Una Ragazza on Play: Occupy October

October. My favorite month of the year. The weather cools down, the fall colors break out. We're that much closer to Thanksgiving (read: turkey and pie).

This year, so much has happened and the month is not even over as I type. The following images captured the essence of October 2011 in my little part of the world.

In early October, everyone's favorite tech genius and entrepreneur lost his battle to pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor. The only appropriate way to capture this tribute outside my neighborhood Apple store was with the iPhone 4S.

During a visit to Zuccotti Park in mid October, I met a range of talented individuals.

This guy had a perpetual grin on his face as he pivoted around to ensure protesters and gawkers alike had a fair chance to read his message.

This guy painted all the flaps of the tiny box he was sitting in.

His latest sign read, "Let's show China how it's done."

The guy in the foreground slept through it all -- quite an accomplishment, considering the musicians on the steps were playing at a volume so loud that the nearby crowd couldn't hear each other speak.

This bicycle picture was taken for Un Ragazzo. It seemed like everyone at Zuccotti Park had a different goal and message.

Bring a t-shirt or apron and get a complimentary silkscreening.

On Halloween weekend, as the snow began to fall, folks at Zuccotti Park hunkered down beside Double Check, the bronze businessman sitting on a nearby bench.

Meanwhile, back uptown, snow accumulated nicely on the brownstone roofs, as smoke spewed from some chimneys.

A pumpkin looked out the momofuku window at the sleet that soon turned to snow.

At the "neighborhood graveyard," the black crow got a new coat of white.

"Good weather" was clearly not in sight at the community garden in the 'hood.

A kids' halloween party snowed in.

Pumpkins on steps in hiding.

With two more days to go, will October bring another interesting twist? Don't hold your breath; Halloween Monday is yet to come.

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Una Ragazza on Love: 10 Years

On the recent 10th anniversary of the September 11 events, I was up late at night in the old town of Bucharest, catching glimpses of the newly inaugurated twin fountains on TV and hearing the reading of names in the background. Outside the hotel room, in the town square, revelers were drinking tuica (a local brandy made from plums), smoking and dancing to loud music from a Euro band playing on a makeshift stage.

Ten years.

Has it already been that long? In that period, I’ve lived one-third of my life to date and it’s been an amazing one-third of my life. The experiences I’ve had -- from the places I’ve lived in and the trips I’ve taken, to the people (and animals) I’ve met, the friends I’ve made and the things I’ve learnt -- so much had happened in this last third of my life that it would have been unnerving if it all never happened.

A local Bucharest policeman watches over the fun

I loved the last ten years. It is still a while to Thanksgiving but I was in a thankful mood today.

As I lounged on my couch while making myself go on a 60-second photographic flashback of the last 10 years, I decided I’d write down one memorable thing that happened to me from each of the last 10 years that left the deepest impression. Something to love even if it's just because I got to live it.

2002

Italy.

First time living abroad, and I couldn’t have picked a more beautiful country. 2002 was my eye-opening year. It showed me how little I knew about the world, how it’s never too late to learn a new language, and surely there’s more to life than earning a keep in a cube.

You know how it is with first loves? Perugia will always be that.

2003

New friends.

They say you make your best friends in high school and college. I made some really good ones in grad school, in a snowy town in the Swiss Alps. In fact, the Californian, Swiss and I skyped last night about a possible reunion trip to Africa next year. I don’t know which of these is making me more excited: seeing Madagascar or seeing these guys. And Romania would not have been the same without my dear friend M, whose hospitality and friendship almost calls for another trip to Transylvania.

Friendships sealed in cold, cold Switzerland

2004

Displaced.

The feeling of having to leave a place unwillingly is not a good one I wish upon anyone. For reasons that will take too long to explain, I left Europe reluctantly and moved to the U.S. I had really thought that Europe would be a long-term feature in my books but after about three years, I packed everything I could bring with me in my two suitcases and boarded a Swissair flight to JFK.

