Mina Deocareza

Felt pretty (Won’t delete later)

Gandang-ganda ako sa sarili ko ngayong araw. Nakakailang selfie na nga ako ngayon kaya heto, punong-puno na ng mukha ko ang camera roll ng cellphone ko.

Hindi ko alam kung dahil ito sa bagong moisturizer ko na, ayon sa label nito ay, oil control gel cream na saktong-sakto sa oily/combination skin ko. O baka naman dahil sa tinagal-tagal ng panahon, naisipan ko ulit gamitin yung paborito kong lip-crayon. Ay ewan, hindi ko talaga alam. Ang mahalaga, feel na feel kong maganda ako sa araw na ito at walang makakokontra sa akin.

Dapat lang na may selebrasyon sa araw na ito. Aba, bibihira yata itong mangyari sa akin. Siguro sa lagpas 300 na araw sa isang taon, masuwerte na kung may may sampu manlang na mangingiti ako nang todo pagkaharap ko sa salamin. Madalas kasi, wala akong pakialam. Ang mas malala pa, may mga araw talagang nakakunot lang ang noo ko habang tinititigan ang sariling repleksiyon.

Madaling magsalita tungkol sa self-acceptance, na okey lang yan, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, na subjective ang kagandahan, na ang pinakamahalaga ay tanggap mo kung sino at ano ka. Ako man ay may mahabang listahan ng mga mantra para manlang pawiin nang bahagya ang kirot na nararamdaman sa mga araw na mahirap talagang humarap sa salamin. Lagi akong may baong words of wisdom sa tuwing kailangan magsulat tungkol sa body positivity, bodily autonomy, at self-love. Marami-rami rin akong mahuhugot na teorya na puwedeng pambato sa mga hater na walang ibang ginawa kundi punahin ang pisikal na anyo ng mga tao sa paligid nila, lalo na ng mga babae. Yun nga lang, may mga araw talagang kahit anong orasyon ang i-recite ko habang nakikipagtitigan sa sarili kong repleksiyon ay parang wala pa ring nangyayari. At siya pa rin ang nakikita ko: Yung babaeng haggard na hugis balyena na hindi naman talaga maganda. Tapos, biglang may flashback na lang noong mga panahong nilalait-lait ako ng kung sino man dahil kapos ako sa kagandahan.

Noong bata pa ako, lagi akong inaasar sa bahay namin dahil kulot ako, maitim, at may malaking mata. Mukha raw akong tiyanak. Minsan naman, ulikba. Lagi rin akong naikukumpara sa pinsan kong babae na mas matanda sa akin ng apat na taon. Siya kasi, matangkad, maputi, tapos tuwid ang buhok. Lagi siyang muse sa section nila; laging panlaban sa mga beauty pageant. Samantalang ako, pang-quiz bee lang lagi.

Hindi tuloy nakapagtataka na talagang sineryoso ko ang pagiging honor student. Alam ko naman kasing hindi ako kapili-pili bilang muse kaya sa ibang bagay na lang ako bibida. “Sige, magiging president-material na lang ako,” sabi ko sa sarili.

Isa pa, kailangan kong bigyan ng dahilan para naman kahit paano’y maging kapuri-puri ako sa pamilya namin. At least, kapag mataas lagi ang mga grado ko at parating pambato ng paaralan namin sa kung anu-anong academic contests, hindi na masyadong magpopokus ang mga kapamilya ko sa kulot kong buhok, sa maitim kong balat, at malalaking mga mata ko. Baka wala na silang ibang masasabi kundi, “Ayan, si Mina, matalino yan! Magaling!”

Noong nasa elementarya ako, sinabihan ng nanay ng isang kaklase ko si Mama na buti na lang daw at matalino ako kasi hindi daw ako maganda. Buti na lang daw talaga! Gulat na gulat ako noon dahil ibang klase naman talaga ang kapal ng mukha niya para sabihin iyon sa nanay ko. Pero sa kabilang banda, lalo lang akong nanggigil na mas pag-igihan pa ang pag-aaral. Mas ginalingan ko rin sa mga kompetisyong sinasalihan ko. “Oo na, sige na, hindi na ako maganda. Pero magaling ako!” yan ang lagi kong iniisip noon.

