Tag Archives: Relationships

Body, Mind and Soul: Some Time Out

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One of my main goals for 2011 was to put my health first, and to not go through another year constantly stressed, with recurrent colds, stomach upsets and endless fatigue.

If you have followed me at all this year, you would know that I tanked so badly at it, it’s not funny.

BUT

I must give myself some credit for noticing the error of my ways before 2011 ticked over to 2012 – and a few months early at that!

Quitting the old job, going part-time in the new job, eating better, seeing a naturopath, commencing light exercise, pushing back on…everything…Sure I went a bit too hard with the whole ‘changing my life thing’ to start with, but I do now believe that I am heading towards a more balanced life.

Which brings me to last weekend, where I took some time out.  On Friday I drove to Yallingup, a coastal town about 4 hours south of Perth, to spend a long weekend with some of my family, notably my sister-in-law Rachel, and my beautiful nieces Charlotte – 3 – and Emily – 8 months.

Yallingup beach

I had the best time hitting the road by myself, allowing the country and ocean air to successfully rid my brain of its cobwebs.

It was wonderful eating great food and spending some quality time with my sister, brother and their friends.

My brother Luke and I

It was relaxing spending a girly night with my sister-in-law watching ‘chick flicks’.

It was absolutely joyous just being with my nieces, especially little Charlotte who has succeeded in stealing my heart.

My niece Charlotte and I

And it was satisfying spending time with my man (who joined us a day later) and my camera (I took 140 photos in the first day).

I thoroughly enjoyed the time out from my day-to-day life, from chores, from the internet (I even managed to go internet and computer-less throughout the entire weekend), from my brain and stress…I even managed to get a healthy dose of Vitamin D!

Sun, surf and sand - Yalingup

I vow to myself to do this more from now.  Lucky for me there’s another road trip planned this coming weekend!  On Friday Denis and I hit the road, on a 7 hour drive to Kalgoorlie with his 2 kiddies and our dog.  From breathtaking beaches one weekend to the striking vastness of a mining town.  It is with this thought that I realise I really do love this country after all.

The long country road to Kalgoorlie

If there is light in the soul…

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Only a few words for today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, but – oh – they say so much.

If there is light in the soul,
There will be beauty in the person.
If there is beauty in the person,
There will be harmony in the house.
If there is harmony in the house,
There will be order in the nation.
If there is order in the nation,
There will be peace in the world.

-Chinese Proverb

If you would like to join ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, contact me via Twitter, the Contact Janine page on this blog, or via email at janine.ripper@gmail.com.

The beauty of difference

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Today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’series comes to you from Abdul Mateen, a 26 year old hajji (title given to a Muslim person who has successfully completed the pilgrimage to Mecca) who currently resides in Melbourne, Australia. Abdul has a business degree in Marketing & Management and is certified in the field of Islam da’awah.  Abdul currently delivers lectures and works closely with the AMSSA (Australian Muslim Social Service Agency).  I you would like to contact Abdul he can be contacted at back2thesunnah@gmail.com

Since the fallout of 9/11 ‘beauty’ is a noun rarely, if ever, associated with religious difference. As a Muslim residing in the West, debunking fallacious arguments and sweeping generalisations under the prayer rug has become a full time – regrettably unpaid – second job. Extinguishing the fire of prejudice and dismantling stereotypes can be an exhausting task but is one of paramount importance in such a polarised world. At times I feel thrust under the microscope of suspicion; presumed guilty until proven innocent.

“Satan rejoiced when Adam (pbuh) came out of Paradise, but he did not know that when a diver sinks into the sea, he collects pearls and then rises again.”

– Ibn Qayyim (famous Islamic scholar)

I am a fundamentally different, radically unique, and extremely sincere individual who loves to smile in the face of adversity; however the media would tell you otherwise. Whether I like it or not I am commonly perceived as ‘the Other’. I have a long conspicuous beard – the kind that attracts a myriad of curious and leering eyes on the subway. My fuzzy appearance becomes a topic of conversation so I take the opportunity to remind people that 5 o’clock shadows have embellished many prominent Western figures throughout time. Did Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address fall on deaf ears? The inauguration of Obama would suggest not; but the notion, all men are created equal, is not nearly manifested enough in my experience. Some 14 centuries ago, Muhammad (pbuh) informed us that our Lord is one, our father (Adam) is one, and no individual – irrespective of race – has superiority over another, except by way of piety.

