Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
As I was saying yesterday, I am deeply grateful for this gift of writing. It feels almost deliberately designed to save me. There is always the risk of overdoing it, of slipping into excess, but I would much rather do this than sink into the sadness of the world—the noise, the irrelevance, the sometimes stunning stupidity I see on social media. Or the internet in general: rabid anger everywhere, behavior that feels less human than animal. Sometimes I feel physically sick just clicking on their links, like I’ve touched something unclean.
In the middle of all that, it is profoundly calming to reach out to the Holy Spirit. I am grateful for that privilege. Yesterday reminded me again that the Lord still holds a quiet but immense power—the power to comfort me amid the sadness and tears this age keeps hammering into my mind like a painful nail. Meditation is a gift. It steadies my footing. It opens a wide, empty pasture in my thoughts where I can rest, breathe, and decide what the day will ask of me.
Yesterday was a deliberate day of rest. I chose not to exercise, neither indoors nor outside. It felt necessary. My body needed a pause after days of prolonged activity, mostly in the garden—digging, lifting, dragging pots from one corner to another, bending, squatting, twisting. Today, I might do a little exercise, maybe outdoors if the weather cooperates. This could be my last chance for the next four days, with temperatures dropping into the low thirties. Tomorrow, I’ll bring my baby plants indoors—though I’m still not sure it’s even necessary. As of yesterday’s inspection, they were thriving. Still, today is their last “warm” day, and I can already feel winter pressing its forehead against the glass.
I feel genuine joy watching my new plants. That alone is enough reason to keep moving, to stay physically engaged. I love the quiet of the mornings once my migrant neighbors leave for their landscaping and construction jobs. There’s a particular freedom in that silence, a freedom only people who love solitude truly understand. I stand in the small yard, surveying what little space I have. Sometimes I catch myself wishing someone would pass by and say hello, but when no one does, it doesn’t really matter.
I occasionally record my activities on video, though it feels more like routine than performance. Somewhere in my brain, I’ve settled into a loose structure: three posts a week, if conditions allow. One poetry post in Tagalog. One about gardening and plants. One about exercise or dancing. Yesterday, I posted something experimental, maybe nostalgic—something I fully intended to delete almost immediately. I was too slow. A few likes came in. A modest audience. I deleted it anyway after a couple of hours. This week’s posting schedule is uneven, disrupted by weather and the death of a relative. There are moments when posting anything at all feels impolite, almost disrespectful to grief—especially when the loss touches people connected to me, even loosely.
So I keep things low-key. No fantasies about popularity. No hunger for approval. That kind of longing feels materialistic to me now. My goal remains simple: self-expression. Nothing more. Like meditation, writing is my way out—an escape from the vicissitudes, the immorality, the raw discomfort caused by the primitive ways people collide with one another online. I’m not searching for reactions or acceptance. I might care, yes—but I’ve learned not to expect. Expectation feeds paranoia. The less noise I make, the more peaceful I become.
Today begins, as usual, with meditation. Outside, the weather has shifted. I expected sunshine, like the last few mornings, but the sky is overcast, turning gray. The planned outdoor walk may have to wait. My options narrow: the gym, or staying home for a dance-based aerobic routine. I could even add some light weightlifting with my makeshift home weights. I’ll let the weather decide. Nature always seems to have the final word anyway.
For now, I’ll stick with what I’ve committed to this week: finishing my book, continuing my articles, reducing mindless browsing. Still, I allow myself occasional entertainment. Total abstinence from technology would be gloomy, even unrealistic. This modern convenience gives my mind brief rest from overthinking—if I use it with restraint.
And just like that, I catch myself drifting. An innocent internet search turns into another, then another. The lure is immediate. Mindfulness pulls me back. I remind myself—where I am, what I was doing, what I just abandoned. Return quickly. Always return quickly.
It’s quiet again at 8:15 a.m. Jim has just left for work. The house is mine once more. Yesterday, with this much freedom, I flirted with the idea of driving to places I used to haunt, just to see if something—anything—might spark enjoyment. Mostly desire of something no longer applicable to my age and health, if I’m honest. That habit still flickers now and then. But it’s losing its grip. Other tasks are gaining weight in my mental economy. Desire hasn’t disappeared; it’s simply being outbid.
