Lies of my Childhood

"If there's one thing I hate", my father always said, back when fatherly advice still seemed infallible, "it's liars". Now, despite internalizing the advice, I distinctly remember being a little skeptical. Out of all the things in the world one can hate; rapists, drug addicts, murders, pedophiles, or fat people, for example, my father chose liars. Of course back then, I wasn't a very good liar. But I was so friggin' cute, I reckoned, that no one would really care.

One day, I found a box of my mom's sanitary pads (it's 2010, let's get over the oppressive, societal ick towards feminine products, sil vou plait). Being 4, I of course had no idea what they were, but infomercials taught me that waxing could be completely painless (although I don't think I had grasped the fact that waxing was to remove hair: rather, I assumed it was just a thing adults did to pass the time). Being 4, I had no way of distinguishing between sanitary pads, and the pads women used for waxing. Being 4, no one could really blame me, and that's the way I choose to remember it. Needless to say, my mother was horrified to find me in the hallway, slumped over a box of pads, intently applying the white sticky things to my arms and legs.

Now had I known how to lie efficiently, I would have scapegoated my siblings. It's easy enough to use my brother in this way: he was born evil. My grandparents, with their vivid but exaggerated memories, always a recalled a time when my brother, a lanky, squeaky boy of 5, threatened to burn their entire house down. Had I said that my brother was responsible for the sanitary pads, my parents would have forgotten about my fall from grace, and beat the crap out of my brother. Like I said, though, I didn't know how to lie, and the lie I came up with went something like "ummm so I saw lizards on the walls, and I was protecting myself from them", except not in English, but a lisped Filipino, and instead of sounding like a full, practiced sentence, it sounded like lies were spewing from my mouth.

In Elementary, I wasn't much better. Inspired by public bathroom graffiti and a newfound appreciation for permanent markers, I inscribed my phone number on the school bathroom door, stating "For a good time, please call!". My 9 year old self had an inkling that "a good time" didn't mean what I thought it meant, but I wasn't willing to risk the loss of a good time. I remember being pulled aside by my miserable classroom teacher, and being interrogated right in the bathroom stall. "What is this, Jayo!?", she sternly said.
"I'm not sure...a phone number. Wow, this is naughty"

"This wasn't you?"

"No way ho-zay!"

"Even though it's your phone number?"

"I...don't think so"

"It is, we checked"

"Maybe...whoever did this, they found out my phone number and put it there"

"Ummm", said the teacher, not making a very good attempt at veiling her rage. She was one of those new age behaviorist teachers, and she didn't want to show her anger lest it be modeled onto her students. I'm not sure if it worked, but I still learned the ways of effective passive-aggression that year. She obviously didn't believe me, but she wasn't about to accuse an adorable child of a misdemeanor. Instead, she walked away and said "interesting", and that was that. I placed the sharpie that I used, which was still in my pocket, to the wall with the wall's used gum deposits, and went about my merry way. I would then go on to scam my best friend out of 75 cents, and help the ADHD kid buy some friends with paper airplanes.

I'm just a little bit eccentric

"Look everyone, it's Jayo! He's on a train track! He's so eccentric and cool!!?!"

A few years ago, I fell upon the realization that I was a little bit eccentric. It wasn't a terribly difficult realization to come to, as I was born into a world of obscurity. Subsequent changes in my life contributed to this obscurity, and by the time I reached college, there really was no turning back.

I was born three-quarters a Filipino, and a quarter Vietnamese, and spent my earliest life around extended family. This, alone, is not enough to bestow the five-year-old me with instant eccentricity. What did, however, was the fact that my name was Jayo Miko (that's two first names). My father would tell me years later that it was his undying love for rock and roll that formed my name, a personal homage to John (Lennon) and Mick (Jagger). I tried explaining this to my friends in elementary school, but they did not know who either of these people were, neither were they even capable of wrapping their minds around this word game. I've come to a point where, when people ask what my name comes from, I simply say "my parents were just creative", which suffices as a compromise.

