This isn’t really a Halloween post, but I’m sure you can find plenty of those elsewhere.

Right now I’m thinking about clashing cultures. Hugo wrote a good post on this subject that prompted a little soul-searching for me; and then I stumbled across this article that served as an extension of Hugo’s post and my reverie. This lil post is only a result of combining the two.

On my mom’s side, I’m a second generation American; on my dad’s side, third generation. I don’t go along with the [ethnicity here]-American hyphen thing. I consider myself an American. End of story. (On earth, anyway. In heaven, I’m pretty sure things aren’t viewed the same way. Don’t worry, this isn’t a last-minute patriotic election rant, either.)

However, I can’t deny my ethnic roots, as much as I’ve tried to and would like to permanently bury them. Impossible, I know, because ethnic pride runs deep on both sides. My mom is a full-blooded Samoan (with a little Tongan and even German thrown in for good measure, or so she tells me); my dad is half-Filipino and half-Samoan. That makes for an interesting mix, which has unfortunately led to barely any acknowledgment of my Filipino heritage, and a dominance of my Samoan heritage, again on both sides.

I only know a few words in Samoan, and no Tagalong. I grew up going to a church that was Samoan-based in the language and in the church membership. My mom never taught me the language, and I do regret that because it’s a beautiful tongue and I love hearing all the women in both sides of the family employ it in casual conversation.

It’s my father who impressed upon me and my siblings the importance of attending college, getting our degrees and getting into fields that would generate large incomes. (All of us kids have bucked that last part and are either unsure about what career we want or we’ve entered fields where a good income isn’t necessarily assured. Disappointing, of course, for my parents, but my dad still urges us to find good paying jobs to support ourselves.) My mom, whether from her culture’s laidback attitude or because she didn’t really attend college herself, couldn’t care either way, so long as her daughters wait until after college before we find husbands. (Again, we’ve let our parents down on this part. One of my sisters just got married this past February and hasn’t graduated from JC yet.)

So the intersection point between expectations, assimilation and ethnic culture was lowered, you could say. That doesn’t mean our parents love us any less. They might not like the paths we’ve chosen for ourselves, but the only thing that separates any of us from each other is physical distance.

And me? Yes, I’ve had issues with my Samoan heritage. I disliked many of the things I saw take place in my childhood church, which my parents still attend. Cultural traditions and family business often came first before God, and the gossip circuit is still alive and well. All of these things disillusioned me about Samoan churches in particular. In a more general vein, I can see that ethnic-based churches serve a purpose here in America, but most of the members of my generation weren’t born in Samoa. We were born here. American traditions and culture have much stronger binds than Samoan ones. That’s just the way it is.

But do I hate my Samoan heritage? Nope. Does it drive me crazy sometimes? Oh, yes, especially when my mom invokes her island childhood to point out to her stubborn children that her word is law under her roof.*

It’s taken me several years to come to terms with my ethnic roots. I haven’t even started exploring the Filipino side of my family yet. Yeah, I am a liberated woman, in more ways than one. I identify myself as Samoan to those who ask about my nationality, but I’m still American first. The olive skin and islander attitude are just parts of the proverbial icing on the cake.

*(My dad sometimes talks about the “Samoan way” of doing things when he’s trying to get us to do things as he likes them done. For instance, about a year ago a couple from church dropped me off at home after the Sunday evening service. My dad was waiting for me at the door. “You should stand in the doorway and see them off,” he told me, getting annoyed when I seemed to pay him no heed. “C’mon, it’s the Samoan way.” My reply: “Sorry, I’m only three-quarters Samoan.” He, of course, was not very happy with me after that.)

All of the books I’ve read recently or am in the process of reading all begin with The.

I might’ve stolen ‘em from Dane. Er, The Dane, I mean. (There, see? I just returned one.) I swear, I’m just borrowing them.

Eh, particles. Picky, these creatures.

CBC: I think there’s been a couple of studies done about Canadians and this evangelical movement never got hold in Canada. We were just never, never, religion plays a very very small part –

Maher: To me, to me it’s a real dividing line between people of intelligence and – not that there haven’t been some intelligent people who are religious. I mean, T.S. Elliott was a great poet and he became a very devout Catholic… But I always call religion a neurological disorder. I really do believe that. I mean it’s not criticizing. I’m just saying if you took religion out of it and somebody went to a psychiatrist and said you know I believe in you know this crazy, illogical thing, the shrink would say, well you have a neurological disorder. And you need to really get therapy or take a pill.

This is from a recent interview with Bill Maher. Although it focuses more on the upcoming election than religion (this question appeared at the end of the article), this made me wonder. If religion is a “neurological disorder” to someone like Maher, then how would he specifically define Christianity?

Either I’m reading into this too deeply or this is a confirmation on why I don’t take political pundits like Maher very seriously. Political bloggers, on the other hand…

Based on one of the discussions from today’s Forum program, here’s a question:

Should legal alien residents (we are not referring to illegal immigrants here) be allowed to vote? Why or why not?

From Wednesday’s debate:
The candidates were asked if they believe homosexuality is a choice, and President Bush did not mention Mary Cheney. Then Kerry said, “If you were to talk to Dick Cheney’s daughter, who is a lesbian, she would tell you that she’s being who she was, she’s being who she was born as.”

Lynne Cheney:
“The only thing I can conclude is he is not a good man. I’m speaking as a mom. What a cheap and tawdry political trick.”