This morning, I meditate, then wander through the house, standing up periodically, stretching, walking. Making coffee—always coffee—gets me moving. I sip it slowly, then inspect my indoor plants, leaf by leaf. After that, I step outside to check the outdoor ones. They’re thriving so far. I water them anyway, even as dark clouds threaten rain. I linger. Two elderly Latina neighbors are also in their backyards. Years ago, I would have tried harder to chat, but the language barrier makes it difficult. Still, I admire their work ethic. One of them is often hanging freshly washed clothes on a line early in the morning. No dryer. Maybe no washer either. Either way, it’s exercise—honest, functional movement. The other woman, who appears sporadically during the week, is clearly skilled with plants. We wave, exchange greetings. That’s where it ends.
They remind me of Filipina neighbors from my childhood. Familiar faces, familiar rhythms. Jim, on the other hand, is unmistakably gringo—blunt, guarded, protective of his solitude. Not racist, but intimidating in his indifference. I sometimes wish I could explain that he isn’t hostile, just culturally distant. He values silence fiercely, sometimes explosively—especially when neighbors play loud music or hold backyard worship services while glancing warily at his cigarette smoke. He guards his isolation the way others guard property.
Over time, though, people adjust. I stay friendly. Jim remains aloof. Everyone learns the shape of everyone else.
I wonder what to do today. I need to go to storage and retrieve winter clothes before the temperature drops. That alone is a good excuse to move.
After cleaning the house, watering plants, and checking the forecast, I drive to storage. Florida weather is mostly tropical—until it isn’t. This year’s forecast predicts a harsh Arctic blast for several days starting Saturday. I’m grateful I’m retired now. No more battling the elements for work like I did when I was younger.
At storage, I pull out my winter clothes—mostly joggers and regular pants I rarely wear. Since I occasionally appear on social media, I feel oddly pressured to rotate outfits. In reality, I cycle through two pairs of pants, three shirts, maybe three shorts. The rest sit folded, forgotten. Laziness, not lack. I make a mental note to care a little more about how I present myself. Not for vanity—but for dignity. I don’t need to look careless just because I’ve stopped caring about approval.
I go straight home, any urge to wander evaporated. Retirement has clarified one thing for me: time is shorter now. This is a narrow window. To waste it waiting for miracles or chasing hollow excitement feels not only foolish, but almost ungodly.
There’s a new book waiting after this one. That feels exciting. I briefly consider visiting a plant store, but the incoming cold convinces me otherwise. No need to add new worries. At home, I read a few more pages, then check my indoor plants again—another small loop of movement. I realize I completely forgot the house aerobics and weights I planned earlier. Instead, the day filled itself with lighter work: cleaning, watering, driving, organizing.
Long walks and gardening take their toll. Digging, lifting, stepping, turning—these are not gentle acts. They strain joints and muscles in ways that add up quietly. Today, light activity feels right.
And that, too, is a form of listening
2026-01-31 09:49:06
blog
American Son (written much earlier)
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Well, here I go again, disturbing you with my usual “book review.” I put those two words in quotation marks because I never really follow the rules of reviewing. I even tried posting this piece on FLIPS and asked others to share their reviews. I received one good response—just one. If only I were allowed to repost it here. These days, sharing articles from the web is difficult. Copyright must always be respected. So this website remains a one-man show.
I judge books based on my personal response to them. I don’t analyze structure or language in a formal way. I simply react.
As I continue thinking about American Son, I realize that I don’t really know Fil-Am culture or the Fil-Am way of thinking as well as I thought I did.
This review is shaped by my own experience as a native Filipino who never lived through what biracial children experience. Their struggles are different from mine. Their way of seeing the world is different from mine.
So I ask you, dear readers, not to prejudge this book based solely on my feelings. Make no mistake—it is a good book. It allows us to enter the minds of some Fil-Am (biracial) kids. I would genuinely appreciate it if you would share your own reactions to it.
I don’t believe there is such a thing as a “correct” book review. Like art, literature has no single measure.
Read the book.
My Personal Take on American Son
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Christmas is coming. I don’t know about you, but this season has been unexpectedly enjoyable for me. In middle age, I’ve learned to be more flexible with my own idiosyncrasies. I feel more confident in myself and more decisive. I know when to plow through writing when inspiration strikes, and when to stop altogether when exhaustion sets in.
The good thing is that I now write more freely, without worrying about whether anyone is reading or not. I’ve finally learned to say no—to leave things behind, to ignore distractions, to be fierce about my freedom and individuality. I suppose I’m becoming more Americanized. But freedom and individualism are not exclusively American; they are Filipino, too. They are universal.
These days, I alternate between web design and reading fiction. I’m currently immersed in Anne Rice’s Blackwood Farm. I recently finished American Son by Roley and I’m halfway through Holthe’s When the Elephants Dance.