When I was 5, my family moved to New Zealand. These days, when people hear this about my life, they're instantly puzzled, and expressively ask "New Zealand?", as if that were a stand alone remark. It was not a stand alone remark, and I give them a standard "Yeah, New Zealand" response in return. As much as there is to New Zealand as a country, I honestly have nothing to say about it. Don't get me wrong, I grew up there, and I absolute adore most things about it. When I explain these things to an outsider, however, they have a way of becoming uninteresting and dull. "Yeah, I actually went to High School surrounded by farmland", I say excitedly when someone asks about New Zealand agriculture, and they'll politely be amazed as they should be. But I know, deep inside, they're making automatic assumptions about education quality and farm animals, and will accidentally assume that I was taught on a farm.

Growing up Filipino in a New Zealand household also proved difficult. A little-known fact: Filipinos generally speak English with an American (ish) accent, regardless of which English speaking country they're in. I was thus posed with a typical Kiwi-Filipino Youth conundrum of the dual accent, and would switch between the two accents depending on the situation. When I was with my Filipino friends, or whenever I was home, I would speak in the Filipino American accent, whereas at school, I spoke in a New Zealand accent. This, of course, made mixing these worlds almost impossible. I'd bring friends home, and would manage to not speak whenever a family member was in the same room as my friend, just to maintain consistency. Needless to say, I was such a clever little child.

In High School, people caught up with this cleverness, and they would approach this accent-switching with startling defensiveness. I acknowledged the hostile response to the accent-switching, and began to internalizing that I was living a dramatic double life. One day, I just decided to arbitrarily pick one, and I began to use the American accent exclusively. There was a period in time when my friends and schoolmates would be annoyed at the change, and I'm pretty sure I actually lost friends over it. "You've changed", one said, as he turned around and walked into the sunset, while I sat on a soggy bench eating my fried rice with a plastic spoon. "Well, fuck you then", I responded to no one in particular. I took solace in the Hollywood notion that if a friend can't accept you for who you are, then they have no business being your friend. To this day, I find it remarkable that I can liken issues such as social identity with the conscious choice to speak with an accent.

It wasn't long until I realized that even the accent that I had chosen was not genuine. Nothing forces you to realize that you're not actually speaking in an American accent like actually moving to America. Americans have a natural bluntness about them when they speak, that I love. "What is that accent?", I was asked in my early months in the United States. "I'm actually from New Zealand", I'd respond, ultimately avoiding the question, as if being from New Zealand warrants the bastardizing of American culture (there is irony in this statement). It was these early months in America that I realized that cultural identity was more complicated than I had previously thought, and was not, believe it or not, just a collection of commonalities between groups of people. Someone is bound to ask "oh, you're from New Zealand? But you're-" and before they can continue with an uncomfortable, borderline racist observation, I rescue them with "-And I was born in the Philippines, I grew up in New Zealand". I excuse whatever is implied by "Ah, I was going to say" because I'm sure whatever they were going to say was fantastic.

This was an appropriate lesson to learn, given the melting-pot background of the United States. I kept these assertions private, however, as I often don't like to express too many self-discoveries lest they be unoriginal or misled. Instead, I choose to bask in the perceptions of others. "Can you please talk in a New Zealand accent?", people will ask, and more often than not, I will refuse. I'd rather they hold on to their opinion of how cool the New Zealand accent is, as opposed to my ruining it for them completely. Yes, New Zealand is a fantastic place, but not fantastic in the way you would think. I see it is a marvelous place to one day retire, but I won't stop you from thinking of it as a playground for adventure, forests, hobbits, and reckless abandon. Neither will I refuse your changing your opinion of me based on this slightly incorrect misconception. I do this because, I've come to accept the fact that I am, quite possibly, just a little bit eccentric.

Reasonable Suspicion: An SB1070 Love Story

I am a New Zealand Citizen, but I was born in the Philippines to a Filipino father, and a Half-Vietnamese Mother. Three years ago, I moved to the US as a permanent resident. So far, I'm on track to obtain citizenship, if I decide to and when I'm eligible.

Even now, my accent is still strange to some, and I often have to repeat my first name before people get it right.

"It's Jayo"

"Oh, James"

"No, Jayo. J. A. Y. O."

"Jayl?"

