primary topic is rarely, if ever, considered taboo, but my reluctance to actually get this down on “paper” is suspended by my sensitivity to many people I care about and have no wish to disrespect.

I know it isn’t like me to pull any punches or veer away from any topics that may seem off-color, but this one particular one is rooted so deeply in so many of us that it may just be too far for some.

My views on this specific concept has evolved drastically over the last three decades, and I can confidently say that I am in the minority opinion. This doesn’t surprise me, because with as unique a path as I’ve carved for myself (in regards to those I am close to), different opinions are often products of different environments.

The topic?

Family.

Pa-Hoe-Nicks

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”

--Theodore Roosevelt, 26^th President of the United States (and one of the competitors in Washington Nationals’ home games races)

Whether it was running around the gym during pep rallies to distract the crowd in high school while technical difficulties were happening behind the scenes, or bouncing between coasts while in the Navy (and still afterwards), or finding myself in a myriad of part-time jobs from pizza delivery guy, teacher’s aide, karaoke DJ, or barista, I’ve tried to keep in mind the aforementioned words of the original Rough Rider (sorry, DMX).

In light of recent events—more specifically, graduating from college, getting married, and the implosion of my immediate family (term used very loosely)—I have realized that T.R.’s famous words, like many things, are better served in moderation.

For those of you I’ve spent more than five minutes around, there may be a chance you’d agree with me when I say I’m a positive person. I like to have fun wherever I am, whether it’s work, school, or play, and I attempt to find the silver lining (which, sidenote, I just read The Silver Linings Playbook last week, and good lord, I’ve never ended up in tears as I closed the back cover, but damn.) However, this “blind positivity” (as I’ll call it for now) has led me through quite an interesting journey, and well, it’s time to refocus.

A few weeks ago, in a moment of clarity amidst one of my self-inflicted 17-hour days, I asked myself, “Why are you doing this?” And well, the answer was simple, “So I can help pay the bills.” And with that, I was not pleased. Somewhere in recent past, I lost sight of a goal that truly enticed me, fueled my passion, and compromised well with reality. Among the emails of “Your Student Loan Payment is Due”, “25 New Job Openings in Your Area!”, “Enlarge your penis is six days!”, and “Enlist in the Navy Reserve Today!” I got sucked into a head-down bulldog charge of “gottamakethenextpayment.”

That is not living.

I opened my own eyes and stopped justifying why I was where I was. I weighed out some options and thought about the future. I was literally breaking myself trying to succeed at my job. There are some days when I spend more time talking to my wife on the phone when our stores call each other or when I’m behind the register at my coffee shop. I’ve been married less than a year and I already miss my wife. I’m no longer in the military, I don’t deploy for weeks at a time, and I felt that in less than ten months, I fell into a chasm of isolation that some couples live in for decades and don’t do anything about.

And I thought, “we don’t even have kids yet, and if I don’t have time for my wife now, how the hell am I going to make time for my wife AND our children in the future?” And at that exact moment everything I retained, rejected, observed, and hypothesized about the four others I lived in a house with growing up came full circle.

From the ashes, the phoenix emerges in a blaze of glory with the vigor and ferocity of a thousand suns.

The dust has officially been kicked off, the tents have been packed up, and my boots are tied tight.

After opening with such strong words, I have no choice but to end with even more poignant thoughts. These come from two younger minds that both live like champions:

“I’m gonna come at you like a spider monkey!” and “I’m all jacked up on Mountain Dew!” –Walker and Texas Ranger 

I am Mr. T.

If this isn’t your first visit to my blog, you may have noticed that my style of blog-writing is very blunt, honestly raw, and (to put it in terms of my theatre-brethren), very stream-of-consciousness. It may be hypocritical of me, but when I share a story on my personal blog (versus a professional online column like the Long Beach Acting Examiner or via website content at work), I tend to tell a story in words as I would say it aloud as if you were sitting next to me at a bar top. To me, this blog is similar to what happens when I’ve had one too many drinks and you aren’t doing anything but listening…

I’m a first-generation American, middle of three children, to a couple of folks that were born in the same country, but didn’t meet until they were both in the California. Being a first-gen kid is an interesting thing, and I’ve thought about it a lot over the last 13 years (since I moved out after high school), but with some new realizations in the last couple of weeks.

