Weeeee! This old video of gaga when she was just starting out.... I love her, she is so cute!
ViiVi - viivi
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Cara.
I don't know what happened inside of me, but when those words left her mouth to answer my question, something in me broke. Something deep inside of me which wanted to hold her close and tell her it was going to be okay shattered like crystal.
With our final examinations looming ahead and the stress of work piling up, medical students like ourselves spend much of our time in the wards of the hospital, interviewing and examining patients whenever we can.
"Hey Wai Jia, can you go talk to her? You're good with kids."
She was sitting on the bed, with a colorful bright rainbow-coloured painting of her name stuck behind her. Her back was connected to a tube, which in turn was connected to a huge machine. But nothing in her smiley face and chirpy voice gave away the fact that she was in the children's specialty ward, where many ill kidney patients were being treated.
"Hello, my dear. Are you *Cara?"
She looked up, bright-eyed and cheery, with a copy of The Little Prince placed on the portable table before her. It was almost jarring, to see a book of such deep poetic meaning in the hands of a child who didn't look more than seven.
"Hello! Yes! I am!"
"How old are you, my dear?"
"Thirteen!"
Her straight bob hairstyle graced her beautiful porcelain face, a stark contrast to the other kidney patients we were used to seeing, who all had that characteristic sallow, yellow and sickly appearance. I introduced myself and my friends to her, and asked if she could answer some of our questions so we could learn more about her condition.
"Why are you here, Cara?"
Sometimes, children, and even adults have difficulty answering this question, especially if they've just been feeling generally unwell without specific symptoms. Nothing prepared me for the kind answer she gave me, which pierced my heart and wrung it out, and I had to disguise my shock with a placid "Oh".
"My PTH level is too high."
"What?"
It shocked me. I looked at my friends. Did I hear you wrong?
With our final examinations looming ahead and the stress of work piling up, medical students like ourselves spend much of our time in the wards of the hospital, interviewing and examining patients whenever we can.
"Hey Wai Jia, can you go talk to her? You're good with kids."
She was sitting on the bed, with a colorful bright rainbow-coloured painting of her name stuck behind her. Her back was connected to a tube, which in turn was connected to a huge machine. But nothing in her smiley face and chirpy voice gave away the fact that she was in the children's specialty ward, where many ill kidney patients were being treated.
"Hello, my dear. Are you *Cara?"
She looked up, bright-eyed and cheery, with a copy of The Little Prince placed on the portable table before her. It was almost jarring, to see a book of such deep poetic meaning in the hands of a child who didn't look more than seven.
"Hello! Yes! I am!"
"How old are you, my dear?"
"Thirteen!"
Her straight bob hairstyle graced her beautiful porcelain face, a stark contrast to the other kidney patients we were used to seeing, who all had that characteristic sallow, yellow and sickly appearance. I introduced myself and my friends to her, and asked if she could answer some of our questions so we could learn more about her condition.
"Why are you here, Cara?"
Sometimes, children, and even adults have difficulty answering this question, especially if they've just been feeling generally unwell without specific symptoms. Nothing prepared me for the kind answer she gave me, which pierced my heart and wrung it out, and I had to disguise my shock with a placid "Oh".
"My PTH level is too high."
"What?"
It shocked me. I looked at my friends. Did I hear you wrong?
Because she looked so young, so cherubic and naive and guileless that it made me grieved and anguished and shocked and overwhelmed to know that she had been through so much in life at such a young age, and understood so much about her congenital kidney disease for her to actually tell me the specific name of a particular hormone in her body which was elevated.
"I have a kidney disease from birth. So the doctors say I have to learn PD during this admission."
PTH. PD. Why are you using words like these? They are meant for us, medical people who give mechanical abbreviations and euphemisms to conditions and procedures and things which we do not dare face head-on because of the whirlpool of emotions we fear to face should we come to realise how much of your life and the lives of your loved ones has been taken away by what we can barely begin to understand, and much less, treat.
PTH is parathyroid hormone. It is elevated in you because of your failing kidneys. Your kidneys do not convert enough Vitamin D from the sunshine into an active form, and so, the lack of calcium in your body stimulates this hormone, and results in bone and joint pains, and other further complications.
PD. Peritoneal dialysis. It is a painfully awful procedure where a tube is connected to your kidneys to wash them and re-equilibrate the different ions in your body.
"I'll show you," you said in a sprightly voice, "This is the green button- that means Start. This is the red button- that means Stop."
The junior doctor breezed in to check in on her, and asked cheekily, "So Cara, why don't you tell these medical students what the 4 functions of your kidneys are?"
" To clean toxins from my blood, to make my bones strong, to make pee and... er... "
"To make red blood cells, right?" said the junior doctor.
"I have a kidney disease from birth. So the doctors say I have to learn PD during this admission."
PTH. PD. Why are you using words like these? They are meant for us, medical people who give mechanical abbreviations and euphemisms to conditions and procedures and things which we do not dare face head-on because of the whirlpool of emotions we fear to face should we come to realise how much of your life and the lives of your loved ones has been taken away by what we can barely begin to understand, and much less, treat.
PTH is parathyroid hormone. It is elevated in you because of your failing kidneys. Your kidneys do not convert enough Vitamin D from the sunshine into an active form, and so, the lack of calcium in your body stimulates this hormone, and results in bone and joint pains, and other further complications.
PD. Peritoneal dialysis. It is a painfully awful procedure where a tube is connected to your kidneys to wash them and re-equilibrate the different ions in your body.
"I'll show you," you said in a sprightly voice, "This is the green button- that means Start. This is the red button- that means Stop."
The junior doctor breezed in to check in on her, and asked cheekily, "So Cara, why don't you tell these medical students what the 4 functions of your kidneys are?"
" To clean toxins from my blood, to make my bones strong, to make pee and... er... "
"To make red blood cells, right?" said the junior doctor.
"Right!" You laughed.
I stood there, rooted to the ground as the scene unfolded before me. It did not help that she looked all but seven years old.
I did not want to ask if she knew she had DD. Developmental Delay, that is.
As part of taking a full history of a paediatric patient, I had to ask how she was affected by her illness.
"Cara," I said very dearly and carefully, "Is there anything you can't do because of your illness?"
"Yea, the doctor says I can't skip or jump. Or do too much of sports. Because I might break my bones."
Yea. You would know. That's why your body is making so much PTH. Your kidneys can't make enough active Vitamin D for the calcium needed for strong bones.
My classmates, charmed by your endearing smile and sunny disposition, started asking you about school, to which you cheerfully replied that you were home-schooled and that the release of the Primary School Leaving Examinations would be announced today. I keep forgetting you are 13, and not 7. Still, why should you know how to operate a PD machine by yourself?
One of my classmates asked if you knew what a transplant was, to which you told us that you were going to get one soon- they found a match from your mother.
A transplant. But was it truly the miracle you all were hoping for? I recalled a video I had watched before, of a young girl who had donated her kidney to her father and then living with bitterness because she could no longer engage in sporting activities. I recalled that even after transplants, some patients don't do well.
"Cara, " I interuppted, "Can I ask you a special question?"
She cocked her head inquisitively.
"You know, when you know that you can't do certain things because of your kidneys which you were born with, how do you feel? What do you tell yourself to make yourself strong? Because I can tell, you are a very brave and very strong little girl."
I stood there, rooted to the ground as the scene unfolded before me. It did not help that she looked all but seven years old.
I did not want to ask if she knew she had DD. Developmental Delay, that is.
As part of taking a full history of a paediatric patient, I had to ask how she was affected by her illness.
"Cara," I said very dearly and carefully, "Is there anything you can't do because of your illness?"
"Yea, the doctor says I can't skip or jump. Or do too much of sports. Because I might break my bones."
Yea. You would know. That's why your body is making so much PTH. Your kidneys can't make enough active Vitamin D for the calcium needed for strong bones.
My classmates, charmed by your endearing smile and sunny disposition, started asking you about school, to which you cheerfully replied that you were home-schooled and that the release of the Primary School Leaving Examinations would be announced today. I keep forgetting you are 13, and not 7. Still, why should you know how to operate a PD machine by yourself?
One of my classmates asked if you knew what a transplant was, to which you told us that you were going to get one soon- they found a match from your mother.
A transplant. But was it truly the miracle you all were hoping for? I recalled a video I had watched before, of a young girl who had donated her kidney to her father and then living with bitterness because she could no longer engage in sporting activities. I recalled that even after transplants, some patients don't do well.
"Cara, " I interuppted, "Can I ask you a special question?"
She cocked her head inquisitively.
"You know, when you know that you can't do certain things because of your kidneys which you were born with, how do you feel? What do you tell yourself to make yourself strong? Because I can tell, you are a very brave and very strong little girl."
There was split second of an awkward moment, and I think my classmates were a little taken aback as well.
But she giggled and smiled.
But she giggled and smiled.
"I know," she beamed innocently, to which we were all tickled with laughter. There was a certain purity, humility and candidness about her which was beautifully disarming.
"And I also tell myself, that someday, all this will be over."
I had goosebumps. "All of what will be over, dear?"
"All of this, all of this will be over," she said in a matter-of-fact, child-like manner which suddenly brought tears to the back of my eyes.
Was this what kept you going, my dear? This hope in a future that lay ahead of you that you knew with such certainty was filled with rainbows and candy-coloured clouds? Because the way you said it, made it sound mighty like what life would be in heaven.