"No, Jayo"

"Oh, Jay. Hi Jay"

"Fine. Yes, it's Jay"

So let's say that one day, I went to Arizona (possibly next month, after the SB1070 passes). I check into a hotel, and think to myself "what a lovely state, I think I'll go for a drive". My rental car is taking a bit of getting used to, and I'm a fairly new driver, but I get by.

On the road, I'm pulled over by a Law Enforcement Officer. Lawfully, I stop, because this is considered a lawful stop. It turns out my tail light's out, and the officer pulled me over, lawfully, to inform me.

Under SB1070, since the officer has lawfully stopped me, he or she can also ask me for documentation. The officer is struck with reasonable suspicion, as the law entitles him to do so, so he asks me for documentation of my lawfully being in the United States. I have a green card, and by law I'm already required to carry the green card with me at all times. So I present this documentation. I myself could have reasonable suspicion that his reasonable suspicion could be based on my skin color, or my accent, or the way I dress, but I don't like to make unfounded assumptions of people. On top of this, the bill prohibits racial profiling, so any suspicions of racially motivated reasonable suspicions would be unreasonable on my part. The officer's reasonable suspicion is put at ease by my presentation of my document, so I'm released with a warning that I need my tail light fixed. I drive to Hertz and yell at them.

This is how SB1070 would work ideally, and proponents of the bill imagine that this is how it would work. If someone is not able to provide documentation, or does not have the documentation to begin with, then steps can be made to fine them, as the law states, on the grounds of being undocumented. But the above situation does not take into consideration a number of factors. The term "reasonable suspicion" is poor and vague wording to be placing in a bill, especially because it concerns a specific responsibility placed on Law Enfrocement Officers.

I'm a college student. Though I do not have a fake ID, I know how easy it is to get one, and I know how prolific the use of fake identification is in the country, let alone Providence College. Law Enforcement Officers are not ignorant, they know this. So if they have reasonable suspicion that documentation provided is counterfeit, then they have probable cause to continue their reasonable suspicion on an individual they have lawfully stopped.

So let's go back. I provide my resident alien card, but the officer, knowledgeable of fake IDs and their proliferation for college students, has reasonable suspicion that it could be fake. The only thing to confirm its legitimacy is by checking the alien number. So he takes my card, and leaves me while he makes a call to confirm that it is, in fact, a real card. But it's a fake ID, and a fake ID can easily place information of documented individuals in the spaces provided. So even though the officer returns stating that the alien number was given clearance, the officer may continue his reasonable suspicion. It's not helping that he doesn't know half the words I'm saying. I have a tendency to mutter, and my accent is problematic. His reasonable suspicion is tingling. Because he can't confirm if I am or am not a documented individual, he has the power to detain me or fine me on the spot. I have reasonable suspicion that this guy's an ass hole.

But the law makes provisions to prohibit racial profiling. So the law enforcement officer is liable. So let's go back. Let's say I did have a fake green card, or I didn't, it doesn't matter. Even if the officer has reasonable suspicion that I have a fake green card, he will be liable if he wrongfully accuses me of being undocumented. Avoiding the trouble and liability of the situation, he lets me go, not knowing for sure if I really am undocumented. The law places huge, added responsibility of law enforcement officers, and this is why some officers are actually involved in filing suits against the bill.

But even before this, let's say I was white. Now, I never like to make this type of comparison, because I feel that oversensitivity, political correctness, and tit-for-tat blame-games are part of the larger issue of race. But I make the exception in this case. So let's say I was white, and I was stopped according to the situation above. Because I am white, reasonable suspicion on the officer's behalf will not be afoot. In fact, the officer skips through the reasonable-suspicion-show-me-your-papers hubub and simply warns me that my tail light's out and I should get it fixed. End of scenario.

Yes, I know, the law prohibits racial profiling, but make no mistake, the vagueness of the term "reasonable suspicion" puts nothing but racial profiling into the hands of law enforcement officers, willingly or not. Reasonable suspicion will be based on one's skin color, and one's accent, and one's clothing. What else is there to be reasonably suspicious about?

Another scenario: my green card expired a month ago, so I applied for a new one. But because the way the system works, it takes a number of months for this to be processed, and I won't receive my new card for a while. Meanwhile, I'm forced to carry around my expired green card. This puts me at even more risk of reasonable suspicion, because not only am I brown, but I'm carrying around an expired green card.