The frequently discussed but seldom understood topic of women in Islam has become an indirect assault on the Muslim male; that is to say, every word of commentary on the so-called oppression of my wife, whether general or specific, implies a significant degree of wrongdoing on my behalf, and is ultimately attributed to a religion perceived as inherently misogynistic. Refuting baseless claims is the simple part; upholding good manners and adhering to Islamic etiquette is the real test.

“Invite (people) to the way of your Lord with wisdom and good counsel. And argue with them in the best of manners.” 

[Noble Qur’an 16:125]

I am a firm believer in connecting with people at a grass-roots level; earlier today I went to the city with the intention of providing clarity on common misconceptions enshrouding my religion. I assembled a small table and displayed a placard which poses the question, “what do you really know about Islam?” I spent the afternoon engaging with numerous individuals and enjoyed some fruitful discussions. I was approached by a young lady who was keen to learn more about the treatment of women in Islam. After citing copious examples including renowned British journalist Yvonne Ridley – a Taliban prisoner who converted to Islam after the kind treatment she received in captivity – the young lady smiled and conveyed her gratitude.

In an authentic hadith narrated by al-Tirmidhi, the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) said,

“The best of you is the one who is best to his wife.”

It deeply saddens me to discover there are some people who are genuinely surprised when they meet a Muslim man capable of holding a constructive and civil discourse; almost as tho they anticipate an aggressive medieval figure wielding a sabre. I can assure you that the closest I have come to blood-thirsty behaviour was vehemently opposing those who describing the Twilight series as a literary phenomenon.

In an authentic hadith reported in Sahih Al-Bukhari, the Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) said,

“The strong is not the one who overcomes the people by his strength, but the strong is the one who controls himself while in anger.”

This is not a thinly-veiled attack on the Western world;

this is not academic penmanship grounded in objectivity;

this is not an excusatory or apologetic piece on behalf of the ummah;

this is, simply put, the modest expression of one Muslim man influenced by a unique set of circumstances and experiences;

this is the beauty of difference.

Simple really is best

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Today’s post for ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series comes from yours truly :)

Janine, The Bogan Teenager

Wikipedia defines the term bogan as:

‘Australian slang, usually pejorative or self-deprecating, for an individual who is recognised to be from a lower class background or someone whose limited education, speech, clothing, attitude and behaviour exemplifies such a background’.

Interesting.

I’ve never quite thought of myself or my family that way…I mean, we wore black Faberge jeans and flannelette shirts. My Dad rode motor bikes, wandered around with a pack of Winnie blues up his sleeve, and loved to drink rum. We all loved rock music. And yes – we didn’t have a lot of money.

In the 80′s we lived in a mining town called Kalgoorlie, populated by men with tattoos who road large, loud motor bikes, and came home every day from working in the mines – and having stopped at the local TAB to place a bet on the races – grotty and smelling like oil and beer. The women, well, half of them did it tough looking after their families, and rarely themselves. The other half worked in the infamous Hay Street brothels or as ‘skimpy‘ (scantily clad) barmaids.

I spent a lot of time riding my bike on the big, wide roads or gravel tracks, ‘growing’ frogs in the steel drum at my friends place, staging dance concerts to Mum on the wood pylons lying on the back yard (notably to the Bangles ‘Manic Monday’), and freaking out at the site of a monster red/orange centipede.

As kids, my brother, sister and I hung out at the pub with our folks and their friends, listening to Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and The Doors, trying to imitate the adults by playing pool and darts, or wishing we could get lucky on the used bingo cards lying around the place. We also sat around the open fire in the bush at night, listening to music, the reverberations from the sounds of the motorbikes going through your chest, pretending to sleep, but really waiting for the spuds (potatoes) to cook under the ashes – only to be slathered by butter and salt and devoured.

Sure, it wasn’t paradise, and it certainly wasn’t all good, but I’m grateful for growing up the way I did. It taught me the value of money – especially thinking back to Mum skipping meals so that she could feed her three kids baked beans on toast – and then worrying about what to feed the three dogs.