Weren't you angry at God, my dear? What had you done to deserve this? To be born with kidney disease, and a whole host of other illnesses related to it. Don't you know you could have skipped and jumped like all the other kids and how come you're not the least bit mad at God? And here I am complaining about medicine and how much there is to study and the 100-hour work weeks...
Later on, I learnt that both your hip joints were dead and you walked with a limp. How come you still live and talk with such joy and maturity and gratitude? Cara, don't you know what little you have?
But darling, you have much.
Because when my friends left, I stayed back to whisper to you that you were a very special girl indeed. And a stack of coloured cards with the heading God's Promises on your table caught my eye. Next to it, was a piece of paper with your neat handwriting on it, saying,
"I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full."- John 10:10
You have much.
Thank you Cara, for showing me what it means to have little, and yet, to live life to the full.
Thank you for reminding me of what a difference we can make to our lives and the lives of others, simply by living with the certainty of a hope of a certain place we can call Home.
"And I also tell myself, that someday, all this will be over."
I had goosebumps. "All of what will be over, dear?"
"All of this, all of this will be over," she said in a matter-of-fact, child-like manner which suddenly brought tears to the back of my eyes.
Was this what kept you going, my dear? This hope in a future that lay ahead of you that you knew with such certainty was filled with rainbows and candy-coloured clouds? Because the way you said it, made it sound mighty like what life would be in heaven.
Weren't you angry at God, my dear? What had you done to deserve this? To be born with kidney disease, and a whole host of other illnesses related to it. Don't you know you could have skipped and jumped like all the other kids and how come you're not the least bit mad at God? And here I am complaining about medicine and how much there is to study and the 100-hour work weeks...
Later on, I learnt that both your hip joints were dead and you walked with a limp. How come you still live and talk with such joy and maturity and gratitude? Cara, don't you know what little you have?
But darling, you have much.
Because when my friends left, I stayed back to whisper to you that you were a very special girl indeed. And a stack of coloured cards with the heading God's Promises on your table caught my eye. Next to it, was a piece of paper with your neat handwriting on it, saying,
"I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full."- John 10:10
You have much.
Thank you Cara, for showing me what it means to have little, and yet, to live life to the full.
Thank you for reminding me of what a difference we can make to our lives and the lives of others, simply by living with the certainty of a hope of a certain place we can call Home.
Yes, someday, all this will be over, and we will live in a world filled with golden daffodils and songs.
I left you saying, "The Little Prince is one of my favorite books too. And by the way, God loves you very much."
"I know," you said, and beamed again.
I love you.
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy;
I have come that they may have life,
and have it to the full. "
-John 10:10
-John 10:10
*name changed to protect identity
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
GaGa Drawing
I was drawing GaGa with pencils and got bored and stopped but I added color to my picture with photoshop and it's pretty cool. Maybe I will finish the rest one day (It was supposed to be a collage of 4 pictures of her but I only finished 2 of 4 :P)
NEW MOVIES
Some new movies I want to see but probably will wait till they go on DVD
Burlesque
Paranormal Activity 2
The Tourist
Burlesque
Paranormal Activity 2
The Tourist
Music Videos
Latest music videos that I like
Rihanna Feat. Drake - What's My Name
Kylie Minogue - Get Outta My Way
Mark Ronson - Bang Bang Bang
Katy Perry - Firework
Shawn Desman - Electric/Night Like This
Miley Cyrus - Who Owns My Heart
Nicki Minaj - Right Thru Me
Pitbull - Hey Baby
Black Eyed Peas - The Time
Enrique Eglesias - Heartbeat
N.E.R.D. - Hypnotize U
Pink - Raise Your Glass
Usher - OMG
Usher - DJ Got Us Fallin In Love
Rihanna Feat. Drake - What's My Name
Kylie Minogue - Get Outta My Way
Mark Ronson - Bang Bang Bang
Katy Perry - Firework
Shawn Desman - Electric/Night Like This
Miley Cyrus - Who Owns My Heart
Nicki Minaj - Right Thru Me
Pitbull - Hey Baby
Black Eyed Peas - The Time
Enrique Eglesias - Heartbeat
N.E.R.D. - Hypnotize U
Pink - Raise Your Glass
Usher - OMG
Usher - DJ Got Us Fallin In Love
Sunday, November 21, 2010
AMAs
Just finished watching the American Music Awards tonight in hopes of seeing GaGa win artist of the year... LADY GAGA WAS ROBBED OF THE AWARD BY JUSTIN BIEBER!!! What a disappointment!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
TOO MUCH FUN!!!
This is what happens when you get 3 crazy girls in the same room together!!!
I got blocked for saying "boobs" twice and my amazing friends got themselves blocked too so that we could all be blocked together! How sweet!!!
I got blocked for saying "boobs" twice and my amazing friends got themselves blocked too so that we could all be blocked together! How sweet!!!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
LE
So sad :( I had to work today and by the time I got home all the good LE that i wanted to buy was sold out. Boooo hoooo :(
Choosing to lose.
When the interviewer asked me that question that day, I was just completely stunned. "What would you give up in exchange for your life?"
I went on a great deal before the next interviewer eventually asked me, "So would you say, you would give up your life to live with the poor?"
What a question. If I could answer that question all over again, I think I would say, I would give up my life in exchange for bringing the message of hope to the poor, the hurting and the needy.
Days after I returned from Philippines, a close friend chided me in mock anger about my writing about death before I left because it unnerved her a bit. I guess, what I really meant to imply was that, since much of what I do is, to some extent, dangerous, I just don't want anyone to feel bad about losing me if they ever did, don't want them to feel bad for letting me pursue missions or travel to developing countries or live my life this way, should I ever lose my life in a freak accident or riot or infectious disease in my journey to medical missions. What I mean to say is that I would gladly, very gladly give up my life in this way, without regrets.
Last Saturday, I went for an interview for a nomination for a national award for service to humanity. To be honest, it was a great struggle for me to go through with it, since I didn't think what I do was really worthy of recognition and also, since most of the past winners are either hotshot doctors, ministers or famous people. What I've done is merely a drop in the ocean. Nonetheless, that question really got me thinking.
Today, on Facebook, an acquaintance sent me a message:
Hi Wai Jia..
This may come as a surprise to you.
About a month ago, I was feeling down and I went to your facebook. I was looking for some encouragement.
When I was browsing through your photos, suddenly, I felt God asking me to ask you a question. If He were to ask you to give up everything, what would you choose to lose first? What is the thing that you will give up first?
I am always encouraged when I talk you or hear your testimonies. I heard that you gave up your bicycle to help others and God provided you with another one...
Thank you for your encouragement.
Warmest Regards,
K
And tears welled up in my eyes because just minutes before reading the message, I had to make another one of those easy yet difficult decisions that killed my flesh. It turned out that all nominees for this award would be invited to a gala dinner regardless of their win, because the whole purpose of it was to celebrate the contributions of each nominee to Singapore to make it a better place. My old man, in his love and generosity, had offered to buy me a table where we could invite our family and friends to join in the joyous occasion because he felt proud of me. It really touched me, because a table would cost $1200.
$1200. That's the exact amount of money that would sustain the weekly feeding programme for the community of children in Smokey Mountain for 4 weeks.
So I brought up the incredulity of the issue, and how it was simply painfully ironic for us to readily spend on a lavish dinner to celebrate my so-called contributions to the poor when this same money could be used for them.
"But I can't give you both, Jia. You have to choose. It's one or the other."
It was like deja vu. Shortly after I made my choice clear, he walked out of my room with a smile. We'd been through this before- we had had the $2500-cheque written out for my suppposed racing bike, and it required a choice to give it away because simply put, my wants simply do not justify the needs of others.
If He were to ask you to give up everything, what would you choose to lose first? What is the thing that you will give up first?
Is it my possibly high-flying career in surgery. Is it marriage. Is it good reputation.
I do not know. All I know is that with sacrifice, comes temporal grief which eventually gives way to joy and breakthrough.
So I guess it's okay. It's no big deal. Sure it stings- I had already planned who I was going to invite to thank them for all their support- my publisher and his wife, my mentors, my relatives, Jo...
But I think they would understand.
What would I choose to lose if I had to give up everything?
Help me to lose myself in You, God. For things greater than myself, and things greater that this world has to offer.
I went on a great deal before the next interviewer eventually asked me, "So would you say, you would give up your life to live with the poor?"
What a question. If I could answer that question all over again, I think I would say, I would give up my life in exchange for bringing the message of hope to the poor, the hurting and the needy.
Days after I returned from Philippines, a close friend chided me in mock anger about my writing about death before I left because it unnerved her a bit. I guess, what I really meant to imply was that, since much of what I do is, to some extent, dangerous, I just don't want anyone to feel bad about losing me if they ever did, don't want them to feel bad for letting me pursue missions or travel to developing countries or live my life this way, should I ever lose my life in a freak accident or riot or infectious disease in my journey to medical missions. What I mean to say is that I would gladly, very gladly give up my life in this way, without regrets.
Last Saturday, I went for an interview for a nomination for a national award for service to humanity. To be honest, it was a great struggle for me to go through with it, since I didn't think what I do was really worthy of recognition and also, since most of the past winners are either hotshot doctors, ministers or famous people. What I've done is merely a drop in the ocean. Nonetheless, that question really got me thinking.
Today, on Facebook, an acquaintance sent me a message:
Hi Wai Jia..
This may come as a surprise to you.
About a month ago, I was feeling down and I went to your facebook. I was looking for some encouragement.