2005

So many girls.

My first job in New York, like the subsequent ones that follow, had many women. Lots and lots of women. Being in public relations, we are everywhere. Girls straight out of college; girls who had moved from other big cities of San Francisco, Chicago and London; and girls who had followed their banker husbands to Manhattan. It took a while for me to get used to having Page Six and Us Weekly chatter a regular feature in team meetings, and for low-calorie Tasti D (in the pre-Pinkberry era) to become a highlight on slow afternoons.

Before Pinkberry, there was Tasti D

2006

Never too old to backpack.

When friends learned that I’d be on the Trans-Siberian train for five days without shower facilities, the look on their faces was often one of horror. That’s when I introduced my best travel companion, the wet wipes. A month in Russia and Mongolia taught me that backpacking can be fun even when I no longer needed to backpack because it had been the only way I could afford to travel. It taught me to be resourceful and I met some of the most interesting people on this planet.

Not so bad: Cabins were clean, thanks to the provodnitsa

2007

Newly single in the big city.

I moved into Manhattan and rented a tiny one-bedroom on my own. Although I’d been in the area for more than two years by then, I was now single for the first time. In the big, big world of New York. It was a mix bag of fear and fascination.

2008

Undesirable men.

I didn’t know a reasonably small island like Manhattan can hold so many of them. Ladies -- what you see on Sex and the City holds water. And then some.

2009

The ancient technique of bonesetting.

Spurred by a desire to have my chronic hives cured, I visited a Chinese physician while visiting family in Shanghai. I had my knee “reset” -- without anesthesia -- and nearly passed out. The good that came out of it was that I could squat with my two feet firmly on the ground (I’m sure there is something good about that) and that I drastically reduced the frequency of my allergy medication intake.

2010

A place to call my own.

I bought my first apartment in the wonderful Upper West Side neighborhood. Everything in it is now mine to decorate, own and love. It’s one of the best feelings I’ve ever felt in my life.

From this...

... to this

2011

The jury is still out on this one, but if I have to pick something now, it’d be my precious little niece, Mini Ragazza. This first grandchild and little bundle of joy has changed the lives of many people in the family, but most of all, that of my mom who is watching her grow up in Hong Kong. The whole gang of five -- moms, sis and family -- is taking over my apartment during Christmas. Perhaps that would be a worthy rival for the highlight of the year.

Mini Ragazza posing with her first pets

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Una Ragazza on Shop: Buying the Message

I like words. I like what words can do better than actions can (think: getting out of an unpleasant situation). I like my job that’s about words. Boggle and Scrabble are my favorite childhood games. I like a good message.

I like writing postcards. Postcards are my preferred travel souvenirs. You send a meaningful picture and expound on the place or image while sitting at the local town square or perched on a mountain top. You may ask, “But if you send the postcards, you end up with no souvenirs at all for yourself.” Thankfully, I solve that issue by sending my favorite postcards to Un Ragazzo.

I really like posters.

In the last few years, I’ve found myself drawn to propaganda posters. It all started when I got lost in a busy alley in Hanoi and stumbled upon a colorful store with posters produced by the Vietcong during the Vietnam War era. Inside, I found many fascinating images, including a poster of the face and upper torso of Ho Chi Minh with a peace-loving dove in the background, made entirely from stamps. In a way, the little poster shop became a museum of sorts as I read the accompanying messages meant for the Vietnamese people during the 1960’s. I eventually purchased a colorful poster of a peasant girl hard at work in a garden, captioned as follows, “Do not grow opium plants.”

Put a stamp on Uncle Ho

Vietnam war-era poster: "Do not grow opium plants"

During my last few trips to China, I’ve also sought out posters from the country’s past decades in museums, galleries and shops. I often wonder about the artists behind these posters, their motivation and circumstances. Were they firm believers of the art they were depicting? Or, was propaganda art a lucrative business? Were these given away for free to spread the message? Where were they put up -- around the home, on shop walls or in public places?

