Valentine’s in April

Two months ago, I bumped into my neighbor on the walkway of our FT apartment complex, and he asked why I was not someplace celebrating Valentine’s Day. I told him that my wife was in China taking care of my elderly in-laws and will not be back awhile, so Valentine’s will just have to wait. “Oh,” he exclaimed, a bit taken back. “Right, you need to stay home,” he added. Politically correct, he was.

Valentine’s on Saipan is an armful of flowers and a box of chocolate, both outside the range of my budget, though I did break down and quickly picked up a six-pack of beer before my wallet got the chance to complain. My next-door neighbor brought in a plate of his wife’s macaroni salad and spaghetti (cooked as pancit) with tuna, chicken, and sliced black olives. That’s the gastronomic side of my heart day with a Bud mug (was going to say “V-Day” but that’s usually reserved for Veterans Day, or Victory Day).

The following day, I dressed up for Park Avenue to hit income-generating activities in six places on my list. Blimey, I forgot the 14th of February was Georgie’s Day. I should have known that; my column that day was the Father of the Nation, on George Washington. Inured to MLK day and the Civil Right holidays as “day on” rather than “day off,” I was oblivious to the official nature of holidays when those in CNMI offices retire to the beach, or take their padded seats to mahjong tables.

I’ve since paid my third visit to NAP so I again had the cauliflower from California that I discovered was fully edible, the stems pleasantly chewable and the leaves an excellent additive to the soup broth. Now, I do not throw away food items so readily until I check their nutrient potential.

I once read at how the taken-for-granted coconut is actually a tree for all season, the fruit, leafs and bark convertible to numerous kinds of uses. At NAP, I noticed several folks wearing dark sunglasses pick up their food stamps, and I did not know what the social face implication was all about. The programs of assistance are for people who either objectively needs them or not, so the issue of “shame” is an elitist status sentiment more than anything else.

But earlier in the day after heart day, I went to Karidat to apply for housing assistance. I was in deep arrears on my housing rent and the Lino Olopai Park by the CK beach was not about to add a homeless resident plunk his leased Toyota on its premises. It did not materialize that way though he almost executed an affidavit for the housing program saying that he knew of my situation enough that I could be homeless if my income-generating thrust does not produce results. My landlord was into his third “eviction” letter if I did not show concretely how I was to handle my arrears.

I went over to Karidat because a friend at Red Cross informed me that I might check them out for my expressed needs. I heard that they offered a one-month emergency assistance grant after Typhoon Soudelor, but the program ended in January. The office did have a long-term offer of 10 months for the qualified homeless, which I applied to though not yet “homeless” and still hanging on to a TH Finasisu apartment.

The deadline to submit the housing assistance was the 7th of March, and having gone around offices that turned out to be closed on Georgie’s day, I had sufficient time to return home and finish the application with time left to write a column.

And read. I do not normally read. Strange words coming from a school teacher but I taught oral English and the phonetic nature of the language required that folks learned to be familiar with sounds before they decode letters and numbers. Though labeled as an introvert in college, I did not hesitate to stand in front of an audience to speak, not only because English as a language be spoken, but also since I earned my way through college as a part-time radio DJ, and attended a seminary to be a pulpit preacher.

The preaching part was brief; it provided not much practice at oration. But I had years of doing community level pedagogy in many parts of the world where verbal skill was required, so I had my share of gabfests.

I was a quiet young lad, leaving loquacity to friends. But there was San Miguel beer to loosen the tongue. Tsingtao, the brew that flows out of Shandong Province in China, is not available in the local market so I grab a 320mL bottle of Saint Michael’s, a necessity, not a luxury, and for a more refined taste, Asahi and Heinekin lead the pack. I do miss the 780mL bottles of China beer at third the price of the smaller bottles on island but we won’t trade tropical weather for the brew!

In the absence of warm arms, the beer sufficed. We are no longer too mindful of the shape of San Miguel, as opposed to the old Coca-Cola slim waist. Ooops. We’re on beer. It is Mickey’s green that got us last month but we now shepherd first graders in elementary school. We shifted into water; non-mineral ones will do! Water, anyone?