When I was browsing through your photos, suddenly, I felt God asking me to ask you a question. If He were to ask you to give up everything, what would you choose to lose first? What is the thing that you will give up first?
I am always encouraged when I talk you or hear your testimonies. I heard that you gave up your bicycle to help others and God provided you with another one...
Thank you for your encouragement.
Warmest Regards,
K
And tears welled up in my eyes because just minutes before reading the message, I had to make another one of those easy yet difficult decisions that killed my flesh. It turned out that all nominees for this award would be invited to a gala dinner regardless of their win, because the whole purpose of it was to celebrate the contributions of each nominee to Singapore to make it a better place. My old man, in his love and generosity, had offered to buy me a table where we could invite our family and friends to join in the joyous occasion because he felt proud of me. It really touched me, because a table would cost $1200.
$1200. That's the exact amount of money that would sustain the weekly feeding programme for the community of children in Smokey Mountain for 4 weeks.
So I brought up the incredulity of the issue, and how it was simply painfully ironic for us to readily spend on a lavish dinner to celebrate my so-called contributions to the poor when this same money could be used for them.
"But I can't give you both, Jia. You have to choose. It's one or the other."
It was like deja vu. Shortly after I made my choice clear, he walked out of my room with a smile. We'd been through this before- we had had the $2500-cheque written out for my suppposed racing bike, and it required a choice to give it away because simply put, my wants simply do not justify the needs of others.
If He were to ask you to give up everything, what would you choose to lose first? What is the thing that you will give up first?
Is it my possibly high-flying career in surgery. Is it marriage. Is it good reputation.
I do not know. All I know is that with sacrifice, comes temporal grief which eventually gives way to joy and breakthrough.
So I guess it's okay. It's no big deal. Sure it stings- I had already planned who I was going to invite to thank them for all their support- my publisher and his wife, my mentors, my relatives, Jo...
But I think they would understand.
What would I choose to lose if I had to give up everything?
Help me to lose myself in You, God. For things greater than myself, and things greater that this world has to offer.
Looi, a 4-year old boy who wouldn't let go of me
during the weekly feeding session at Smokey Mountain,
where each child was fed a portion of white rice
and a fatty sausage no bigger than the size of a meatball.
That was probably their best meal of the week.
"Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss
for the excellency of the knowledge of God:
for whom I have suffered the loss of all things,
and do count them but dung,
that I may win Him,"
Phil 3:8
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wayang.
"What would you give in exchange for your life?"
What a question to be asked at an interview. And to be honest, I didn't know what to say. After all, I didn't prepare for the interview. I had struggled with God about this- initially, I didn't even want to fill up the application, didn't want to go through the tedious process of having to submit my portfolio and four 1500-word essays about my life, didn't want to collate all the things these people wanted to find out about me. I was doing my hectic medical internship then- why bother?
It was Mio who told me, "Wayang, all this is for wayang." Wayang means "for show" in malay.
He wasn't discouraging me, he wished me all the best, but what he was trying to say was that all these awards and nominations for our "good works" really aren't the things which matter in life.
He should know. He's been helping needy children in various developing countries for 17 years now and has gone unrecognised because he chooses to keep a low profile. He could have chosen to make a big name for himself, but each time he comes into contact with influential people, it is because they came knocking at his door, and not the other way around.
Wayang. I had prayed hard about it, prayed about whether I wanted to follow through with this when my university informed me I had been nominated for a national youth award in contributing to humanity and children's rights. I'd never even heard of such an accolade before. There were so many other people worthy of the award. I didn't even want to try. Whatever for? I'd just become proud and self-centred, I thought.
With the encouragement of my best friend Jo, I wrote the essays, collated what I needed to and made my submission to the university. But just days before the deadline, I received a call from a lady from school saying that she had forgotten where she had placed my parcel for submission. I was annoyed, then disappointed.
Later, I realised that God was showing me where my priorities were, and what truly mattered. Did it matter that my work had to be recognised? I then had the peace that it was more than sufficient for me to be nominated in God's eyes. And in His eyes, we all are. We all have a kingly place in His eyes.
I let it go. Forget about the submission. God, whatever happens, happens. Never did I expect that the next day, a doctor friend called me to meet up at a hospital with him. Recalling that the lady from university had asked me to submit my items to this particular hospital so she could pick them up from there, I curiously went to find out how my parcel went missing, and in doing so, realised that my items never left the hospital and had never reached my university for submission to the national board. If my friend hadn't called me randomly to meet up at that particular hospital, I would never have found my items. If I didn't find them, I would never have submitted them. And perhaps God had deliberately waited for me to be assured that His award was more than sufficient before He allowed me to find them.
He has His ways.
A fews day ago, I got an email. They requested for us to wear a jacket suit to the final interview. There would be a photoshoot and an interview with about 6 to 8 judges. I suppose make-up and heels would have been appropriate.
But I didn't wear a suit. I wore my white dress and a little half-jacket I had bought some time ago from a quaint shop, looking smart but not overly formal. I didn't wear makeup. And I didn't do my hair. I wanted to go as I was.
"See the nomination as a gift," text-messaged Mio. "And don't forget about my work in Smokey Mountain when you win the award :) "
I realised, that this nomination in itself was a gift, and my sole purpose in life, should really be to gain God's approval, and not the approval of men. So many other people deserve to be nominated. Why me? But I realised that God, perhaps, has a purpose. I've had many people telling me not to shun the limelight because such things are platforms to reach out to more people, to earn the trust of more, to build a reliable reputation and thus have the potential to help even more.
I learnt, that yes, to a certain extent, all this is wayang, for show, but how do we allow them to be shaped according to God's purposes?
I really enjoyed the interview. Simply because I didn't attend it to win, and simply felt it was such a journey of faith just to be there. I was in the midst of wonderful candidates and judges who had gone through much in life to make our world a more inspiring place. And even though I felt I didn't answer the questions too well because I hadn't prepared for them, I felt completely natural, and could joke with the panel. It was fun. The photoshoot was fun.
After the interview had ended, the project chairperson came to tell me how much she enjoyed my submission of A Taste of Rainbow, which is due to be published next year. She asked me many more questions before I finally asked why she decided to do what she did.
"Because we want to support people like you, give you a platform to share your work and in so doing, help you in your cause."
It had struck me before, but there and then, it struck me hardest to realise that God has given me a privilege to have a circle of influence which I must treasure and be thankful for. It is a deep blessing.
Yet, when it was all over, and I had had a good time just by being there, I could not forget one question posed to me, "What would you give in exchange for your life?"
That really stunned me. And I ended up talking about a lot of things. But at the end, one of the interviewers asked me point-blank, "So would you say, you would give up your life for the poor? For the poor in Smokey Mountain, for example?"
And I was embarrassed and laughing at the same time because just a day ago I was writing about myself wanting to live with the poor, wasn't I?
But I didn't give an outright yes either. I was scared. I realised, I was scared of hearing myself say something as audacious as that. When he said the words I could not say, pressure built up behind my eyes. Don't cry, woman. You're at an interview.
Would I give my life up to live with the poor. My gosh, what was I thinking. My goodness, was it that obvious?
But that is exactly what I am thinking of.
So I talked a lot more about my hopes to pursue public health and surgery and other things so I could be more useful to help the needy. And I was also aware that had that been an interview to apply for a specialty, I would have shot myself in the foot because why would anyone want to train a medical person, only to lose her to the mission field?
Then I saw the value of the nomination and award. It would be helpful. It was the project chairperson who told me, "We want to encourage people who have been working quietly that they have not gone unnoticed."
As I left the place, I felt so free. I was carefree because the award didn't matter. Just being there at the National Volunteer Philanthropy Centre was an encouragement, being nominated was an encouragement, having the judges themselves and the project chairperson herself tell me they were touched was an encouragement.
I want to write this down because I want to remember the commitment I have made to the needy- that any award shall not be for my own pride, but to garner greater support for the causes I believe in. Just yesterday, famous Singaporean missionary doctor Dr Tan Lai Yong was on the front page of the national paper for his great commitment and impact on the rural poor in China for the past 14 years. I know him personally as a humble and simple man. I stayed with him for some time in a town in rural China, and we jogged together under the stars before our busy day of training village doctors. I saw how some publicity could bring hope and encouragement to others, including young people like myself.
"You're very relaxed compared to many other candidates I've seen today," said the project chairperson. "I think it's because you didn't come here to win, did you?"
I smiled. Because I realised, that God had brought me to a point where the award truly didn't matter. It is only wayang, for show, in some sense. Man's approval and the world's recognition should not and don't matter. Being nominated was a great privilege and an encouragement and a lot of fun in itself.
But yes God, I am writing this so that if I ever do earn undeserved recognition, help me to remember to use it not for myself, but for the poor and the needy and the hurting, always.
Yes, I would give up my life to live with the needy.
a little girl from Smokey
What a question to be asked at an interview. And to be honest, I didn't know what to say. After all, I didn't prepare for the interview. I had struggled with God about this- initially, I didn't even want to fill up the application, didn't want to go through the tedious process of having to submit my portfolio and four 1500-word essays about my life, didn't want to collate all the things these people wanted to find out about me. I was doing my hectic medical internship then- why bother?
It was Mio who told me, "Wayang, all this is for wayang." Wayang means "for show" in malay.
He wasn't discouraging me, he wished me all the best, but what he was trying to say was that all these awards and nominations for our "good works" really aren't the things which matter in life.