American Son is a simple and direct novel, but it didn’t sit well with me. The Filipino mother is portrayed as almost unbelievably foolish. In all my years living in America, I have never encountered a Filipino mother like that. I wish some Fil-Am writers would take the time to understand their Filipino roots—and the Filipino character—before projecting generalized or stereotypical traits onto Filipinos. It becomes even more troubling when those portrayals seem designed to satisfy American expectations.
I understand that some Fil-Am children may feel ashamed of their Philippine heritage, but that does not justify rationalizing that shame by condemning their own culture. I’ve written about the flaws, the dirt, and the dirty laundry of the Philippines myself—but I do so grounded in lived Filipino truth.
When a Fil-Am writer portrays a Filipino mother as someone who silently bows her head while being screamed at by an American woman—honey, that simply doesn’t ring true. The Filipino mothers I know here in America do not behave that way. They are not passive, frightened, or oblivious. They do not stand by while their children spiral into crime.
And a Filipino mother supposedly raised in wealth—someone from Forbes Park? Come on. I would expect a woman of sophistication, not someone introduced almost as a maid. If this is how some Fil-Am children view their Filipino mothers, then woe to them. They clearly do not understand the caliber of Filipina women.
I don’t know how others experienced this book, but I often felt uncomfortable reading it. Is that because I am a “native” Filipino? There were many moments when I shook my head and thought, This isn’t possible. Or Really? Or What??? Of course, fiction is fiction—but good fiction often feels truer than reality.
In the end, I realized I needed to understand what this book is really trying to do. I had to read it as if I were American. Seen through that lens, the novel is about an American kid trying to find himself within American culture—though it unfortunately ends in violence, in a kind of Dirty Harry / Equalizer fashion. I certainly don’t want Fil-Am kids discovering themselves this way, but the existence of this story suggests that such paths are possible.
This is a Fil-Am novel, and I’m beginning to see the early flowering of Fil-Am stories in America. Another Fil-Am story—this time through film—that attempts to explain Fil-Am culture is The Debut. It also centers on a Fil-Am character who feels ashamed of his heritage. I can only hope that this sense of shame does not become a recurring theme—or the heart—of Fil-Am storytelling.
Because there is nothing shameful about being Filipino.
And there is nothing shameful about our culture.
2026-01-26 15:38:42
bookreviews
Listening to my Thoughts
As I was saying yesterday, I am deeply grateful for this gift of writing. It feels almost deliberately designed to save me. There is always the risk of overdoing it, of slipping into excess, but I would much rather do this than sink into the sadness of the world—the noise, the irrelevance, the sometimes stunning stupidity I see on social media. Or the internet in general: rabid anger everywhere, behavior that feels less human than animal. Sometimes I feel physically sick just clicking on their links, like I’ve touched something unclean.
In the middle of all that, it is profoundly calming to reach out to the Holy Spirit. I am grateful for that privilege. Yesterday reminded me again that the Lord still holds a quiet but immense power—the power to comfort me amid the sadness and tears this age keeps hammering into my mind like a painful nail. Meditation is a gift. It steadies my footing. It opens a wide, empty pasture in my thoughts where I can rest, breathe, and decide what the day will ask of me.
Yesterday was a deliberate day of rest. I chose not to exercise, neither indoors nor outside. It felt necessary. My body needed a pause after days of prolonged activity, mostly in the garden—digging, lifting, dragging pots from one corner to another, bending, squatting, twisting. Today, I might do a little exercise, maybe outdoors if the weather cooperates. This could be my last chance for the next four days, with temperatures dropping into the low thirties. Tomorrow, I’ll bring my baby plants indoors—though I’m still not sure it’s even necessary. As of yesterday’s inspection, they were thriving. Still, today is their last “warm” day, and I can already feel winter pressing its forehead against the glass.
I feel genuine joy watching my new plants. That alone is enough reason to keep moving, to stay physically engaged. I love the quiet of the mornings once my migrant neighbors leave for their landscaping and construction jobs. There’s a particular freedom in that silence, a freedom only people who love solitude truly understand. I stand in the small yard, surveying what little space I have. Sometimes I catch myself wishing someone would pass by and say hello, but when no one does, it doesn’t really matter.
I occasionally record my activities on video, though it feels more like routine than performance. Somewhere in my brain, I’ve settled into a loose structure: three posts a week, if conditions allow. One poetry post in Tagalog. One about gardening and plants. One about exercise or dancing. Yesterday, I posted something experimental, maybe nostalgic—something I fully intended to delete almost immediately. I was too slow. A few likes came in. A modest audience. I deleted it anyway after a couple of hours. This week’s posting schedule is uneven, disrupted by weather and the death of a relative. There are moments when posting anything at all feels impolite, almost disrespectful to grief—especially when the loss touches people connected to me, even loosely.