Vietcong support in China

In speaking to a museum worker in China, I learnt that, similar to the way religious art was financially backed by churches in ancient Europe, what I coin “red art” was heavily patronized by the authorities. Contrary to my belief that the posters were distributed free of charge to encourage their use every where, they were actually sold by Chinese publishing houses to the general public, who would buy them during special occasions and festivities to decorate their homes, since entertainment such as television was not yet commonplace at the time.

Earlier this year, I chanced upon a beautifully preserved poster depicting a ballet scene from the Red Detachment of Women (红色娘子军), which originated as a pre-Cultural Revolution-era play about the women of Hainan Island who resisted the nationalists destroying the communist based on the island. Foreigners who know this ballet will recall it as the ballet performed for President Richard Nixon during his 1972 visit to China.

I was struck by the poignant memory the poster scene evoked, and felt I had to buy it. The plan is to frame and hang it in my wrought-iron, military-themed bedroom. I’m actually curious about the reception it’d get from visiting friends and family.

An original 1970 poster of the ballet, Red Detachment of Women. Once revered, then despised. Now, a showpiece in my bedroom

Click on the image above to watch an excerpt from the Red Detachment of Women

The magic of red

Lest anyone thinks that I’m implying propaganda is solely the work of communist governments, the first propaganda poster I own actually came from the U.S. Food Administration -- the predecessor of the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) -- encouraging prudence in food consumption during World War I, and a French newspaper promoting readership.

A WWI message by the U.S. Food Administration

For those who grew up in Singapore in the early 80s, you will remember the “Two is Enough” campaign to encourage Singaporean families to “stop at two” children. That was the first time I saw a propaganda poster. I remembered having a strange feeling in my stomach when I first saw it, only because my willful parents had stopped at three instead.

"One umbrella and a single apple: not enough, even if both are girls"

What was the first propaganda poster that you have ever seen in your life?

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)

Una Ragazza on Play: Those Chinese Roots

As an ethnic Chinese who was born and raised in Singapore more than 30 years ago, I have a playful relationship with the Chinese language, culture and people. A bit of history may help put this in context.

Until the arrival of the British in the early 1800's, Singapore was a small village occupied by local Malay fisherman. As the island grew into a trading port, immigrants largely from China, and also India, started to flood in.

An image of Chinese immigrants in colonial Singapore. Many worked as coolies or hard laborers

With hardly any money, relatives or friends, my grandparents separately arrived in Singapore about a decade before the start of WWII. There was no courtship since they were match made. My ah ma used to tell me how she didn’t get a proper wedding either as she had married my ah gong during the Japanese occupation and any mass celebration would have attracted unwanted attention and risked their safety. Instead, she was quietly brought to his house through the back door in the middle of the night.

Theirs was a hard life, where money was hard earned and the desire for their children to do better in life reminded me of the many Latin American families who had similarly left their native countries to seek a better future for their children in the United States. I remember being both touched and proud of what ah gong and ah ma had risked and sacrificed for their children, and sometimes wondered what would have become of me had they never set foot on those overcrowded, disease-prone boats to make the journey to Southeast Asia.

Ah ma and ah gong enjoying the fruits of their labor: A son graduates from military school

Throughout their decades living in Singapore, ah gong and ah ma would be constantly contacted by relatives back in China, with requests for gifts or cash. I remember the first time I met one of our relatives living in China. I was barely 10 and came home to see my ah gong drinking tea with another elderly man dressed in similar fashion -- a simple white, short-sleeved shirt, black pants and black-rimmed plastic glasses. I did not remember their conversation, but I did remember that he stayed for nearly a month, with ah gong paying for his meals and other expenses. At the end of his visit, he was also given some boxed gifts containing electronics to bring home.