Another scenario: let's say I'm a citizen, but my accent is still pretty stubborn and refuses to blend smoothly enough. As a citizen, I'm not required to carry around a citizenship card. One does not exist. Let's say I was put into that situation. I'm not able to provide the documents you're looking for, officer, because I am a citizen. What then?

I agree that we need immigration reform, and I agree that the federal government is largely at fault for not working on immigration reform sooner. Because of it, Arizona was forced to scratch up this shoddy bill. But there are real solutions that are not aggravating the problem. It's easy to scapegoat crime on undocumented individuals (even though crime in Arizona has actually steadily declined in recent years). It is easier still to put a law behind scapegoating.

The above reasons are why I'm so passionately against the Arizona bill. People often misunderstand my opposition to the bill, saying that I'm supporting illegal immigration, and they are sorely mistaken. Just because the bill has potential, intended consequences for undocumented individuals, does not mean that the consequences for documented individuals are justified.

Say there is a pack of pedophiles in a room full of fourth graders. You can't justifiably bomb the entire room just because you have the optimized situation to be rid of this pack of pedophiles.

Outing the Gay Agenda

Note: This piece, in its original form, was a piece I submitted as part of the commentary staff for The Cowl (The Providence College student-run Newspaper). As a little background, I'm not entirely sure if it was my inability to communicate the satire, or the fact that the satire hit a little too close to reality in terms of a PC mindset by some students, that led to the small controversy. Friends of friends were in tears stating that "Jayo Miko Macasaquit is a bigot who should not be a writer for The Cowl!", and "I can't believe someone with this belief on this campus exists!", among other such outcries. If you know me however, you'd have no trouble seeing this as satire. The aftermath of this piece, as some already know, was a drawn-out, serious, and educated weekly debate gracing The Cowl's pages which I honestly am glad had happened. Though I had the last word on the issue of gay rights on The Cowl, it was because the school year had ended that the discussion halted, and not because the issue had been exhausted.

This little preamble exists as a warning that this is, in fact, satire (or at least an attempt at it). Further, I'll repeat what I've said to many in the past who have spoken to me about the piece's satirical nature: "Seriously, people, I used the term 'gaydiation'".

*************

Friends: one in six women in the United States have reported experiencing an attempted or completed rape. The homicide rate, though substantially decreasing in the U.S., is still among the highest in the world. In the same vein, and by far the largest threat to our society: homosexuals are trying to marry.

Impending gays, clad in postmodern filthrags.

In five of the 50 states, in fact, homosexuals are already permitted to do so, not to mention the Coquille Indian Tribe in Oregon. The fact that five states and an Indian tribe have permitted this despicable act to take place on American soil undermines society at its core and this, my friends, is the pinnacle of the Gay Agenda. Let’s think clearly about this: five states and an Indian tribe have said no to tradition, to one of the staples of society. “Go free,” say five states and an Indian tribe. “There are no rules here now. Frolic, gays!”

I don't have a caption for this.

Forget the argument that nothing is sacred, for that argument is rooted in jealousy. Just because you gays can’t legally get married in Vegas, does not mean you can try and pervert the very sanctity of marriage. Marriage is holy, and thus you can’t have it. It’s ours. In fact, stay away from our right to divorce too. The significant percentage of our marriages that end in divorce, along with the increased rates of couples going to counseling over the years are testament to how much we value heterosexual marriage and, by allowing homosexuals the right to marry, we are destroying this sanctity.

It’s bad enough that our kids are being bombarded by gay stimuli in their everyday world. One cannot surf YouTube without having one's eyes harassed by the likes of Lady Gaga. By allowing gays to marry, you’re allowing gays access into our homes. Be prepared, friends, to see 40 duplicate chanels of HGTV, supermarkets renovated with glitzy gay aisles, and, out of politically correct necessity, an awful lot more penis. The inconvenience of this gay transition is something that the Gay Agenda does not seem to consider. America is totally fine in its heterosexual, predominantly white bubble. We’re still trying to deal with that race thing people keep talking about. Now you want to complicate things by adding homosexuality to our list of things we now have to accept? That, friends, is asking too much.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve been through two semesters of Introductory Biology. I’m not bigoted. I know fully well that gays aren’t contagious in a diseased sense. If they didn’t trendily choose to be abused by their peers, then I’m sure gayness happened in the womb. My blasphemy stops there, however, as I’m convinced that gays are radioactive. How else can you explain the fact that mere exposure to homosexuals is corrupting our children and making them gay? I’d even go as far as to say it’s intentional. Increased homosexual exposure is not only turning all our children gay, but as a result, allowing them to build their gay armies. Like in Twilight. This, my friends, is why we should cover our children’s eyes whenever we come across two men holding hands in public. Not only does this protect our children emotionally, but also from the gay-diation the gays are probably emitting.