So I keep things low-key. No fantasies about popularity. No hunger for approval. That kind of longing feels materialistic to me now. My goal remains simple: self-expression. Nothing more. Like meditation, writing is my way out—an escape from the vicissitudes, the immorality, the raw discomfort caused by the primitive ways people collide with one another online. I’m not searching for reactions or acceptance. I might care, yes—but I’ve learned not to expect. Expectation feeds paranoia. The less noise I make, the more peaceful I become.
Today begins, as usual, with meditation. Outside, the weather has shifted. I expected sunshine, like the last few mornings, but the sky is overcast, turning gray. The planned outdoor walk may have to wait. My options narrow: the gym, or staying home for a dance-based aerobic routine. I could even add some light weightlifting with my makeshift home weights. I’ll let the weather decide. Nature always seems to have the final word anyway.
For now, I’ll stick with what I’ve committed to this week: finishing my book, continuing my articles, reducing mindless browsing. Still, I allow myself occasional entertainment. Total abstinence from technology would be gloomy, even unrealistic. This modern convenience gives my mind brief rest from overthinking—if I use it with restraint.
And just like that, I catch myself drifting. An innocent internet search turns into another, then another. The lure is immediate. Mindfulness pulls me back. I remind myself—where I am, what I was doing, what I just abandoned. Return quickly. Always return quickly.
It’s quiet again at 8:15 a.m. Jim has just left for work. The house is mine once more. Yesterday, with this much freedom, I flirted with the idea of driving to places I used to haunt, just to see if something—anything—might spark enjoyment. Mostly desire of something no longer applicable to my age and health, if I’m honest. That habit still flickers now and then. But it’s losing its grip. Other tasks are gaining weight in my mental economy. Desire hasn’t disappeared; it’s simply being outbid.
This morning, I meditate, then wander through the house, standing up periodically, stretching, walking. Making coffee—always coffee—gets me moving. I sip it slowly, then inspect my indoor plants, leaf by leaf. After that, I step outside to check the outdoor ones. They’re thriving so far. I water them anyway, even as dark clouds threaten rain. I linger. Two elderly Latina neighbors are also in their backyards. Years ago, I would have tried harder to chat, but the language barrier makes it difficult. Still, I admire their work ethic. One of them is often hanging freshly washed clothes on a line early in the morning. No dryer. Maybe no washer either. Either way, it’s exercise—honest, functional movement. The other woman, who appears sporadically during the week, is clearly skilled with plants. We wave, exchange greetings. That’s where it ends.
They remind me of Filipina neighbors from my childhood. Familiar faces, familiar rhythms. Jim, on the other hand, is unmistakably gringo—blunt, guarded, protective of his solitude. Not racist, but intimidating in his indifference. I sometimes wish I could explain that he isn’t hostile, just culturally distant. He values silence fiercely, sometimes explosively—especially when neighbors play loud music or hold backyard worship services while glancing warily at his cigarette smoke. He guards his isolation the way others guard property.
Over time, though, people adjust. I stay friendly. Jim remains aloof. Everyone learns the shape of everyone else.
I wonder what to do today. I need to go to storage and retrieve winter clothes before the temperature drops. That alone is a good excuse to move.
After cleaning the house, watering plants, and checking the forecast, I drive to storage. Florida weather is mostly tropical—until it isn’t. This year’s forecast predicts a harsh Arctic blast for several days starting Saturday. I’m grateful I’m retired now. No more battling the elements for work like I did when I was younger.
At storage, I pull out my winter clothes—mostly joggers and regular pants I rarely wear. Since I occasionally appear on social media, I feel oddly pressured to rotate outfits. In reality, I cycle through two pairs of pants, three shirts, maybe three shorts. The rest sit folded, forgotten. Laziness, not lack. I make a mental note to care a little more about how I present myself. Not for vanity—but for dignity. I don’t need to look careless just because I’ve stopped caring about approval.
I go straight home, any urge to wander evaporated. Retirement has clarified one thing for me: time is shorter now. This is a narrow window. To waste it waiting for miracles or chasing hollow excitement feels not only foolish, but almost ungodly.
There’s a new book waiting after this one. That feels exciting. I briefly consider visiting a plant store, but the incoming cold convinces me otherwise. No need to add new worries. At home, I read a few more pages, then check my indoor plants again—another small loop of movement. I realize I completely forgot the house aerobics and weights I planned earlier. Instead, the day filled itself with lighter work: cleaning, watering, driving, organizing.