It taught me not to not judge people by appearances – ‘scruffy’ people, or people who rode bikes, wore black or looked rough, well they can turn out to be the most funniest, lovely or most philosophical people.

It also taught me to care for every living thing – so much so that I can’t even kill an ant. Mum and Dad brought home injured birds and lizards, we had horses. Mum tried to resuscitate a chicken once because it accidentally drowned.

But, most of all it taught me to be grateful for what I’ve got, for the family I have, to not be embarrassed of my roots, and that simple really is best.

Pushing Through the Fear

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When I first met Marisa Wikramanayake in 2010 I knew she was ‘different’.  She wasn’t like any other person I had met. She held herself differently, she had her own style, she told you how it was, and she was doing exactly what she was passionate about in life…writing.

I was impressed, terrified and slightly intimidated sitting in that coffee shop during that first meeting, watching as she poured over a collection of my writing, waiting for some kind of ‘critique’. And she gave it to me honestly, openly, and most of all constructively. That could have been the end of it – our ‘friendship’ and my attempt at getting back into writing.  If she was any other person, and if I was any other person, it would’ve been, as the feedback wasn’t all positive – it was real. But I took it, and look where I am now.

I’d like to introduce you to my friend, and mentor, Marisa.

Growing up

Marisa was born in Sri Lanka. When talking about her birth country, she tells how they have gone through a lot as a nation, a culture and people, and that it is ironic that as a tropical paradise they are always in some state of war, whether it’s fighting for identity, for pure principle, or against marginalisation.

She started to write at the age of 9, from what she now believes was loneliness and boredom. Born in a country in constant civil war, Marisa found herself limited in things to do – she couldn’t just ride a bike or run around the streets like many of us were able to do when we were little. Growing up in the 80′s and 90′s, and with no interest in dolls like other girls of her age, she took to entertaining herself by reading everything she could get her hands on.  She also took to creating her own stories – feeling the need to recreate the reality around her. It was at the age of 11 that she had the idea for her first character.

[In describing the character creation process, Marisa likens it to schizophrenia, for once you create the character, they stay with you. It wasnt until she met another writer a few years back that she realised that this was typical in writers].

I’m a ‘Writer’

As a girl Marisa didn’t know what she wanted to be ‘when she grew up’ and questioned why she didn’t know – especially when others around her were certain about becoming doctors, teachers, and so forth. The one thing she did know was that she could write well – in her own country at least. She didn’t know if her writing would be up to standard outside of Sri Lanka though, and it took a long time to acknowledge that it was.

It wasn’t until people started telling Marisa she was a writer that she started considering it as an option, and it wasn’t until 2008 that she actually recognised and called herself a ‘writer’ – this was after she had come up with an idea for a book, and she just couldn’t ignore her calling anymore.

Choices

Marisa is thankful that she didn’t grow up in any other family, for she may not have had the support she has had in order to pursue her passion. Her parents have a high appreciation for the arts and have been very supportive, and her mother was the one who pushed her to publish her first book at the age of 17.  Her family would rather her get a stable job one day and have writing as a hobby ‘on the side’, but they also read what she has written and understand that the best way for her to write is to devote her time and attention to writing her book (plus they want to see her book finished!).  Her parents are also stubborn in nature – which has been passed down to Marisa and her sister (who dabbles with being a circus performer). In the wise words of her mother

‘We can tell you what to do but you will just go off and do your own thing anyway’.

Deep down Marisa worries that her choice of career path rebounds on her family.  Still living in Sri Lanka, her mother has had to explainin Marisa’s career choice to people, as well as fend off questions as to when she would be getting a real job and how she planned to survive and earn money. People have at times also attempted to draw her mother into complaining about her children who aren’t living the ‘atypical’ life.

It does make Marisa feel bad as she never intended for her family to be placed under pressure, but thankfully her mother believes that it would be a shame to waste the talent her daughter has of putting words together (and she would know as she is an English Teacher).

In the end:

‘It all comes down to your personal definition of success’.

And her gut instinct tells her it is right.

The Business of Writing

Marisa perceives her profession as that of ‘running a business’ rather then of ‘being a writer’.  Time – well time is a commodity, and this is what she finds that people – generally, do not understand as they tend to forget how long things take.