Ang yabang ko, oo, pero sa totoo lang, matindi ang gigil ko noon kasi nasaktan talaga ako. Kahit alam kong hindi naman talaga big deal ang opinyon ng magulang na iyon tungkol sa pisikal na anyo ko at kahit malinaw naman din sa aking wala akong kailangang patunayan sa kahit kanino, nasaktan pa rin ang ego ko.

Noong ikatlong taon ko sa high school, isa ako sa mga napiling panlaban ng section namin sa United Nations pageant ng paaralan. “G. at B. Daigdig” ang tawag sa pageant at ako ang napiling binibini sa klase namin. Kabadong-kabado ako noong una, kasi alam ko namang wala ako sa kalingkingan noong mga talagang batikan sa pageant. Walang bakas ng beauty queen qualities sa hilatsa ng pagmumukha ko.

Sa kabila noon, pumayag pa rin akong ako ang isali sa kompetisyon. Bukod kasi sa curious ako kung ano ang feeling ng rumarampa sa isang beauty pageant, alam ko rin namang may iba pang paraan para manalo. Puwede kong galingan sa pagkolekta ng pera dahil money contest unang lebel ng kompetisyon. Kayang-kaya kong makapasok sa finals kung marami akong maipapasok na pondo sa fundraiser. Creative din ako kaya alam kong kayang-kaya kong gumawa ng napakagandang national costume at talented din kaya walang-dudang kayang-kaya ko ring makipag showdown sa mga kalaban sa Q&A portion. Palaban din ang ginoong panlaban ng section namin kaya sige, tinuloy ko lang.

Sa huli, naiuwi namin ng kapareha ko ang korona. Siyempre, pagkatapos ng pageant, feeling ko ang ganda-ganda ko, kahit pa alam ko namang nairaos ko lang iyon dahil sa galing at diskarte ko sa ibang bagay. Yun nga lang, hindi pa rin ako crush ng crush ko. Iba kasi yung gusto niya — yung kaklase naming maganda at talagang laging napipili bilang muse sa tuwing may pagandahan sa paaralan namin.

Nasa kolehiyo na ako noong medyo nabawasan ang pagkabuwisit ko sa hitsura ko. Salamat sa mga klase namin sa humanities at social sciences, nasemento sa utak ko na talagang subjective ang kagandahan. Sa unibersidad ko rin naunawaan na puwede pa rin pala akong maging kahanga-hanga dahil sa talino ko at interesanteng personalidad.

Pero aaminin ko, may mga araw pa rin talagang hindi ako kayang isalba ng kahit anong teorya mula pa kahit sa kung ano mang libro ang basahin at isapuso ko. At sa totoo lang, mas lumalala ang pagiging insecure ko sa tuwing mare-reject ako ng kung sino mang gusto ko.

Gaya na lang nung nalaman kong may girlfriend na yung dating kaklase kong akala ko’y magiging boyfriend ko talaga. Lagi kaming magkasama sa loob ng isang sem at sobrang sweet pa. Pero, pagkatapos ng summer break, bigla niya na lang ako sinabihang huwag nang umasa pa dahil hindi magiging kami. Iyon pala, may iba pa siyang nilalandi at naging sila na rin sa di katagalan. Kahit alam kong wala naman akong ginawang masama, pakiramdam ko ang pangit-pangit ko.

Buti na lang at hindi ako tinuluyang nilamon ng insecurities. Nagbunga rin naman nang kaunti ang pagpe-peptalk ko sa sarili. “His loss, not yours!” sabi ko lagi sa sarili. Kaya ayun, para hindi na rin ako masyadong malungkot, mas nagpokus na lang ako sa pagiging interesanteng tao. Hindi ko na lang muna masyadong iisipin kung anong tingin ng mga tao sa hitsura ko. Ang mahalaga, masaya akong kasama, masarap kausap, at cool.

Ilang buwan pagkatapos ko maka-graduate sa unibersidad, nagkaroon ako ng bagong karelasyon. Sa unang araw namin, nalaman kong ka-chat niya ang isa sa mga kaibigan niya tungkol sa amin. Hindi rin sinasadyang nabasa ko ang bahagi ng usapan nila. “She’s awesome, but not the prettiest girl in the room.” Sabi niya sa kaibigan. Pinagsabihan siya ng kausap niya na dapat hindi ganoon ang paglalarawan sa akin.