Elizabeth Edwards:
“She’s overreacted to this and treated it as if it’s shameful to have this discussion. I think that’s a very sad state of affairs… I think that it indicates a certain degree of shame with respect to her daughter’s sexual preferences… It makes me really sad that that’s Lynne’s response.”

Dick Cheney:
“You saw a man who will say and do anything in order to get elected. And I am not speaking just as a father here, though I am a pretty angry father, but as a citizen.”

John Kerry:
“I love my daughters. They love their daughter. I was trying to say something positive about the way strong families deal with this issue.”

More here.

So - was this bad form on Kerry’s part or are Republicans overreacting?

Halloween is around the corner, and instead of boring you with tales of my childhood adventures in costume, I will point you to the (in)famous home of The Hell House Outreach.

I’m apparently not the only one thoroughly jaded by and dissatisfied with this approach.

She’s usually one of the first to arrive, since her last class is located further down the same corridor. Because nobody’s opened the lecture hall yet, she sits outside and eats the meager dinner she brought, reads a book or does her homework. Those last vestiges of procrastination still haven’t been worked out of her yet.

Jeanine shows up next. “So what did you think?”

“They were okay,” she replies, making a face and thumbing through the book of poetry they were supposed to read for the class tonight. “I read it in an hour.”

“I don’t get this stuff,” Jeanine says. “I liked the last book we had to read. This one…ugh.”

Rajah arrives, and the topic switches to her bridal shower, then to a faculty member with a condescending attitude towards his students. Apparently he doesn’t like “stupid” questions, but then again Rajah doesn’t like conceited instructors, and wasn’t afraid to tell him this to his face, either. The instructor didn’t take this very well.

Then Josh comes, out of breath, hurrying to write up his homework at the last minute, too. Chad sits down next to her and they talk some more about their assigned reading: it sucks. I liked it, but… I can write poetry, but I have trouble reading it, y’know? That’s because poetry’s a self-absorbed exercise, Tim says, joining the conversation. Ouch.

Philipps shows up with the key, and the students who now line both sides of the hall scramble to their feet.

They file through the narrow doors, line up to turn in the assignment for the week, wait for Philipps to introduce the guest writer. He steps up to the podium, shyly greets the assembled students, and says he’s going to read from that same little book of poetry for about thirty minutes. Ye gods! Beside her, Tim groans loud enough for only her to hear. Neither of them are enthusiastic about that idea.

They are the students, and class is about to begin.

“So what is it?”

“A cleon. C’heran weapon,” she added, when a trace of confusion entered his face to mingle with the admiration. “I grew up learning to wield it.”

“Sounds fun. Can I hold it?”

“Sure. Just don’t touch the handholds.” She tossed it to him, and he fumbled catching it, shocked because it was much heavier than he’d expected. He held it with both hands and slowly rotated it in his palm.

The wooden pole was capped on both ends with copper-colored metallic paddles. It was three centimeters in diameter and nearly two meters in length, and weighed maybe a couple kilos in his grip. The pole itself seemed to be made of oak wood, or at least had the color of such, but he could’ve been wrong on that score.

Between the two paddles, two blue-tinged, gel-made handholds with clearly defined finger grips were equally spaced apart. He resisted the urge to touch them, as she’d ordered.

“What’s with the handholds?”

“Throw it back.” He did, and she caught it between the two handholds, then threw it up into the air again and this time caught it on the handholds.

One paddle hissed, shimmered iridescent blue, and then a blade that would’ve looked better on a medieval Terran spear shot out of the paddle end. The blade started with five centimeters at the base, and climbed like a pyramid to a single sharp tip; the blade was approximately twenty centimeters in length.

“The handholds control which blade comes out, depending on how you press on them,” Rhiain explained, demonstrating the different grips that caused one blade to detract and another to slide out of its copper-covered sheath. About seven blades in all, each different in length and shape.

He stared, fascinated. “Seems easy to use.”

“Not really,” she countered. “It takes years to learn how to press the ‘holds correctly to get the blade you want. I’ve known quite a few people who managed to get a finger or another part of their anatomy severed because they were careless.”

He winced. “How long have you practiced with the cleen?”

“Since I was a child of four. And it’s cleon.” She grinned at the wry face he made and continued. “I know it’s heavier than it looks - it all depends on the person’s own weight and the weight of the blades. They’re quite light, even if they seem menacing.”

“Ceremonial weapon?”

Rhiain nodded. “Mostly, anyway,” she said. “When I left C’heras for the first time, I brought mine along to continue practicing with it, for old times’ sake. But it seems to have come in handy on some missions.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Primitive inhabitants mistook me for a goddess most of the time.”

“I knew that hair of yours would come in handy.”

She laughed and pressed on a ‘hold, watching the last blade retract. “There are also a number of ‘combat dances’ that we learned. They’re really a pattern of maneuvers we memorized for different situations.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Did those dances help on the same primitive worlds where you were a goddess in a GD uniform?”

“Yes.” Rhiain held the pole up vertically like a shepherd’s staff. “And only because I improvised.”

He eyed her with a slight smile. “You’re infamous for improvising.”

She answered with a wolfish smile of her own. “We’re all infamous for something.”

Now his expression turned thoughtful as he continued to watch her. “Indeed.”

(This post has been tweaked accordingly since I wrote it. Hope you enjoyed it. Constructive criticism is welcome.)