I’m getting married in a little over two months, and my wife-to-be comes from large family with many as many similarities as there are differences in comparison to my own. I’ve met members from four different generations on both sides of her family, and it’s quite an amazing thing to really take notice of. Recently, we had celebrated the birthday of one matriarch (on her father’s side), and at one point in the evening, we all gathered in one area of the house so that the parents could share stories of their father, the birthday celebrant’s late husband, so that the younger generations could learn a little more about their family history.

As interesting and engaging as many of the stories were, it was a little challenging for me as learning more about my fiancée’s family ignited the self-interrogative spark and I began thinking through my own family tree.

All four of my biological grandparents have passed, and truth be told, I never met my maternal grandfather because he never came to America and I never went there. My maternal grandmother, Mama, passed shortly after I turned eight years old, and my father’s parents passed in the first decade of this century.

Listening to the stories at that recent birthday party and looking around at the multiple generations and varying ages, with my upcoming nuptials on my mind, I can’t help but realize the magnitude of what I’m actually going to do (very excitedly, thank you very much). We want to have kids (but not right away), and as we’ve been planning our wedding, it really makes you look at your life and your friends, and as sad it is to say, forcing you to choose about who you can afford to invite. (This could be a perfect segue into why people should charge to attend their weddings instead of paying for their friends to come hang out, but that’s another story…)

I digress. First-generation American, getting married, kids. Yes, kids and passing on traditions. However, to pass on traditions there have to be traditions already in place. This is where I get tripped up. I’ve led an interesting life that has included a lot of firsts. I was a member of the one of the first-ever sixth-grade classes at Jack London Elementary (I think the time capsules we buried might still be by the flagpole, but I’ll have to look into that). I was a part of the first graduating class (yes, ever) of Deer Valley High School. (This would also make me the first mascot of DVHS, but I don’t think that’s recorded anywhere, and it was definitely before there was a wolverine suit, so it’s my word against yours, haha.) My dad did serve in the U.S. Army for a couple years before he was married, but I believe I was the first one to join the Navy. I wasn’t the first one in my family to graduate from college, but I am the first Beach Alumni (and my fiancée is also Beach Alumni, as are both her parents, and one of her brothers-in-law…).

Point being, all these firsts, thanks to the opportunities I’ve been privileged enough to grasp, are starting what could be traditions in the family that my wife-to-be and I will grow together. I don’t plan on forcing our kids into the Navy or to go to CSULB, and I definitely don’t plan on moving back to where they would go to DVHS like I did, but what I have to offer them is a very unique blend of American gumbo I’ve picked up over the years through several states.

Let’s just talk about sports. Here’s the list of where my fandom lies:

• NFL—SF 49ers
• MLB—LA Angels
• NBA—Los Angeles Clippers
• College Football—Oklahoma
• NCAA everything else (but primarily MBB and WBB)—LBSU
• NASCAR—Tony Stewart (yes, I’m calling NASCAR a sport…shut it)

And to think in a few months I’ll be living in the heart of Fighting Irish country, closer to Colts, Bears, Bulls, White Sox, and Cubbies fans…at least I already know my neighbors are NASCAR fans.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a wonderful example of carving your own path, traveling wherever the fair winds and following seas take me (Go Navy!), but now that I’m getting married, my perspective has drastically shifted and I can no longer float on the wind like a feather in Forrest Gump or like a plastic bag in American Beauty.

And this is where the oversized gold chains, mohawk, and poor fool pitying comes in—I’m the T in “tradition.” Where will our family’s traditions start? With my fiancée and I. With the ones that we share and tell them about, and you know what? Maybe they’ll change. I can’t say I’ll be a fan of all of the aforementioned teams together, I can’t promise that. Say for example, we end up having kids in Indiana and we start going to Bulls games, or Cubs game, or Colts games…those memories I could be making with my family could shift the thoughts I have now as we start our own traditions.

So yeah, I’m Mr. T in my future, and that’s no fault of anyone, that’s just how the decades and generations landed. Someone had to start somewhere, I just realized that that someone is me. I probably won’t go for the mohawk, but I may pity the poor fool who doesn’t realize that anyone could be that T in “tradition.” Don’t be that fool. Be that badass.