He should know. He's been helping needy children in various developing countries for 17 years now and has gone unrecognised because he chooses to keep a low profile. He could have chosen to make a big name for himself, but each time he comes into contact with influential people, it is because they came knocking at his door, and not the other way around.
Wayang. I had prayed hard about it, prayed about whether I wanted to follow through with this when my university informed me I had been nominated for a national youth award in contributing to humanity and children's rights. I'd never even heard of such an accolade before. There were so many other people worthy of the award. I didn't even want to try. Whatever for? I'd just become proud and self-centred, I thought.
With the encouragement of my best friend Jo, I wrote the essays, collated what I needed to and made my submission to the university. But just days before the deadline, I received a call from a lady from school saying that she had forgotten where she had placed my parcel for submission. I was annoyed, then disappointed.
Later, I realised that God was showing me where my priorities were, and what truly mattered. Did it matter that my work had to be recognised? I then had the peace that it was more than sufficient for me to be nominated in God's eyes. And in His eyes, we all are. We all have a kingly place in His eyes.
I let it go. Forget about the submission. God, whatever happens, happens. Never did I expect that the next day, a doctor friend called me to meet up at a hospital with him. Recalling that the lady from university had asked me to submit my items to this particular hospital so she could pick them up from there, I curiously went to find out how my parcel went missing, and in doing so, realised that my items never left the hospital and had never reached my university for submission to the national board. If my friend hadn't called me randomly to meet up at that particular hospital, I would never have found my items. If I didn't find them, I would never have submitted them. And perhaps God had deliberately waited for me to be assured that His award was more than sufficient before He allowed me to find them.
He has His ways.
A fews day ago, I got an email. They requested for us to wear a jacket suit to the final interview. There would be a photoshoot and an interview with about 6 to 8 judges. I suppose make-up and heels would have been appropriate.
But I didn't wear a suit. I wore my white dress and a little half-jacket I had bought some time ago from a quaint shop, looking smart but not overly formal. I didn't wear makeup. And I didn't do my hair. I wanted to go as I was.
"See the nomination as a gift," text-messaged Mio. "And don't forget about my work in Smokey Mountain when you win the award :) "
I realised, that this nomination in itself was a gift, and my sole purpose in life, should really be to gain God's approval, and not the approval of men. So many other people deserve to be nominated. Why me? But I realised that God, perhaps, has a purpose. I've had many people telling me not to shun the limelight because such things are platforms to reach out to more people, to earn the trust of more, to build a reliable reputation and thus have the potential to help even more.
I learnt, that yes, to a certain extent, all this is wayang, for show, but how do we allow them to be shaped according to God's purposes?
I really enjoyed the interview. Simply because I didn't attend it to win, and simply felt it was such a journey of faith just to be there. I was in the midst of wonderful candidates and judges who had gone through much in life to make our world a more inspiring place. And even though I felt I didn't answer the questions too well because I hadn't prepared for them, I felt completely natural, and could joke with the panel. It was fun. The photoshoot was fun.
After the interview had ended, the project chairperson came to tell me how much she enjoyed my submission of A Taste of Rainbow, which is due to be published next year. She asked me many more questions before I finally asked why she decided to do what she did.
"Because we want to support people like you, give you a platform to share your work and in so doing, help you in your cause."
It had struck me before, but there and then, it struck me hardest to realise that God has given me a privilege to have a circle of influence which I must treasure and be thankful for. It is a deep blessing.
Yet, when it was all over, and I had had a good time just by being there, I could not forget one question posed to me, "What would you give in exchange for your life?"
That really stunned me. And I ended up talking about a lot of things. But at the end, one of the interviewers asked me point-blank, "So would you say, you would give up your life for the poor? For the poor in Smokey Mountain, for example?"
And I was embarrassed and laughing at the same time because just a day ago I was writing about myself wanting to live with the poor, wasn't I?
But I didn't give an outright yes either. I was scared. I realised, I was scared of hearing myself say something as audacious as that. When he said the words I could not say, pressure built up behind my eyes. Don't cry, woman. You're at an interview.
Would I give my life up to live with the poor. My gosh, what was I thinking. My goodness, was it that obvious?
But that is exactly what I am thinking of.
So I talked a lot more about my hopes to pursue public health and surgery and other things so I could be more useful to help the needy. And I was also aware that had that been an interview to apply for a specialty, I would have shot myself in the foot because why would anyone want to train a medical person, only to lose her to the mission field?
Then I saw the value of the nomination and award. It would be helpful. It was the project chairperson who told me, "We want to encourage people who have been working quietly that they have not gone unnoticed."
As I left the place, I felt so free. I was carefree because the award didn't matter. Just being there at the National Volunteer Philanthropy Centre was an encouragement, being nominated was an encouragement, having the judges themselves and the project chairperson herself tell me they were touched was an encouragement.
I want to write this down because I want to remember the commitment I have made to the needy- that any award shall not be for my own pride, but to garner greater support for the causes I believe in. Just yesterday, famous Singaporean missionary doctor Dr Tan Lai Yong was on the front page of the national paper for his great commitment and impact on the rural poor in China for the past 14 years. I know him personally as a humble and simple man. I stayed with him for some time in a town in rural China, and we jogged together under the stars before our busy day of training village doctors. I saw how some publicity could bring hope and encouragement to others, including young people like myself.
"You're very relaxed compared to many other candidates I've seen today," said the project chairperson. "I think it's because you didn't come here to win, did you?"
I smiled. Because I realised, that God had brought me to a point where the award truly didn't matter. It is only wayang, for show, in some sense. Man's approval and the world's recognition should not and don't matter. Being nominated was a great privilege and an encouragement and a lot of fun in itself.
But yes God, I am writing this so that if I ever do earn undeserved recognition, help me to remember to use it not for myself, but for the poor and the needy and the hurting, always.
Yes, I would give up my life to live with the needy.
a little girl from Smokey"She never craved the limelight,
she only stepped into it because it was
the most efficient effective way to accomplish what she was sent here to do."
- quote on Mother Teresa
"There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl's complexion."
— Audrey Hepburn
"Let's do something beautiful for God."
-Mother Teresa
- quote on Mother Teresa
"There are certain shades of limelight that can wreck a girl's complexion."
— Audrey Hepburn
"Let's do something beautiful for God."
-Mother Teresa
Friday, November 12, 2010
POKER FACE
CHECK OUT MY NEW POKER FACE ROOM! AND NEW POKER FACE WALL PANEL COMING TOMORROW! P-P-P-POKER FACE!
Maleeni art toyok.
"So what did you do there?"
has probably been the most common question I receive every time I return from a trip to a developing country. We urban people are as such. We want to know what was achieved, the number of people helped, the amount of sacrifice it all took... in short, what was done.
And I often smile, sometimes in insecurity, when I say, "I was with the people. That's all. "
Is that too silly to say?
Because after going on some 10 humanitarian trips to developing countries, many by myself, some with teams, some with clearer agendas than others, I've become to see how crazy it is to think we can visit the poor and return to our lives of excess unchanged, to think we can take photos of a place to shock our friends with back home, and change the world in a week. I've come to appreciate the beauty of being with the people instead of doing for them, because the poor don't necessarily need our help, even though we think they do, even though our culture and our friends crown us with haloes of altruism and paint our good-doing in shades of romantic nobility.
A friend shared this with me: Timothy Keller writes of urban people, "While they may give some of their time, they spend large amounts of money on entertainment, their appearance, electronics, and travel. For a great number, then, volunteering is part of their portfolio of life-enriching activities, but it is not a feature of a whole life shaped by a commitment to doing justice, including radical generosity with one’s finances.
Our culture gives us a mixed message. It says: make lots of money and spend it on yourself; get an identity by the kind of clothes you wear and the places you travel to and live. But also do some volunteer work, care about social justice, because you don’t want to be just a selfish pig."
That pierced me.
Have volunteerism and humanitarian deeds become another means to brand ourselves, to fulfill a different sort of self-gratification? Can you live with going on a trip knowing that you have done "nothing", or must you justify your time and money spent by making sure your time is spent BuildingMakingTeachingDoingImpartingExecuting some sort of project for a people you didn't even bother to spend time with to learn their language? We feast on the hospitality of the locals, take a load of photos, carry with us a sense feel-good awe and return to our lives filled with designer handbags and facials and pedicures.
Jackie Pullinger was a missionary to Hong Kong who wrote a famous book called Chasing the Dragon. She wrote of a local person who shared his heart bravely with her, "You Westerners - you come here and tell us about God. You can stay for a year or two, and your conscience will feel good, and then you can go away. Your God will call you to other work back home. It's true that some of you can raise a lot of money on behalf of us underprivileged people. But you'll still be living in your nice houses with your refrigerators and servants, and we will still be living here. What you are doing really has nothing to do with us. You'll go home anyhow, sooner or later... You can sing about love very nicely, but what do you know about us? You don't touch us - you know nothing.
We couldn't careless if you have big buildings or small ones. You can be offering free rice, free school, judo classes or needlework to us. It doesn't matter if you have a daily program once a week. These things don't touch us because the people who run them have nothing to do with us. What we want to know is if you are concerned with us. Now you have been here for four years, we have decided that maybe you mean what you say."
And so I know it sounds ridiculous, but I want to return to Smokey. I want to return because when I was there, it felt so... right. It was ugly, it was dirty, the fumes from burning coal and the smell of trash was so noxious and the sight of children with skin and eye diseases so heartbreaking that I should have hated it. But it was where my heart was. It is where I want to return to. It has confirmed that God-willing, I should like to return to a developing country to serve them for a long time. I was looking forward to my graduation trip- hoping to perhaps finally visit a developed country and dreaming of going on a cycling tour round Europe. But I look forward even more to the smell of Smokey again.