Sa puntong iyon ako natauhan na kahit pala talaga lagi kong sinasabi na wala akong pakialam sa pisikal kong anyo at kahit pa anong yabang kong kaya kong daanin sa personality at talino ang mga bagay, may kurot pa rin talaga sa puso ko ang mga komentong gaya ng sinabi ng nakarelasyon kong iyon. Pakiramdam ko, bata na naman ako at dinadaot-daot ng mga taong dapat sana’y kakampi ko.

Pero ang isa sa pinakamatitinding tama sa ego ko ay iyong nalaman kong pinagtataksilan ako ng sumunod kong nobyo. Kahit alam kong di naman ako nagkulang, pakiramdam ko pa rin ay may mali sa akin. Ang pangit-pangit ko na naman bigla. Ganoon lang talaga siguro kapag naloloko ka. Kahit alam mong wala ka namang pagkukulang at kahit pa sigurado ka naman sa kung gaano ka kaayos na tao, hindi maiiwasan na sumagi sa isip mo na may mali o may kulang sa iyo kaya siya naghanap ng iba. Mga artista ngang saksakan sa ganda ay pinagpapalit pa rin, diba?

Mas lalong lumala ang pagiging insecure ko noong magsimula akong tumaba. Simula nang magsimulang magtrabaho nang full-time, nagbago nang husto ang paraan ko ng pamumuhay. Di nagtagal ay sumunod na rin ang pagbabago ng aking pangangatawan. Nagsimula akong bumigat. Naglakihan ang aking mga hita’t braso at bumilog din ang aking tiyan. Dumoble rin ang aking baba. Naglitawan ang stretchmarks, lalo na sa aking tiyan.

Hindi lang ako ang nagulat sa mga pagbabagong ito. Pati ang ilang kakilala, lalo na iyong mga matagal kong hindi nakita, ay hindi makapaniwala. Payat nga naman ako noon at saktong-sakto lang ang mga kurba sa katawan. (Andami pa ngang pumuri sa creative shot ko sa college year book namin kung saan ipinangalandakan ko ang aking likod habang walang suot na pang-itaas.)

“Ano’ng nangyari?” madalas nilang tanong sa akin. Kadalasan, hindi ko sinasagot ang tanong na ito. Ako man, hindi sigurado sa kung paano ako umabot sa ganito.

Pero isang bagay lang ang tiyak: Madalas na naman akong hirap humarap sa salamin ngayon.

Hindi ko naman ito araw-araw na iniinda, lalo na’t sa maraming araw, hindi na lang ako halos nananalamin para hindi ko na lang din mapansin ang hitsura ko. “Out of sight, out of mind,” ika nga nila.

Iyon nga lang, may mga araw talaga na napanghihinaan ako ng loob kapag nakikita ko ang sarili ko sa salamin. Minsan, nadaraan ko ang sarili ko sa pep talk. Minsan, hindi talaga. Pakiramdam ko, ang kabuuan ko’y parang pinagkumpol-kumpol na latak ng lahat ng mga panlalait na natanggap ko tungkol sa pisikal kong anyo mula noong bata pa ako.

Hindi ko pa rin binubura ang mga selfie na kinuha ko kani-kanina lang. Parang wala akong planong pakawalan sila. Biruin mo, sa ilang daang araw sa loob ng taong ito, may isa kung saan hindi ko kinainisan ang sarili kong hitsura. Ni hindi ko kailangan ng pep talk sa sarili ko ngayon. Sa katunayan, parang kaya ko pang magbigay ng TED Talk tungkol sa angkin kong kagandahan. How much do I love me? Let me count the ways!

Paggising ko bukas, walang kasiguraduhan kung ganito pa rin ang mararamdaman ko. Pero malamang, hindi na. Ang ganitong feeling kasi, parang mga produkto lang sa supermarket na may expiration date.

Ang hirap pa namang maging babae sa panahon ngayon. Bukod kasi sa salita ng mga kakilalang mapanghusga, nariyan din ang pressure mula sa social media na lagi kang paaalalahanan na hindi ka swak sa kung ano dapat ang hitsura ng isang babaeng kaakit-akit.