The greatest advice Marisa provides to budding writers is that you cannot get by without experiencing life.

‘You need to see what the world is like. You can’t just be a tourist going through life.’

In order to write one needs to observe detail, dialogue, mannerisms.  If you don’t how will your characters be believable?

Marisa also admits that to this day she is still scared, and that she will never stop being scared, but every year she is still ‘in the business’ she gets a thrill.

‘You can never escape the fear – but nothing worth having is ever easy. Yes, things will scare you, but if you push through the fear your life will become richer for it, and you will get through the obstacles – no matter how hard it is. If the obstacles stop you then its preventing you from wasting time on it so you can go in your true direction’.

Marisa reiterates that it’s important to remember that the path you travelled up until that point was always the path you were meant to be on as it made you who you are.

Marisa glows with pride when telling me that doing what she does has helped to start others off, and that if she hadn’t pursued her path then maybe they wouldn’t have. In a way, she sees it as helping to give people a voice, and likens it to a trickle down effect – one should never underestimate the impact they have on others, and as a bonus to helping others it drives you to become better.

‘Savour the thrills and learn to live with the fear, as everyone has to start somewhere. It never hurts to dream big BUT take baby steps’.

 And I will do just that. Will you?

Marisa Wikramanayake

Marisa plays with words for a living as a writer, editor and journalist. Science Network WA pays her to talk to fascinating scientists, prior to which she penned a four year long weekly column about politics, popular culture and life in Perth for The Sunday Leader newspaper. She has also written about gaming for Specusphere and about the latest independent music.

She cannot seem to stop blogging either: continuing Perth Diary on Saturdays, cross posting her Emergen “How to write a book” posts on Wednesdays and discussing general freelancing on Fridays. She also plays around with a camera and writes about books she has read, hoarded or hated. When she isn’t working, she’s – well – working: on her novel Sedition.  As an editor, her clients have included Diabetes WA, the Centre for Policy Development and Dorian Gray Pictures.

If you want to know more about Marisa, you can find her on LinkedIn,  Facebook,  Twitter or look at her portfolio.

Yes, I’m a Red-Head…Get Over It

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You may not think that a little thing such as being born with red hair could have so much of an impact on someones life…but it has.

My old best friend and I

As a little girl I’m sure people thought I was cute – with my shock of red hair flaming around my face. That all changed.

I grew older, retreated into my shell, gained freckles and developed pimples. These were combined with splotchy, easily blush-able and burnable skin. I didn’t eat a lot of junk food. I mean, we couldn’t afford it.  Plus we lived in the hills, no where near a fast food restaurant. I was still teased and told that I shouldn’t eat so much chocolate, or chips, or pizza (cause my face looked like one – hahahaha – not).

My body – I became an awkward, supposedly ‘pudgy’ teenager. I hated my shape, and the other kids teased me for it. Looking back on photos of myself I was actually slim…just not slim enough. Being made – by the TEACHER – to weigh myself in front of the entire class in year 5 hadn’t helped. I was the 2nd heaviest girl in the class – I have heavy bones! But because the 1st placed girl had a note so as NOT to put her weight on the board, I claimed 1st place…and the teasing that went with it. THAT lasted into high school. The starving myself…well that lasted – on and off – for a long time, followed by excessive exercising, binge eating, and so on.

And then there was my last name – Ripper. As soon as kids could latch onto that they did. Oh – and my first initial, of course, was J…Janine the Stripper, Janine the Ripper, are you related to Jack? And then there were the original ones – ooo what’s that smell…you let off a ripper.  Of course, I did what any red-headed girl would do blush…badly. 

But that was no way near the flack I copped for my hair. My hair became unruly, and it was still red. How dare I have red hair? I mean – ‘how ugly’. Of course, I couldn’t be seen wearing any colour as every colour ‘clashed’ with red hair. So I wore black, and I was told I looked ‘deathly’ pale. I was told that no boy would ever want to go out with me, and mostly they didn’t (apart from the red-headed boy). I was whispered about on the school bus, just loud enough to be heard…‘the ugly red-headed girl’ – the girls giggled, as did the boys. When the bus braked, and I fell onto the pile of school bags – well, there was more ammo. Yes, I’m a clutz too. So I retreated further into books…

Met at 18

As I got older, I was certain no boy would ever like me, and as I got older still – after being slapped on the ass whilst on the dance floor of a club and laughed at, and followed down the street by men heckling – I threw myself into work, study, getting drunk, and making out with any blind drunk random who would kiss me at the end of the night.