The smell of Smokey- it is still with me. It is in my hair.
That day, when hoards of children came for the feeding programme in Smokey Mountain, and I, tired from dressing the wounds of yet another kid who had infected ones, asked the Pastor if I could spend 5 minutes talking to the kids.
"Maleeni art Toyok!" I said. Clean and dry. I was trying to get the kids to learn it as a jingle so they could take better care of themselves.
Who was I kidding? Who did I think I was, coming into their world for a few days and thinking I could earn their attention simply by being a foreigner.
I want to live with the poor, and I'm not sure if I can.
The day I returned home, my toes and feet were black because of the ash and mud of the place. Because of the sludge, it was impossible to wear covered shoes. Wearing slippers, however, meant one's feet often slid into muddy glue, disturbing the colony of houseflies resting on it. A friend and I were talking that day about my inability to love myself at times and certain emotional issues I was grappling with because of my perpetual inability to love myself in certain ways. Upon seeing my tarry toenails, she was horrified, then challenged me to go for a pedicure. "It is your inability to love yourself that makes you harsh sometimes, both on yourself and others. It is something you need to deal with."
I knew she was right, and as a symbolic act of humility to acknowledge and address my fears of loving myself, I went for a pedicure on the same day as I had returned from Smokey Mountain. How ironic, I thought. Yet, it was an emotional breakthrough on a different level and so I allowed it for a different reason.
Nonetheless, it got me thinking about how much I have yet to give up, how much I can and hope to.
That night, my dad, on seeing my photos with the children, expressed his fatherly concern that I might catch a disease by being so close to the kids. I didn't say much, didn't tell him that the kids rolled on piles of trash during playtime and that I hugged and kissed countless children without thought because touch, I've learnt, especially to the poor, is a powerful love language. It tells them you're not afraid to be on their level. It tells them you see them as human beings, too.
But my life and theirs still does not match. I have a thousand-dollar worth of facials in an upper-class spa bought for me by a lady at church I hardly know because she said she just wanted to bless me, I have a two-thousand six hundred dollar roadbike which my friends and family bought for me, and even though I don't do them often or regularly, I love pedicures.
What then? What now? God, deal with my inconsistency.
Because after all, if life is a journey of seeking of seeking balance amidst imbalance, and seeking reconciliation amidst conflict, then I am seeking for an equilibrium between my world and theirs. As far as God was concerned, He loved us so much that even heaven's distance from our fleshly carnality did not stop Him from seeking us out and bringing us closer to His divine love.
I have a long way to go.
But I know one thing, that I will not forget those moments I played with 7-year old Ricky and loved him as if he were my son, nor forget the dream I have about living with and loving the poor, because as we sat by the pier that day overlooking the trash-filled sea, I realised that one of my most treasure moments was sitting close to Ricky and playing with our blackened, unpedicured feet and realising that being with the poor was joy in itself, that being close to them was a blessing in itself and that to truly impact the lives of the needy through healthcare or education or policy-making, I would need to live, love and be with them for a long time.
God did not see as us projects. He did not establish programmes to fix us. He simply came to live and be with us.
Maleeni art toyok. To change lives, requires more than a day. Sometimes, it requires a lifetime.
Smokey Mountain is calling.
has probably been the most common question I receive every time I return from a trip to a developing country. We urban people are as such. We want to know what was achieved, the number of people helped, the amount of sacrifice it all took... in short, what was done.
And I often smile, sometimes in insecurity, when I say, "I was with the people. That's all. "
Is that too silly to say?
Because after going on some 10 humanitarian trips to developing countries, many by myself, some with teams, some with clearer agendas than others, I've become to see how crazy it is to think we can visit the poor and return to our lives of excess unchanged, to think we can take photos of a place to shock our friends with back home, and change the world in a week. I've come to appreciate the beauty of being with the people instead of doing for them, because the poor don't necessarily need our help, even though we think they do, even though our culture and our friends crown us with haloes of altruism and paint our good-doing in shades of romantic nobility.
A friend shared this with me: Timothy Keller writes of urban people, "While they may give some of their time, they spend large amounts of money on entertainment, their appearance, electronics, and travel. For a great number, then, volunteering is part of their portfolio of life-enriching activities, but it is not a feature of a whole life shaped by a commitment to doing justice, including radical generosity with one’s finances.
Our culture gives us a mixed message. It says: make lots of money and spend it on yourself; get an identity by the kind of clothes you wear and the places you travel to and live. But also do some volunteer work, care about social justice, because you don’t want to be just a selfish pig."
That pierced me.
Have volunteerism and humanitarian deeds become another means to brand ourselves, to fulfill a different sort of self-gratification? Can you live with going on a trip knowing that you have done "nothing", or must you justify your time and money spent by making sure your time is spent BuildingMakingTeachingDoingImpartingExecuting some sort of project for a people you didn't even bother to spend time with to learn their language? We feast on the hospitality of the locals, take a load of photos, carry with us a sense feel-good awe and return to our lives filled with designer handbags and facials and pedicures.
Jackie Pullinger was a missionary to Hong Kong who wrote a famous book called Chasing the Dragon. She wrote of a local person who shared his heart bravely with her, "You Westerners - you come here and tell us about God. You can stay for a year or two, and your conscience will feel good, and then you can go away. Your God will call you to other work back home. It's true that some of you can raise a lot of money on behalf of us underprivileged people. But you'll still be living in your nice houses with your refrigerators and servants, and we will still be living here. What you are doing really has nothing to do with us. You'll go home anyhow, sooner or later... You can sing about love very nicely, but what do you know about us? You don't touch us - you know nothing.
We couldn't careless if you have big buildings or small ones. You can be offering free rice, free school, judo classes or needlework to us. It doesn't matter if you have a daily program once a week. These things don't touch us because the people who run them have nothing to do with us. What we want to know is if you are concerned with us. Now you have been here for four years, we have decided that maybe you mean what you say."
And so I know it sounds ridiculous, but I want to return to Smokey. I want to return because when I was there, it felt so... right. It was ugly, it was dirty, the fumes from burning coal and the smell of trash was so noxious and the sight of children with skin and eye diseases so heartbreaking that I should have hated it. But it was where my heart was. It is where I want to return to. It has confirmed that God-willing, I should like to return to a developing country to serve them for a long time. I was looking forward to my graduation trip- hoping to perhaps finally visit a developed country and dreaming of going on a cycling tour round Europe. But I look forward even more to the smell of Smokey again.
The smell of Smokey- it is still with me. It is in my hair.
That day, when hoards of children came for the feeding programme in Smokey Mountain, and I, tired from dressing the wounds of yet another kid who had infected ones, asked the Pastor if I could spend 5 minutes talking to the kids.
"Maleeni art Toyok!" I said. Clean and dry. I was trying to get the kids to learn it as a jingle so they could take better care of themselves.
Who was I kidding? Who did I think I was, coming into their world for a few days and thinking I could earn their attention simply by being a foreigner.
I want to live with the poor, and I'm not sure if I can.
The day I returned home, my toes and feet were black because of the ash and mud of the place. Because of the sludge, it was impossible to wear covered shoes. Wearing slippers, however, meant one's feet often slid into muddy glue, disturbing the colony of houseflies resting on it. A friend and I were talking that day about my inability to love myself at times and certain emotional issues I was grappling with because of my perpetual inability to love myself in certain ways. Upon seeing my tarry toenails, she was horrified, then challenged me to go for a pedicure. "It is your inability to love yourself that makes you harsh sometimes, both on yourself and others. It is something you need to deal with."
I knew she was right, and as a symbolic act of humility to acknowledge and address my fears of loving myself, I went for a pedicure on the same day as I had returned from Smokey Mountain. How ironic, I thought. Yet, it was an emotional breakthrough on a different level and so I allowed it for a different reason.
Nonetheless, it got me thinking about how much I have yet to give up, how much I can and hope to.
That night, my dad, on seeing my photos with the children, expressed his fatherly concern that I might catch a disease by being so close to the kids. I didn't say much, didn't tell him that the kids rolled on piles of trash during playtime and that I hugged and kissed countless children without thought because touch, I've learnt, especially to the poor, is a powerful love language. It tells them you're not afraid to be on their level. It tells them you see them as human beings, too.
But my life and theirs still does not match. I have a thousand-dollar worth of facials in an upper-class spa bought for me by a lady at church I hardly know because she said she just wanted to bless me, I have a two-thousand six hundred dollar roadbike which my friends and family bought for me, and even though I don't do them often or regularly, I love pedicures.
What then? What now? God, deal with my inconsistency.
Because after all, if life is a journey of seeking of seeking balance amidst imbalance, and seeking reconciliation amidst conflict, then I am seeking for an equilibrium between my world and theirs. As far as God was concerned, He loved us so much that even heaven's distance from our fleshly carnality did not stop Him from seeking us out and bringing us closer to His divine love.
I have a long way to go.
But I know one thing, that I will not forget those moments I played with 7-year old Ricky and loved him as if he were my son, nor forget the dream I have about living with and loving the poor, because as we sat by the pier that day overlooking the trash-filled sea, I realised that one of my most treasure moments was sitting close to Ricky and playing with our blackened, unpedicured feet and realising that being with the poor was joy in itself, that being close to them was a blessing in itself and that to truly impact the lives of the needy through healthcare or education or policy-making, I would need to live, love and be with them for a long time.