Siyempre, dagdag pahirap din ang pandemya. Bukod sa mga di magangandang dulot ng matagalang lockdown sa pag-iisip ng mga tao, matinding pagbabago rin ang dala nito sa pang-araw-araw na galaw ng mga indibidwal. Dahil laging nakakulong sa bahay, pahirapang mag-ehersisyo. Uso rin ang stress eating. Parang ang dali-dali na lalong pumangit at lumobo ngayon!

Kaya, sige na, pagbigyan niyo na ako kung pakiramdam ko’y ang ganda-ganda ko ngayon. Wala munang basagan ng trip. At kapag nag-post ako ng mga selfie ko, huwag niyong lalaitin. No haters, please!

Mar 26, 2021
Prito mania

Mahilig ako sa piniritong pagkain. Kahit noong maliit pa ako’t nakatira sa bahay ng lolo at lola ko kung saan laging masarap ang ulam, baliw na baliw na talaga ako sa kahit anong pinirito. Ang totoo, sa sobrang kabaliwan ko, madalas ko pang ipagpalit ang masasarap na putahe tulad ng kaldereta at sarsiyado sa piniritong Tender Juicy.

Mas lalong umigting ang pagmamahal ko sa pinirito nang pumisan ako sa nanay ko. Hindi siya marunong magluto. Madalas ding kapos sa budget, kaya delata ang kadalasang ulam namin. At siyempre, hindi nawawala sa listahan ang mumurahing meat loaf ng Argentina. Sa halagang P14.50, may ulam na kaming mag-iina.

Kapag may pera, lalo na kung kasusuweldo lang ng aking amain, namimili rin kami ng kung anu-anong uri ng processed meat na masarap ding prituhin. Ham, embutido, longganisa, tocino—sarap na sarap ako sa mga ito. Ni hindi ko nga maintindihan noon yung ibang tao na nagrereklamo sa puro prito. Kesyo tuyong-tuyo raw, kaya naghahanap ng sabaw. Para sa akin, kapag pinirito, panalo!

Di tuloy nakapagtataka na mas sineryoso ko pa ang pagmamahal ko sa piniritong pagkain noong pumasok ako sa kolehiyo. Napadpad ako noon sa Baguio para roon mag-aral at kinailangang tumira sa isang boarding house. Dahil malayo sa pamilya, mas naging malaya ako pagdating sa pagpili ng pagkain. Siyempre, piniritong ulam ang halos inaraw-araw ko. Bukod sa tipid sa oras ang paghahanda at mura, gustong-gusto ko rin talaga sila.

Sakto, mahilig din sa pinirito yung isang kabahay ko. Madalas, sabay kaming pumunta sa supermarket at doon, bumibili kami ng iba’t ibang brand ng mga delata at processed meat dahil curious lang kami sa kung ano nga ba ang pagkakaiba nila sa isa’t isa. Isa pa, dahil sa trip naming ito, mas marami rin kaming oportunidad na kumonsumo ng mga piniritong pagkain.

Siyempre, nalulong din kami sa fast food. Kahit kalagitnaan ng gabi, lumalabas kami’t naglilibot sa mga kalye ng Baguio gaya ng Session Road para maghanap ng makakainan at maibsan ang aming cravings. At oo, fast food chains ang kadalasang takbuhan namin. Sarap na sarap kami sa pagpapakasasa sa fries, burger, nuggets, chicken fillet, at kung anu-ano pang mamantika’t makasalanan pero masarap na mga pagkain. Maluwag-luwag kami sa pera noon sa pamilya, kaya may pantustos sa bagong bisyo.

Pagkatapos ng isang taon sa Baguio, lumipat ako sa Diliman, kung saan naman tumindi ang pagkalulong ko sa silog at sa iba pang piniritong pagkain tulad ng siomai, lumpiang toge, at piniritong tokwa. Pati ang mga gusto kong meryenda, panay nilublob din sa mantika: banana cue, proben, at karyoka.