Depression took hold of me – although I didn’t accept that that was what it was at the time. Living in a state with beautiful beaches just seemed cruel. I just couldn’t compare to the blonde, bronzed godesses that surrounded me everywhere I turned. I couldn’t even compare to the ‘alternative’ girls at uni. I was no one, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to get out of this godforsaken country where everywhere I turned I was reminded of my inadequacies.

Singapore was my first trip overseas with my dearest friend Charissa. This was where I found a whole new world. I was told I could be a model there? Men tripped over their feet staring at me. Was I pretty?

Italy was my second trip overseas. 6 weeks backpacking, whilst being sweet talked by Italian stallions, followed into the toilets by a seedy old man in Naples, driven into fits of laughter by a jock from the US, and charmed by a brooding American writer who was the first man I had ever experienced ‘electricity’ with. The trip ended in Paris, where I was made to feel ‘beautiful’.

Searching for myself

As the 6 weeks came to an end I had to return home, where I still did not feel at home. I felt like a foreigner. I didn’t belong, no matter how hard I tried. This was in the midst of an increasing drug culture, and the fact that I didn’t do drugs…well, it was like being at high school again. I was ‘strange’, ‘weird’, I ‘wasn’t interested in anything’. In a nutshell – I was boring. That was the straw that broke the camels back. I chucked in everything and went overseas indefinitely, where I was looked at, loved, charmed, broken and restored. In return I had flirted, smiled, loved, broke-down, and built myself up again. You could say that I found my self.

9 1/2 months later I returned home…sooner than expected, but it was my choice. I was a new person…I was confident! Some people didn’t like it, many that I had worked with before I had left. They didn’t like the new ‘confident‘ me. They definitely didn’t like me sticking up for myself, or the fact that I started achieving things in my career fast. Of course, others loved the new me…and so did I.

What am I trying to say by sharing this with you?

It’s not that looks count for everything. As looks fade.

It’s not that loving someone will solve everything…because it doesn’t. 

It could be that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Or that in order to love others, you must first love yourself.

It is that childhood bullying scars, and that these scars can last a lifetime.

In the end, through sharing this story, and the others in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, I hope to help people see.

EVERYTHING HAS ITS BEAUTY BUT NOT EVERYONE SEES IT - CONFUCIUS

 

Janine plus Vitamin D and a glass of wine

A Richer, More Colorful Life for the Color Blind

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Today’s post in ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series comes to you from Joy Page Manuel, who describes herself as ‘a former academic, currently a blogging mom, aspiring writer, astrophysicist, gazillionaire philanthropist and goddess, and undoubtedly a perpetual dreamer, hopeless romantic, and overanalyzer.’

Find more from Joy on her blog Catharsis!

 

In mulling over this series The Beauty of Difference, it suddenly occurred to me that all my life, I have felt ‘different’.  There was always something that somehow made me feel like I didn’t fit in.  Was it always a bad thing?…Perhaps not.  Did it make life a little harder for me?…sometimes I think so.  But honestly, I don’t think I would have it any other way for it strengthens who I am and paves the way for even more growth.

My Heritage

I am Filipino, born and raised in the Philippines, and though I currently live in the United States and became a US citizen in 2008, I would have to say that my primary sense of identity and consciousness remain very much Filipino.  I lived in Metro Manila (the main metropolitan region of the Philippines) until the age of 30 when I had to permanently migrate to the US due to marriage.  I come from a Filipino middle-class family which more or less translates to (1) being born and raised a Catholic; (2) valuing education and not obtaining a degree (college or even beyond) was never an option; (3) having parents who subscribe to (more or less) conservative / traditional values; and (4) being quite sheltered from, though never left unaware of, the “harsher face” of my country.  You see, being privileged or being an outsider gives you this face…

…or this…

…while there is also this face that should never be ignored, denied or forgotten….

Much like any developing or third-world country, the Philippines has a very uneven development, with the rich getting richer and the poor losing even more hope for a better life every single minute.  Though in theory, social mobility is open to everyone, in reality opportunities are very limited for the underprivileged.