God did not see as us projects. He did not establish programmes to fix us. He simply came to live and be with us.
Maleeni art toyok. To change lives, requires more than a day. Sometimes, it requires a lifetime.
Smokey Mountain is calling.
Photos with Ricky
"For you know the grace of God,
that though He was rich,
yet for your sake He became poor,
so that you through his poverty might become rich."
-2 Cor 8:9
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
My GaGa Stardolls
Hey everyone. I just thought I would put together an image of my GaGa inspired stardolls and show which GaGa outfit they are based on so that people have an idea because so many people always ask me where the outfit I am wearing is from. So I hope this helps! Enjoy!
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Binson.
I was shocked when I heard his reply. I had asked the question as a conversation starter, but little did I expect the conversation to twist that way.
I had asked Jerry, the little twelve-year old boy who had grown up all his life at the dumpsite, "Do you like Smokey Mountain?"
He smiled at me beautifully before saying, "Yes."
That shocked me. Because next to him, all the other boys who were his neighbours squirmed in disgust.
"Why?" I asked.
" Er..." he cocked his head in a child-like manner, "It is... beautiful."
Beautiful. How could this place filled with trash and ash and flies and dirt be... beautiful? Said the Filipino photographer who had come with us, "He probably has never ever been out of Smokey Mountain before. He probably has never seen what beauty is and so has nothing to compare his home against."
Jerry's response shocked me- what was beautiful about Smokey? But it marked the beginning of my journey in learning how to respect the people, instead of carrying my own mindsets, my own culture and my own sense of what was good and correct, my own sense of superiority to someone else's world.
Smokey mountain. This was his home, where his loved ones were.
Jerry
On my first day at the dumpsite trudging through the mud in the pouring rain with Mio's friends, a little boy in the distance caught our eye. He was limping in the rain, against a backdrop of mountains of trash and smoke.
"Cerebral palsy," I thought resignedly, "Nothing we can do." We went nearer, and I saw his right leg contracted in spasms. Completely naked, the little boy crouched down low, shivering in the cold. The medical student in me leaped out and I began to examine his right leg. On closer inspection, we then saw terribly infected wounds on his injured leg. He was limping severely, not because he was crippled, but because he was in great pain. Yellow pus oozed out from where he was hurt. He was shivering, shivering, shivering, and did not answer any of our questions.
"Cerebral palsy," I thought resignedly, "Nothing we can do." We went nearer, and I saw his right leg contracted in spasms. Completely naked, the little boy crouched down low, shivering in the cold. The medical student in me leaped out and I began to examine his right leg. On closer inspection, we then saw terribly infected wounds on his injured leg. He was limping severely, not because he was crippled, but because he was in great pain. Yellow pus oozed out from where he was hurt. He was shivering, shivering, shivering, and did not answer any of our questions.
"Can we get him a shirt?" I asked. "Maybe from a store nearby?"
"Anung panggalan mo?" I asked in Tagalog. What is your name?
"Bunso." Pronounced Boon-sor. It means Little One. His real name was Vinsen, pronounced as Binson.
He was shivering, shivering, just as we were, except that while we were clothed, he was as bare as a stone. His brown skin glistened in the chilly rain like brown marble. Mio's Filipino friend, Aji, another photographer whom he had linked up with online and just my age, took off his white shirt and I clothed him.
"Come," I said. He was afraid of us. Aji asked him why he wasn't clothed and he said he had no shirt. We walked him home. Little Bunso in a large oversized shirt.
His home was a little makeshift shelter on low stilts made from wooden cardboard and plastic, situated right in front of the coal-making sheds, where it would get full measure of the noxious fumes. It was next to the coast as well, so any floods (which were common) would make his home most vulnerable. We found his mother, who spoke good English because she had gone to school till she was 15.
I learnt, that many of the people in Smokey Mountain live there not because they are "stupid" or uneducated, but simply because, coal-making is, to them, a decent job, one of integrity, a better alternative to other options, and it was a place they were familiar with, away from the big world out there which had no place for people like them.
Back home, at least they felt accepted.
Binson sat on the floor while we asked his mother to bathe and clothe him. She was a dark, strong woman with a face like a horse and a charming smile. His wounds on his leg were raw, oozing with pus and covered with black soot. Three days old, she said, Got injured from hot coals.
Hot coals. They were everywhere. This was the children's world. Trash heaps were beanbags and coal pieces, their building blocks. Just the next day I was horrified to find four three-year old kids crouching around a small fire and playing with it with bits of plastic they had found.
It was common to find children helping their parents collect coal from the shed. I saw a little girl, who could not be more than 7, scooping up rusty nails with her bare hands, caked with black soot, to return to her parents for reuse. It was no wonder Binson got injured.
"Come, come in, " said his mother warmly. Mio and team waited outside but I did not refuse. Inside, were 2 chairs with torn cushions and a plastic sheet on which they slept on. I watched as she bathed Binson with scooped water from a bucket, with him wincing and grimacing in pain. Tears oozed from his large, soulful eyes. I must have looked a little too hard at their house because she said with a smile, "We are poor."
She was apologizing for being poor.
She was apologizing for being poor.
Water does not come easy. I later learnt from the local pastor, Ps Nickson, that one has to walk out of Smokey Mountain, onto the main highway and queue up for water, dispensed from a horsecart for hours before getting some. It is not even drinking water, but water from a hose which they must use for all their cleaning and bathing and drinking, too. I cringed on hearing that, as I remembered Binson's mother offering us her water to clean our feet which were caked with mud.
From a wooden shelf she pulled out some clothes, but every one was too large for Binson. He had four siblings and there was not enough to go around. He shivered in a large towel wrapped around him. Finally, he was dressed in his father's clothes. The family was reluctant to take him to the clinic.
"We'll come back tomorrow with medication," Aji told them. "But tonight, can we take him out for dinner?"
Mio has worked as a social worker, counsellor and some sort of freelance missionary for many years. He and I both understand that we are not to practise "touristy generosity", for such things can backlash and create an unhealthy reliance and expectation from foreigners. But he had built close ties with some of the people there, and we felt it was all right to take some of them nearby for a simple meal. In the drizzle, Mio carried Binson on his back. He waved cheekily at me from above.
Even then, the children were modest, not taking more than they could eat, gently refusing when we doled out more food for them.
From a wooden shelf she pulled out some clothes, but every one was too large for Binson. He had four siblings and there was not enough to go around. He shivered in a large towel wrapped around him. Finally, he was dressed in his father's clothes. The family was reluctant to take him to the clinic.
"We'll come back tomorrow with medication," Aji told them. "But tonight, can we take him out for dinner?"
Mio has worked as a social worker, counsellor and some sort of freelance missionary for many years. He and I both understand that we are not to practise "touristy generosity", for such things can backlash and create an unhealthy reliance and expectation from foreigners. But he had built close ties with some of the people there, and we felt it was all right to take some of them nearby for a simple meal. In the drizzle, Mio carried Binson on his back. He waved cheekily at me from above.
Even then, the children were modest, not taking more than they could eat, gently refusing when we doled out more food for them.
Ricky is a 7-year old boy who, for some reason, endeared himself to me. As we walked along the streets at night and young teenagers whistled at me, he held my hand and agitatedly spoke to me in Tagalog. It was the pastor's wife who told me that he was telling me how he "would not let the big boys court me" and would protect me from them. Later however, he started crying halfway through dinner as some hooligan boys, not more than ten years old, crept in during dinner to threaten to punch him if he did not share his food with them. They stood outside the coffeeshop, perched like hawks, watching us eat.
Ricky and I
Such is the situation in Smokey Mountain. The Sunday School Teacher in me wanted to rise up to teach those bad boys a lesson, but when I looked into their eyes and saw their ragged clothes, I saw that they, too, were poor, hungry and empty inside.
Along the way, we dropped by a pharmacy to buy antiseptic cream and alcohol to clean Binson's wounds. I learnt, that Ps Nickson had started a feeding programme that fed hundreds of children in Smokey Children, but they had hardly enough funds to sustain that, much less start a hygiene programme for the children. Each feeding session, which provides every child aged 4 to 11 a packet of rice and a piece of sausage the size of a small fishcake, costs about $300. They need a continuous supply of $1200 each month to nourish the scrawny children there.
We had a delicious meal that night. We were all famished. We nursed Binson's wounds over the next few days, cooing "Magandang, magandang (be brave)" as he winced and teared from the pain. It frustrated us, me especially, to know that the soot continually infected his wounds and nothing could keep him indoors for long. At one point, I chided him, and him, in his shame, cried and tore himself away from me. Just the day before, we were best friends.
Binson's tears reminded me of what Jerry had shared with me, that Smokey Mountain was beautiful because after all, it was his home, their Home-it was where his friends and family were; His tears reminded me of the pride and dignity the people had in that place- they were kind and polite to me, and made an honest living collecting trash and making charcoal. They were not stealing, merely making a living; His tears reminded me, that I had no right to assume I knew better than them, had no right to barge in and tell them the grand ideas I had to lift them out of their poverty, and demand that they should have a hygiene programme or a new project or another new scheme.
This is their home. God tells us to serve one another in humility, and not to lord over one another in pride and self-righteousness.
