Oxtail and Chicken Curry

I woke up this morning after drinks at ShadyGrove and Fahrenheit 9/11. [Go watch the movie.] The morning was slow. As usual, several alarms went off, waking both my roommate and me. My iPod, my phone, his alarm clock, his phone... I did not want to wake up. But the prospect of a beautiful day and lots of homework was in the cards. I looked at the clock and went back to bed.

My room is filled with the usual college dorm room furniture that many freshmen and sophomores know. The drab beachwood chairs, desks, drawers, closets... The fireproof mattress... The walls of white, stained by knowledge, learning, and real experience. The hardwood floor creeks with age; it probably needs to be replaced. The bed sheets are not like home. They are all white--they are white. The only compensation I have for my bed is my föm pillow. [Thanks, Amanda.] It's my teddy bear. I love when I can hug it, and the way it feels against my chest. It's my favorite.

My computer graces my desk, along with various trinkets: water bottles, papers that need to be thrown away, a nail cutter and tweezers. My desk is just like home, except it also holds toiletries and their bag, a camera, and a passport. My travels have begun, and my life has changed.

D605... Morewood Hall... Carnegie Mellon University... 5000 Forbes Avenue... Pittsburgh... Pennsylvania... United States... Planet Earth. I feel like I'm in the smallest town in the Universe. As I flew in from San Francisco, I looked out of my window and thought how small we are. There is only so much that each of us as individuals can do. Yet, our power is in our numbers. We looked like an army of ants as I flew flight 740 on the 12th of June.

Mama was her name. She was a Jamaican woman with a large heart. I've never seen someone open her home to the public, serving the best of her culture--their cuisine and hospitality. She stood on her porch and greeted each one of us as we entered her back yard, sparsely decorated with green grass, surrounded by the dark red bricks of the earlier century. We sat on white lawn furniture, under a mesh awning. We drank out of plastic cups, like the ones used in cheap hotel rooms. And our plates were the Styrofoam take home-type. The best part of it all was her hospitality and food.

Oxtail and chicken curry were good. They reminded me of the culture that I wish I could experience. My Pilipino culture is only seen in the color of my skin, the Tagalog words that I can barely understand, and the struggle that I have experienced through many students who aspire and dream of Harvard, Yale, and Berkeley. The oxtail is that which I know: the kare-kare I love. Its sweet peanut butter and tender oxtail. My mom--and my grandma make the best.

More later...