Despite the widespread poverty, it always surprises foreigners when they find that almost all Filipinos, regardless of social class, can understand and even speak basic English, at the very least.  I guess this is why as far as tourism goes, the Philippines has always been an easy choice for foreigners since communication is very manageable.  I would attribute this to our colonization history, which in turn shaped our education institution (among countless other things) and also our mass media.  The Philippines is very much exposed to Western ideas, most especially American.  You turn on our televisions and you’ll see a lot of American shows being aired.  You listen to the radio and you hear a lot of songs by American artists.  Hollywood films are extremely popular and sometimes even shown in Manila a day or two ahead of their US opening.

Western books, journals and other reference materials are used in our schools.  English is taught in schools and when I was a student, our teachers all spoke and taught in English, save for our Filipino language, Philippine literature and history classes.  As part of the Sociology faculty in the university, I taught primarily in English, I guess mainly because it was easier to some extent given that I used reference books written in English.  (It would’ve been exceptionally difficult teaching the grand Sociological theories in Filipino although I think that would be very elegant indeed!).

Somehow it cracks me up when some Americans get so surprised with my fluency with the English language.  Honestly, when they remark at how well I speak, or that I even speak English, I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted because some of them seem to have a very backward idea about my country.  From experience, those whom I’ve heard make such remarks are always those who have not travelled much or have not had any exposure to other cultures.

My (slightly different) Heritage

I can’t talk about my heritage without mentioning that I am what Filipinos label as ‘mestiza’ or having mixed ancestry. My maternal grandfather was American making my mother half-American. As such, I don’t have the typical Asian look which in a way makes me stick out a bit. Living in the Philippines, I would have to say that the most difficult part about my physical difference is that most other Filipinas are petite and I am obviously not. I always felt insecure about my body and never felt comfortable enough with it to tell myself that I am beautiful just as I am.  I grew up hating my body shape, my bigger frame, bone structure and the extra weight I carried and convinced myself that unless I can look like everyone else, slim and as close to ‘petite’ as I could get, can anyone really find me attractive and desirable.

As I grew older and a little wiser, I understood that I was not as deviant as I had labeled myself to be and that maybe it’s society’s standards that are skewed and that it’s all relative.  I remember thinking “If I lived in the U.S., I would probably be closer to the ‘normal’ size and finally be able to find clothes that fit well”.

Well, I got my wish and ended up migrating.  But as with most things in life, something new always comes up and you end up wishing you hadn’t made that previous wish…

After Shape Comes Color

When I first got here to the States to live permanently, I honestly did not anticipate any major difficulties as far as adapting is concerned.  Other than missing family and friends, and getting anxious over leaving all that was familiar to me back home, I felt confident that I came from a society that was very much exposed to American culture.  I’ve also visited the States before as a tourist so somehow I knew what to expect.  I spoke the language and my degrees all translated to the U.S. equivalent so credentials won’t be an issue.  Culture shock was not at all in my mind.  And really, it never happened to me.  Or at least not to the extent or form I had anticipated.  What I was not prepared for was the realization that not everyone in America was prepared for me.  It was a shock realizing that in these modern and even post-modern times, in a society that prides itself for being open and diverse, racism still exists.  And it is very subtle which makes it even more dangerous.  Often I think that most racists either don’t know that they are one or won’t admit it, but you’ll see it in their looks, body language and seep through the words they spew.

I feel it when I’m lined up at a store and the cashier is remarkably chatty with every single white person checking out until my turn comes.  Even when I say ‘hello’ with a big smile, I get nothing but a cold acknowledgment.

I resented it when I felt dismissed by some mothers in a playgroup I joined a few years ago.  It was a huge deal for me given that I am not a very social person and I made so much effort to go out of my shell and be friendly.  I forced and trained myself to be the one to approach rather than wait to be approached.  I tried to overcome my fear of being in new situations with people unfamiliar to me and attended play dates for both me and my son to meet potential friends.  However it did not take long for me to realize that I was not being given a fair chance.  Some of the moms just congregated by themselves and I did not see any effort on their part to make me feel included.  If anything, I felt like they were just waiting for me to feel uncomfortable so I would leave on my own.  I remember one particular play date where the host herself practically ignored me the whole time and when it was time for me and my son to leave her house, she just casually nodded her head, barely even looked at me, and waved her hand in a very dismissive manner as she chatted with another mom from the group.