The next day, even after I had chided Binson, I found him lying in a soot-covered hammock under a coal shed, with his wounds all covered with a carpet of black smoke. I learnt, that we cannot impose ourselves on the poor. This is their life. This is their charcoal-making, soot-filled, trash-surrounding life which they chose to live in with dignity, and that is the dignity which I, too, must choose to accord them with.
As we walked back home that night, I saw once again how much the poor had taught me about life. As I carried Binson in my arms, I suddenly knew at that moment once again, with renewed conviction, what I wanted to do with my future. I still don't know exactly what God wants me to do post-graduation, but I do have some idea. I do know, that God has called me to transform communities, and to help underprivileged children, not by running the place down and telling the people how to live and what to do, but in God's own gentle and quiet way, to live with them, to understand them and to encourage them, and in doing so, to love them.
That is all.
As we walked back home that night, I saw once again how much the poor had taught me about life. As I carried Binson in my arms, I suddenly knew at that moment once again, with renewed conviction, what I wanted to do with my future. I still don't know exactly what God wants me to do post-graduation, but I do have some idea. I do know, that God has called me to transform communities, and to help underprivileged children, not by running the place down and telling the people how to live and what to do, but in God's own gentle and quiet way, to live with them, to understand them and to encourage them, and in doing so, to love them.
That is all.
"Is this not the fast which I choose,
to loosen the bonds of wickedness,
to undo the bands of the yoke,
and to let the oppressed go free, and break every yoke?
Is it not to divide your bread with the hungry,
and bring the homeless poor into the house;
when you see the naked, to cover him,
and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?"
-Isaiah 58:66
*photos by Mio and I
Monday, November 8, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
New designs Coming!
ATTENTION! NEW DESIGNS COMING TOMORROW! NEW GAGA WALL PANEL DESIGNS AND NEW TSHIRT DESIGNS COMING TOMORROW! WHICH MEANS THAT SOME OLD DESIGNS ARE GOING TO BE LEAVING FOREVER. BUY THEM NOW WHILE YOU CAN, YOUR FAVORITE DESIGN MIGHT BE GOING!
Freedom.
* story published with approval & permission.
" If I could turn back time, I would."
You see, he was crucified and flogged, and then, on trying to save himself, was forced to tell on his best friend and watch him beaten to death by the guards when they were caught for stealing food.
"We were just hungry."
They were only 11 then.
I met him through my publisher, who found his powerful photos online. Social reportage photographer, Mio, who asked me to come with him has been visiting Tondo regularly for more than a decade now, exposing this other world through his blood-stained eyes. Even though you'd mistake him for just another Chinese Singaporean, he was born in Cambodia. Since seeing the grotesque killings and atrocities in his childhood, he has used photography in his mission to help underprivileged children, in his attempt to bring hope to a new generation, freedom to captives, and bring healing to his guilt-ridden past.
"I used to have nightmares every night. Every night, I would go back to the prisons in Cambodia and see my friends screaming in pain. After I believed in God, I started praying for them, and since then, every time I dream, I've been able to free someone."
He sets captives free.
Guilt for causing his best friend's death no longer plagues him. During one of his trips to Cambodia, he met a small Cambodian boy named Tira, who looked just like his best friend who died. On getting to know his family better, Mio found out from his parents that Tira had had nightmares since he was 4 years old, of guards flogging him to death. Tira grew attached to Mio and now calls him "Father". It was if God had used Tira to bring healing and forgiveness to Mio, and to set him free, too.
"Wai Jia, come with me to Smokey mountain in Tondo? I work with an organisation there called Malaya Kids Ministries. Malaya in the Filipino language means Freedom. "
Smokey Mountain. That's what all the local people of Manila call it.
Smokey, because of the burning ash. Mountain, because of the formidable heaps of rubbish piled up to the sky, with rolls of rancid smoke rising up like chimneys from the chopped wood burnt to make charcoal.
Smokey Mountain at Tondo. Tondo, it is a dirty word, in many senses of the word.
I know, because we hailed and were rejected by more than 10 taxis before we found a driver who would take us there, even though it was only 15 minutes away. Even then, he was only willing to drop us on the highway, and no where nearer.
Tondo. It is where the air is still and the smell of soot, trash and most of all, dreams hang still in the air. I have been to more than 10 humanitarian trips to various developing countries, but nothing could prepare me for what my eyes and heart had to take in.
" If I could turn back time, I would."
You see, he was crucified and flogged, and then, on trying to save himself, was forced to tell on his best friend and watch him beaten to death by the guards when they were caught for stealing food.
"We were just hungry."
They were only 11 then.
I met him through my publisher, who found his powerful photos online. Social reportage photographer, Mio, who asked me to come with him has been visiting Tondo regularly for more than a decade now, exposing this other world through his blood-stained eyes. Even though you'd mistake him for just another Chinese Singaporean, he was born in Cambodia. Since seeing the grotesque killings and atrocities in his childhood, he has used photography in his mission to help underprivileged children, in his attempt to bring hope to a new generation, freedom to captives, and bring healing to his guilt-ridden past.
"I used to have nightmares every night. Every night, I would go back to the prisons in Cambodia and see my friends screaming in pain. After I believed in God, I started praying for them, and since then, every time I dream, I've been able to free someone."
He sets captives free.
Guilt for causing his best friend's death no longer plagues him. During one of his trips to Cambodia, he met a small Cambodian boy named Tira, who looked just like his best friend who died. On getting to know his family better, Mio found out from his parents that Tira had had nightmares since he was 4 years old, of guards flogging him to death. Tira grew attached to Mio and now calls him "Father". It was if God had used Tira to bring healing and forgiveness to Mio, and to set him free, too.
"Wai Jia, come with me to Smokey mountain in Tondo? I work with an organisation there called Malaya Kids Ministries. Malaya in the Filipino language means Freedom. "
Smokey Mountain. That's what all the local people of Manila call it.
Smokey, because of the burning ash. Mountain, because of the formidable heaps of rubbish piled up to the sky, with rolls of rancid smoke rising up like chimneys from the chopped wood burnt to make charcoal.
Smokey Mountain at Tondo. Tondo, it is a dirty word, in many senses of the word.
I know, because we hailed and were rejected by more than 10 taxis before we found a driver who would take us there, even though it was only 15 minutes away. Even then, he was only willing to drop us on the highway, and no where nearer.
Tondo. It is where the air is still and the smell of soot, trash and most of all, dreams hang still in the air. I have been to more than 10 humanitarian trips to various developing countries, but nothing could prepare me for what my eyes and heart had to take in.
It started to rain. The heavens grieved and moaned, shaking its bottled melancholy out of its clouds, as if it were a strange foreboding of what was to come. There were tall buildings and working streetlamps and nice cars and boisterous crowds and colourful markets, and then suddenly, a bridge-a bridge over troubled waters and then a long, grim line of black and grey houses fashioned from wooden boards, rusty mattress rings and plastic. A gigantic rubbish truck stationed itself at the end of the long road where a group of children prowled around to raid the loot from the putrid present.
Tondo. We're here.
As soon as we tumbled out, it was as if the skies could no longer hide its grief, and raindrops fell like shiny, pin-like guillotines onto the ground below.
"Come, Wai Jia. Stay close," he said. A Filipino and another Singaporean photographer whom Mio had connected up with online came too. Each had a heart to help the people of Tondo through telling the hidden, untold stories of this public atrocity.
Through his photographic endeavours, Mio has raised funds for the poor, brought hope to the needy and also caught the eye of famous people in the likes of the President of the Philippines. He has formed ties and bonds with the poor, and helped many. This time, he was on another photographic adventure, and hoped that by bringing me to see this world through my own eyes, God, too, would be able to use me to help.
The rain only got heavier. Our clothes stuck to us like clingy orphans to loving arms. We waited under a zinc roof, but the rain showed no signs of abating.
"Are we still going?" I asked Mio.
" Of course," he said gently. "This is nothing, the last time I came, there was a thunderstorm. No problem, God is with us... let's go."
And off we went again. Suddenly, the long empty road ended and the stark landscape before us gripped me like a strangulating vice.
"Oh, Mio," I said. But he was walking ahead already. I remembered what he had told me before-Living in the midst of montrosity as a child had made him immune to any kind of tragedy and given him an eye to convey the deepest of emotions through his photography.
Towering piles of rubbish, heaped like grand mountains, loomed over us like an evil fortress. Billows of white, acrid smoke in the distance came to greet us. I shuddered, half out of the cold and half, in seeing children in various states of undress hiking up the mountainous terrain of trash in the pouring rain, taking the chance to bathe or play.
My eyes trailed the horizon, searching for some glimmer of colour or hope. But all there was, was tragic, bleak black-browness and a rancid odour. The ground was carpeted with black, soggy trash, compacted by a million barefooted footsteps bearing the weight of heavy charcoal and bags of trash. Used plastic bags, old sacks, thrown-away slippers, broken wooden planks and filthy food wrappers tiled the ground. Piles of broken wooden planks, rusty bicycles, bags of empty bottles and old toys and stacks of worn tyres flanked the path. Everything was either old or used or worn or broken or faded. There was debris everywhere.
It reminded me of the time I went to Sichuan on a medical relief trip after the earthquake- there, was death and destruction. Now, before my eyes lay a similar picture, except that this place was full of life, full of the sense of people building and working and trying to eke a meagre living out of whatever they could.
We had no umbrella, only broken hearts, and so trudged through the terrain, fraught with the danger of rusty nails, sharp wood and uneven ground. It was cold, and heaven's tears soaked our grief-stained clothes.