Long walks and gardening take their toll. Digging, lifting, stepping, turning—these are not gentle acts. They strain joints and muscles in ways that add up quietly. Today, light activity feels right.
And that, too, is a form of listening
2026-01-31 09:49:06
blog
American Son
American Son (written much earlier)
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Well, here I go again, disturbing you with my usual “book review.” I put those two words in quotation marks because I never really follow the rules of reviewing. I even tried posting this piece on FLIPS and asked others to share their reviews. I received one good response—just one. If only I were allowed to repost it here. These days, sharing articles from the web is difficult. Copyright must always be respected. So this website remains a one-man show.
I judge books based on my personal response to them. I don’t analyze structure or language in a formal way. I simply react.
As I continue thinking about American Son, I realize that I don’t really know Fil-Am culture or the Fil-Am way of thinking as well as I thought I did.
This review is shaped by my own experience as a native Filipino who never lived through what biracial children experience. Their struggles are different from mine. Their way of seeing the world is different from mine.
So I ask you, dear readers, not to prejudge this book based solely on my feelings. Make no mistake—it is a good book. It allows us to enter the minds of some Fil-Am (biracial) kids. I would genuinely appreciate it if you would share your own reactions to it.
I don’t believe there is such a thing as a “correct” book review. Like art, literature has no single measure.
Read the book.
My Personal Take on American Son
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Christmas is coming. I don’t know about you, but this season has been unexpectedly enjoyable for me. In middle age, I’ve learned to be more flexible with my own idiosyncrasies. I feel more confident in myself and more decisive. I know when to plow through writing when inspiration strikes, and when to stop altogether when exhaustion sets in.
The good thing is that I now write more freely, without worrying about whether anyone is reading or not. I’ve finally learned to say no—to leave things behind, to ignore distractions, to be fierce about my freedom and individuality. I suppose I’m becoming more Americanized. But freedom and individualism are not exclusively American; they are Filipino, too. They are universal.
These days, I alternate between web design and reading fiction. I’m currently immersed in Anne Rice’s Blackwood Farm. I recently finished American Son by Roley and I’m halfway through Holthe’s When the Elephants Dance.
American Son is a simple and direct novel, but it didn’t sit well with me. The Filipino mother is portrayed as almost unbelievably foolish. In all my years living in America, I have never encountered a Filipino mother like that. I wish some Fil-Am writers would take the time to understand their Filipino roots—and the Filipino character—before projecting generalized or stereotypical traits onto Filipinos. It becomes even more troubling when those portrayals seem designed to satisfy American expectations.
I understand that some Fil-Am children may feel ashamed of their Philippine heritage, but that does not justify rationalizing that shame by condemning their own culture. I’ve written about the flaws, the dirt, and the dirty laundry of the Philippines myself—but I do so grounded in lived Filipino truth.
When a Fil-Am writer portrays a Filipino mother as someone who silently bows her head while being screamed at by an American woman—honey, that simply doesn’t ring true. The Filipino mothers I know here in America do not behave that way. They are not passive, frightened, or oblivious. They do not stand by while their children spiral into crime.
And a Filipino mother supposedly raised in wealth—someone from Forbes Park? Come on. I would expect a woman of sophistication, not someone introduced almost as a maid. If this is how some Fil-Am children view their Filipino mothers, then woe to them. They clearly do not understand the caliber of Filipina women.
I don’t know how others experienced this book, but I often felt uncomfortable reading it. Is that because I am a “native” Filipino? There were many moments when I shook my head and thought, This isn’t possible. Or Really? Or What??? Of course, fiction is fiction—but good fiction often feels truer than reality.
In the end, I realized I needed to understand what this book is really trying to do. I had to read it as if I were American. Seen through that lens, the novel is about an American kid trying to find himself within American culture—though it unfortunately ends in violence, in a kind of Dirty Harry / Equalizer fashion. I certainly don’t want Fil-Am kids discovering themselves this way, but the existence of this story suggests that such paths are possible.
This is a Fil-Am novel, and I’m beginning to see the early flowering of Fil-Am stories in America. Another Fil-Am story—this time through film—that attempts to explain Fil-Am culture is The Debut. It also centers on a Fil-Am character who feels ashamed of his heritage. I can only hope that this sense of shame does not become a recurring theme—or the heart—of Fil-Am storytelling.
Because there is nothing shameful about being Filipino.
And there is nothing shameful about our culture.
2026-01-26 15:38:42
bookreviews