At that point, I thought, “That’s it.  This is just not worth it”.  I had joined hoping to make new friends, but instead ended up with the realization that friendships will never be easy for me from this point on because of my ethnicity, because of assumptions certain people make about me just by looking at me.  I have not totally given up and still know the value of opening myself to new situations.  However, this time I won’t have false hopes and won’t expect too much too quickly from too many people.  It is a fact that not everyone is evolved enough, prepared enough for the richness that can be found in diversity.

A Realistic Optimism 

There will always be something that would make us feel different and set us apart from the rest.  It could be something physical, political, religious, or moral.  But uniqueness and the diversity this creates should be celebrated, for amidst diversity is the capacity for tolerance nurtured and deeper enlightenment becomes possible.  This is how we can evolve as human beings, able to accept each other for our essences, blind to how we are packaged, shaped and colored.  You could be turning away from a potential loyal friend, wise mentor, or the love of your life if you shun anyone that appears different from you.  You’ll just never know unless you become open.

Our utopic world, where differences are embraced and equality is genuinely alive, is not quite here yet, so as I had written previously, in the meantime I think it’s best for us to remain realistic and be aware of the continued presence of prejudices, yet doing our best to aim for more evolved minds.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it here again…

Navigate the world knowing that race (still) does matter, but behave like it does not.


You Inspire Me

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Whilst I was at University in 1997 I dated a Chinese boy. To me, he was just a guy who had the same interest in creative writing as me, and was studying Radio Broadcasting with a good friend of mine. We hit it off. He made me laugh. He also wanted to read my writing. No one had ever wanted to read my writing before. It was terrifying. And then he asked me out. That was even more terrifying, as I’d never had a boyfriend before. I decided to take the plunge and said yes.

For our first date he took me to dinner at a quaint little restaurant. I think it was Italian, as back then Italian was my favourite food, and it was all about me : ) I don’t remember much else, apart from one thing – the looks we were getting, from most people. A pale red-head girl and a tall, lanky Chinese boy sitting at the same table in a romantic restaurant – how so?

Those looks continued throughout our brief relationship, and I couldn’t quite understand it back then, as to me we are all people. Even when I met his mother and she called me an ‘evil Western girl’ who would ‘corrupt’ her son – well, I couldn’t understand that either.

We didn’t last, but it wasn’t because of those ‘against’ us. It was because I wasn’t ready for a relationship, and had issues to deal with (plus I preferred him as a friend, minus the complications of intimacy and all that guff).

So it was a surprise when, whilst out at lunch with Denis on Monday (in the year 2011) – enjoying my first official day of unemployment at a cafe on the coast – we got looks. Denis had gone up to the counter to order, and I was sitting in the sun, soaking it and my new-found freedom up. I looked over to Denis, glowing with this strange feeling (happiness?), and there was a woman looking from me, to Denis, back to me, to Denis, back to me, to Denis. She had a look of confusion combined with slight distaste on her face. I caught her eye and gave her a look that hinted at the following: ‘Yes – a pale, red-head woman AND an Anglo-Indian man TOGETHER at lunch…’ Now I’m not usually a smart-ass, and that wasn’t the ‘look’ I was going for, but in this day and age, in the world we live in – especially in Australia which is as multi-cultural as they come – you would think we wouldn’t get these looks still.

I could think about it this way though, which is what Denis tells me to think on occassion – we are just one good-looking couple… 

 

Denis & Janine

Yes, that’s it! 

On a serious note though, it is moments like these that have spawned me onto starting ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series. And so, to all of those onlookers, I say thank you. You are my inspiration.

Have you experienced anything like this? Why? How did you feel?

If you would like to be a part of ‘The Beauty of Difference’ series, please contact me at janine.ripper@gmail.com.

I would love to share your story. 

 

Loving Life

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I’ve been a bit of a Negative Nelly in my day-life of late, mostly due to the stresses and annoyances caused by my day-job. (This day-job actually equals almost my entire day-life since I leave the house and come home in the almost-dark every day of the week…thank goodness for weekends – if only I didn’t want to sleep them away…).