Brown houses and grey slates flanked the muddy paths, dented with tyre teeth and filled with puddles of water. As we trudged through the mud, sometimes almost slipping, clouds of smoke billowed up like white pillows in the distance. The smell of soot and the sight of piled charcoal, overwhelmed us, even in the rain. Children streamed out like snails on a rainy day catching a breath of fresh air. Our feet and slippers sloshed through the murky water, sometimes getting stuck in the mud.
Little kids, covered with soot, dotted the black landscape, hiding behind the veil of angry, choking smoke because that was their parents' livelihood- picking trash and making charcoal from burning wooden planks.
This, is Smokey Mountain.
A naked child ran barefoot in the rain, up the steep trash hill, and squatted down promptly to defacate. Then I realised, that the children were everywhere, enjoying this God-given relief of hydration, oblivious to the plight of their own states. Thousands of homes were embedded in this dumpsite, homes which contained mothers and fathers and teens and young children. A little girl runs with abandon across the muddy ground barefoot, over the dangerous trash, smashes open a plastic bag which explodes with a white potpourri of snow and gleefully starts to play in the muddy puddles. Her little friend skips over, skewers a plastic cup with a sharp stick to make into a funnel and joins in the fun. It is dessicated coconut, and she kneads it like dough, moulds it like plasticine, and when it is finally all brown and squeezed out of life, she and her little naked friends use them like water bombs to throw at their bullies in glee.
"Oh, Mio," I say, but he has walked ahead. This is not new to him.
It was raining heavily, but life went on. Just like how even though there was trash everywhere, even though there was choking smoke everywhere, even though life was picking a huge bag of trash and earning less than a dollar a day, life went on.
Life went on.
I stood in my tracks, overwhelmed by it all. I had seen poor people live before- but nothing came close to this. This was a dumpsite, and everything, from the homes they lived in to the toys they played with to tools they used... were made of trash. Houseflies buzzed around in swarms.
There was trash, trash all around. And perhaps, the taxi drivers who were afraid to drive us there didn't want to because they saw the people as such too.
Said our Filipino friend, "It is very common for taxi drivers to refuse going to Tondo. They think the people are bad."
That night, I left heavy-hearted. I saw the stark reality of poverty and captivity, trapping the people in a vicious cycle. I saw the children rolling on top of bags of trash, pretending they were beanbags; I saw the children working amidst the coal, breathing in noxious fumes and getting covered in soot; I saw the people living in cramped, dirty, spartan living conditions. I saw trash, trash and more trash.
Today was a hard day. Even though I had left the place, my heart was broken and any talk of the place and the children only soured my nose. I have been on more than 10 mission trips to various developing nations, but none has been more heartbreaking than this.
And then I knew, that God had called me there for a reason. There was a reason why I saw a rainbow after meeting Mio for the first time. There is a reason why I did not grow up in poverty, amidst the smell of burning coal and putrfying trash. There is a reason why we have the privilege of living the way we do.
"Pray for us," said Pastor Nixon, the young Filipino man who started a ministry to help the poor. "I was a Smokey Mountain boy before, living in these sort of conditions. The people here have no hope. They are trapped. I set up Malaya Kids Ministries because I want them to know they have a hope. They can be set free. Malaya in Filipino language means Freedom. All is not lost. Look at me now."
All is not lost. Freedom awaits.
Melaya means Freedom. The sun will shine someday.
"If God therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed"
-John 8:36
"For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever
the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom."
-2 Corinthians 3:17
Thursday, November 4, 2010
It's okay.
"No. My answer is no."
I have gotten used to hearing that. And sometimes, the more resistance I face, the more my inner being feels that it is something worth giving a long shot for.
They say it is good to listen to wise counsel and I agree with that. But I have also learnt, that most importantly, one must listen to that still small voice that comes quietly in the night.
I have a feeling, that my 2 greatest decisions in life- what I do with my job and the person I marry will not be conventional choice either. And they will be decisions I will have to stick by in spite of the resistance and naysaying.
"No, my answer is no. Why are you asking again? I've already told you. They just had a shooting incident. No."
I remember being torn that whole week. My folks didn't want me to go to Manila, not with this amazing photographer person whom I'd only met once, even though he was my publisher's friend. They didn't want me in that crazy city, where they just had a shooting rampage going on and some innocent Hong Kong tourists were recklessly shot to death.
But I really had to go. It was not so much that I wanted to go as much as I knew God wanted me to. I heard that still small voice. That day after praying, I saw a rainbow. And I knew, I was due to go.
I wanted to book the air tickets anyhow, but somehow, a greater respect for my folks stopped me. So I prayed. And prayed. And quit asking, and prayed some more.
Then a week later, my greying hero walked into my room and said, "It's not safe. If you ask me, I'll say I don't like the idea. But if you feel you really must, then book your tickets. We'll pay."
So I've taken leave from my crazy surgical internship to go to a dumpsite in Manila to visit some children living in dumpsites. Me, and 2 other guys, one whom I've never met before. They work closely with an NGO there on a regular basis.
God said Go, so I held Him to His word. So even if anything happens, know that I will die an incredibly happy and fulfilled person.
And just because I've witnessed too many heartbreakingly unexpected deaths of late, I just want to say that Mum and Dad, know that you have given me life to the full by releasing me. Know that I am thankful for your love that allows me to share God's love with the world. Know that whatever happens, I will forever be thankful I had the chance to live life this way. This is the best life to live.
Jo, thanks for praying for me- make sure there're lots of colourful balloons and emo Coldplay and David Crowder music at my funeral and you can have all my photos, dresses and ear-rings. Jes, you can have all the upgraded parts of my bike and fit it onto yours. Aunty Ay, please give all my money away to a foundation for needy kids in Africa, because that is the one place where I've yet to hug the children in.
It's a reckless trip, I know. Someone told me there's some terror alert going on in the area but it's okay. I'm okay. This isn't any different from when I went to Nepal or India or Indonesia.
Your prayers are appreciated.
I have gotten used to hearing that. And sometimes, the more resistance I face, the more my inner being feels that it is something worth giving a long shot for.
They say it is good to listen to wise counsel and I agree with that. But I have also learnt, that most importantly, one must listen to that still small voice that comes quietly in the night.
I have a feeling, that my 2 greatest decisions in life- what I do with my job and the person I marry will not be conventional choice either. And they will be decisions I will have to stick by in spite of the resistance and naysaying.
"No, my answer is no. Why are you asking again? I've already told you. They just had a shooting incident. No."
I remember being torn that whole week. My folks didn't want me to go to Manila, not with this amazing photographer person whom I'd only met once, even though he was my publisher's friend. They didn't want me in that crazy city, where they just had a shooting rampage going on and some innocent Hong Kong tourists were recklessly shot to death.
But I really had to go. It was not so much that I wanted to go as much as I knew God wanted me to. I heard that still small voice. That day after praying, I saw a rainbow. And I knew, I was due to go.
I wanted to book the air tickets anyhow, but somehow, a greater respect for my folks stopped me. So I prayed. And prayed. And quit asking, and prayed some more.
Then a week later, my greying hero walked into my room and said, "It's not safe. If you ask me, I'll say I don't like the idea. But if you feel you really must, then book your tickets. We'll pay."
So I've taken leave from my crazy surgical internship to go to a dumpsite in Manila to visit some children living in dumpsites. Me, and 2 other guys, one whom I've never met before. They work closely with an NGO there on a regular basis.
God said Go, so I held Him to His word. So even if anything happens, know that I will die an incredibly happy and fulfilled person.
And just because I've witnessed too many heartbreakingly unexpected deaths of late, I just want to say that Mum and Dad, know that you have given me life to the full by releasing me. Know that I am thankful for your love that allows me to share God's love with the world. Know that whatever happens, I will forever be thankful I had the chance to live life this way. This is the best life to live.
Jo, thanks for praying for me- make sure there're lots of colourful balloons and emo Coldplay and David Crowder music at my funeral and you can have all my photos, dresses and ear-rings. Jes, you can have all the upgraded parts of my bike and fit it onto yours. Aunty Ay, please give all my money away to a foundation for needy kids in Africa, because that is the one place where I've yet to hug the children in.
It's a reckless trip, I know. Someone told me there's some terror alert going on in the area but it's okay. I'm okay. This isn't any different from when I went to Nepal or India or Indonesia.
Your prayers are appreciated.
"Go into all the world..."
-Mark 16: 15
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Lady GaGa items!!!
So I ordered some items from the official Lady GaGa website in the beginning of october hoping that I would get my stuff for Halloween..... of course I didn't and had to improvise!!! So every day since last week I have been checking my mail non stop to see if I had gotten my stuff yet. And today I open my mailbox to find...... my package!!! It's too late for halloween but oh well I don't need a special occasion to go GAGA! I bought a hairbow which I am sooo happy matches my hair color!!! I bought lady gaga's glasses and I bought a tshirt that I liked that happened to be on sale. I love the bow and glasses but I am a bit upset because I didn't know what the shirt sizes would be like because some places make their shirts very small so I took a large and this shirt is too big for me! I hope it shrinks in the wash!!! I will take pix of me wearing my stuff tomorrow! For now here are pix from the Lady Gaga website of what I bought.
This bow
These glasses
This shirt
This bow
These glasses
This shirt
National Covergirl Winner (Canada) 02/11/10
Hey guys I am National Covergirl Winner (Canada) 02/11/10
Thanks everyone for voting me it is an honor.
Thanks everyone for voting me it is an honor.
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