If you’re thinking the above claims are outrageous, then consider the threat that the Gay Agenda has posed on our current armed forces. Fact: an estimated 2 percent of the military is gay. Friends, this infiltration is not only disturbing, but it also severely undermines military integrity. How do you suppose our brave, heterosexual men and women react to threats to national security, knowing that some of their fellow “comrades” are attracted to the same sex? What if a war happens? How will our men and women fight evil-doers when, at any given time, a homosexual may be fighting alongside them? God only knows how more than 30 countries, including U.S. allies such as Canada, the United Kingdom, and Israel, are able to deal with their don’t ask, don’t care policies. I, for one, am frightened.

The good old days, when being patriotic meant that your ass-hole was not a dartboard for homosexual craving-darts.

It’s a matter of principle: allowing gays to marry would be unfair to those who don’t like gays. It’s bad enough homosexual partners can easily trade clothes without causing an awkward situation, and that lesbian couples have been proven to raise adopted children with better academic and emotional outcomes than straight parents of adopted children. Now the Gay Agenda is after marriage, too? Well, friends, don’t even think about it. You can keep Celine Dion, The Wizard of Oz, and Dairy Beverages: Marriage is ours.

What goes through my head as I wait in line behind you at Starbucks

Hipster boy, I'm watching you. Wiry thin, with your sister's jeans and inappropriate use of winter plaid on a summer's day, you look like the exhumed corpse of a lumberjack who had died in a freak dryer incident. From behind you in line at the Thayer Street Starbucks, I watch you in disgust. Effortlessly ordering that grande light soy 3-pump dark cherry iced coffee with two shots of espresso, you confuse even the well-versed barista who has to ask you to repeat your order. Twice.

You arrogant, sad bitch, daring to confuse Autumn, my favorite of all the Starbucks baristas. I know her name is not really Autumn, and her natural hair color is not really Cerulean, but that gives you no right to harass her, or reduce her to a torn pile of rebellious ink and assorted piercings. Neither are you entitled to do so simply because you nonchalantly wave around your gold-membership personalized starbucks card, entitling you to your free beverage every 15 visits. No one fucking cares that 30 visits has granted you this "privilege", you elitist scum. No one fucking cares that, unlike the rest, your syrups and soys come free. No one fucking cares, including me, you smug prick, because you are not the only one with this gold-carded membership into Starbucks aristocracy. No, Hipster lumberjack, you are not.

"Autumn", I announce gently, passing my gaze at you, then back at Autumn, "I'll have the usual", to which she merely replies with a knowing nod. Gracefully, in one quick movement, she constructs my grande light soy 3-pump dark cherry iced coffee with two shots of espresso. Another nod, and she unflinchingly adds another shot of espresso. We look at each other and smile for a moment, then in unison shift our eyes towards you.

At first, you do not feel the pressure of our combined gaze. In fact, you do not even notice that she had made my drink first, before yours. 2 minutes later I cough suggestively, and you look up from your iPhone 4. Pocketing the phone into its organic sleeve, you consider my expression as a threat, but only briefly, whilst Autumn begins to make your beverage. There is no grace in creating your coffee, pal, because Autumn doesn't know you and, after insulting her profession, neither does she like you. No amount of nodding can allow you an extra shot of espresso because, frankly, you don't know her like I do. No one does. You will wait for your drink, branded by the memory of my burning stare, while I walk away victoriously.

Hipster boy, I have a feeling we'll meet again in this, here, Thayer Street Starbucks, and when we do you, you will not be so lucky.