I’m Cool!

But I digress…Aside from the stress, annoyances, Vitamin D deficiency and the desire for sleep, I am loving life.

Don’t believe me?

Well, here’s what I love about it!

My dog, whom I do believe – without fail – always makes it to numero uno! We had a little scare yesterday morning, which ended up with us at the vet first thing, worrying over what was happening with her tiny little body. But, after a couple of jabs, and some ‘expressing’ of the nether regions, she seems as good as new. Maybe she just didn’t want her Mummy to go to work (I’d been off sick the day before)?

My partner. I think this is the highest I have ever placed him in any of my list posts? Now that’s not because I don’t love him…it’s just I have always had ‘issues’ with telling people how much they mean to me. He’s a good lad, having tolerated over 6 years of my many ‘issues’.

Having the ability to do what I love, now that I have found it again. Oh writing, how I missed you. I do realise that now.

My beautiful family. A bunch of fantastic people who I pushed away for many years, but am thankful to have been given the chance to realise how much they mean to me. I could not have had that chance…and that thought is incredibly sad.

Having the opportunity to work with a bunch of like-minded, hard workers, who like a laugh. We put up with hell, are stressed to the max and exhausted, but to be honest I have never worked somewhere before where there were so many people who worked hard, were like-minded and liked a laugh…it’s very strange.

My boo-diful friends whom I hardly get to see. I love you all dearly, and treasure the times we get to spend together in this crazy, frantic thing we call life.

My online buds. My life is now so much richer in having met you all. My partner thinks I’m obsessed with ‘social media’. I think not! It’s just that after a hard day of work, what cheers me up the most is logging on and checking in with my pals online who may only just be starting their day, or have written some gem of a post, or who need a ‘chat’. I’ve never felt so close or been able to be so open to people before. As cliché would have it, I feel like a bud whose petals are opening slowly.

Now tell me, what do you love about life?

That Crazy Little Thing Called Love

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Love heart uidaodjsdsew

Image via Wikipedia

Love is a crazy thing, and it sure can make you do some absolutely stupid things.

Here’s a few things that I’ve done ‘in the name of love’:

  • Stalked.
  • Became a mute. As a teenager I fell in ‘love’ with a few boys, but I had a problem. I was shy as a mouse and blushed incredibly easy. Talking, or even looking at the boy when he was near, was out of the question. So I would not talk, and I would obsess from afar. No surprises that I didn’t land my first boyfriend until I was 24 years old. I fooled myself that I had better things to concentrate on such as ‘study’ and ‘my travels’.
  • Sulked.
  • Became a spectator. In my mid-20′s I sat by and watched as my then-boyfriend and his mates snorted speed off a table and popped pills. They would then tell me that there was something wrong with me since I wouldn’t join them. I really don’t understand why I put up with 2 1/2 years of that? Oh, that’s right, I had NO confidence!
  • Pined.
  • Self-sabotaged my European travels. I should have been foot loose, fancy free, and working my way around the UK and Europe. Instead, I fell for a boy whilst living and working at a pub in Bristol (I had run out of money and had to take up a live in job. He was one of the chefs who ‘rescued’ me and the Manager one night when her husband – the other crazy chef – started beating her up). I fell bad, and stayed there way too long. At least it was long enough to discover that he had a dark side too…which succeeded in destroying my naivety along with my trust in chefs.
  • Cried my little heart out.
  • Broken someones heart. As I was falling for the English Chef, I had a boyfriend waiting patiently for me back home in Oz. Unfortunately for him, I had discovered the world and myself. I had also come to the realisation that I did not love him anymore. So I did what I thought was right and hopped on a plane to fly home. I really believed that I was doing the right thing. How gutless would it be to break up with someone over the phone or via email, especially when you had been together for 3 years? He didn’t see it that way though.
  • Settled!
  • Bought a house with a man! I was one of those women who was never going to settle down, was never going to stay in one place and was certainly never going to commit to a mortgage (or marriage!). About two years ago something happened, and I committed to a mortgage with my partner. Strange thing is, after all the stress, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever done!

So now that I’ve bared my heart and soul, what crazy things have YOU done in the name of love?