When my uncle visited our ancestral town in the south of China with my grandparents a few years later, I learnt that he too brought along many gifts and left behind money to build a local school.

For an adolescent who, at that time, was still searching for her cultural and national identity, I was confused by what appeared as excessive gestures of generosity. Are these acts of reciprocation? Why do our Chinese relatives have such expectations of my family? Should I be proud to be Chinese? Or, should I embrace my background as a second-generation Singaporean in a fast-growing, modern, English-speaking society?

With the strong societal value placed on the English language during my teenage years in the 1990’s, it would have been a shortcut for me to try to bury my Chinese roots and focus on living an English language-only world. After all, English is la langue principale in our multicultural island nation.

Thanks to the foresight of a mom who was a Chinese-language teacher in a primary school (local equivalent of an elementary school), that did not happen. Instead, the importance of mastering the Chinese language was inculcated in me from young. In addition to English, we spoke our fair share of Mandarin Chinese at home, watched Chinese TV programs, and listened to Chinese storytelling on Rediffusion, a local wired relay network. My sister and I even picked up some Cantonese by watching Hong Kong gongfu serials.

Una Ragazza and mom after a kindergarten performance of The Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music

Memories from years past: the ubiquitous yellow logo on the rediffusion van

Un Ragazzo takes a stab at learning Chinese at a New York university

I remember those grueling nights of memorizing the glossary section of my Chinese textbooks in preparation for mid-year and final examinations. Looking back, I have greatly benefited from those sessions, and credit my mom for being an anchor who believed in me and remained steadfast in her quest to help me master the language during my youth.

As for the seemingly curious behavior of my relatives from China, I have decided that circumstances played a key role and am at least grateful that we had been in a position to help.

Nowadays, I have plenty of fun with being an overseas Chinese Singaporean. Upon learning that I’m from Singapore, acquaintances often ask where in China that is. That would lead to my patient explanation of how Singapore is not a part of China, although we have an ethnic majority of Chinese, and that our roots are indeed from China.

Another curious remark is “You speak great English!” which would be followed by, “Where did you learn it?”

If I happen to like the individual posing the question, I’d answer with a polite “thanks” and go on to explain the bilingual educational system in Singapore. If he or she happen to rub me the wrong way, the more probable response would be a cheeky, “Thanks, and so do you.”

Some foreigners I’d met seem to find it surprising that one person can switch easily between two or more languages. They’d ask, “Can you speak Mandarin?... Wow, what else can you speak?” On more than one occasion, I find myself likening my situation to those of first-generation Latinos in the U.S., who speak fluent English to friends at school, but switch with ease to Spanish when they return home to immigrant parents who are most comfortable with the latter.

Perhaps the question to which I have an evolving response is, “Can you imagine yourself living in China?”

Until recently, my response would simply have been that I love living in Europe and New York.

Things changed this winter when a fascinating colleague from the China office spent two months with me at work. I realized how much I missed speaking in Mandarin and discussing news in Asia. Going for dim sum and szechuan was a matter of course, where I found myself both asking and answering questions as though I’d just emerged from a drought of information exchange.

A letter makes all the difference: A dim sum restaurant in China advertises its offering

A business trip to China this month only served to further wet those taste buds. There was something to be said about working with a full Asian team, where Chinese was freely used, lunch resembled what my ah ma would have prepared, and pork jerky was served during a breakfast meeting.

The poster series of Shanghai ladies that shapes the Western perception of oriental women

Chinese takeout in Shanghai. Yum!

Not as sure about Hong Kong fishball-flavored Pringles

After nearly 10 years abroad, during which I had gone west from Asia to Europe, and in turn from Europe to America, it appears I may be coming back full circle from America to Asia. At least in bite-sized portions of work stints combined with visits to see my precious family.

What would the future hold? Perhaps that's a question for my next fortune cookie.

A fortune cookie in an unexpected place

(Some pictures taken from the Internet)