Noong nagsimula akong magtrabaho, mas lalo akong nabuwang fast food. Lalo na noong mapadpad ako sa Makati, kung saan kada kanto ay may McDonald’s at Jollibee. Noong 2013 pa nga, halos cheeseburger lang ang kinakain ko sa araw-araw. Hindi ako nagsasawa. At sa tuwing mag-iinuman kaming magkakaopisina, sa McDonald’s kami laging nagpapalipas ng tama. Habang nagkakape, lumalamon kami ng sangkaterbang fries.

Ngayon, masasabi kong hindi pa rin kumukupas ang pag-ibig ko para sa piniritong pagkain. Kahit anong pilit ko sa sarili na kumain ng mas masusustansiyang pagkain, lalo na’t marami-rami na rin akong natutunang recipe nitong mga nagdaang taon at sigurado rin akong masarap ako magluto, binabalik-balikan ko pa rin ang aking prito favorites.

At dahil sa quarantine, mas nawiwili pa ako ulit sa pinirito. Dahil nakakulong lang sa bahay, mas ramdam ko ngayon ang pagkaumay sa tila walang katapusang sikulo ng trabaho’t gawaing bahay. Noong una, masipag pa akong magluto ng iba’t ibang putahe. Pero matapos ang ilang linggo ng paulit-ulit na gawain, dagdag pa ang pagkabagot dahil sa bagal ng usad ng buhay, mas ginugusto ko na lang nitong mga nagdaang araw na magprito lang nang magprito para mapasimple at mapabilis ang paghahanda ng pagkain.

Kaya nga lang, sa paulit-ulit kong pagpiprito, natauhan ako sa isang mapait na katotohanan: Hindi pala ako magaling magprito. Bukod sa hindi pantay na luto, kadalasang problema ng pinirito ko ang hindi magandang testura. Halimbawa, imbes na malutong ang balat ng manok, nagiging mamasa-masa ito kaya nakatatamad kainin.

Buti na lang at nadiskubre ako ang “Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering The Elements Of Good Cooking” ni Samir Nosrat. Binasa ko ang buong libro sa pag-asang marami akong matututunan tungkol sa pagluluto, lalo na pagdating sa pagpiprito.

Hindi naman ako nabigo, dahil maganda talaga yung libro at siksik sa kaalaman. Isa sa mga pinakatumatak sa aking tips ay iyong tungkol sa maagang paglabas ng karne mula sa refrigerator para masigurong hindi na ito nagyeyelo sa oras na iluluto na ito. Nalaman ko rin ang magagandang epekto ng paglalagay ng asin sa karne na nakatutulong para magkaroon ng mas magandang luto. At siyempre, naroon din ang paggamit ng tamang temperatura sa tuwing nagpiprito para hindi sunog sa labas pero hilaw sa loob ang karne. Napansin kong umayos nga ang mga lutuin ko nang sundin ko ang tips na ito.

Pagkatapos, bigla ko namang natutunan ang tungkol sa airfryer. Nalaman ko sa kaibigan ko kung gaano ito kadaling gamitin at kung gaano kaganda ang luto nito. Mas mainam din daw ito sa kalusugan dahil hindi na kailangang gumamit ng mantika. Ang totoo, sinasalo pa nito ang sobrang mantika mula sa pagkaing piniprito.

Napabilib ako nang husto rito, kaya naman nagsimula akong magtingin-tingin online ng kung anong magandang airfryer ang magandang bilhin. Naghanap din ako ng brand na hindi sobrang mahal. At, matapos ang ilang linggong pagbabasa-basa, nakita ko rin sa wakas ang brand at uri ng airfryer na swak sa amin.

Ngayon, tuwang-tuwa ako sa mga piniritong pagkain dito sa bahay. Mapa-dimsum, beef strips, french fries, o manok man ang isalang ko sa bagong airfryer namin, sigurado akong maganda ang magiging kalalabasan nito. Dahil dito, pakiramdam ko, nag-level up na ang debosyon ko sa piniritong pagkain.

Hindi na rin ako makapag-antay pa sa marami pang piniritong matitikman ko sa hinaharap. Pero siyempre, susubukan ko pa ring kumain ng mas maraming masustansiyang pagkain.

Mar 5, 2021
Pen frenzy

When I was a child, my mother gave me many pens from her office. Along with sheets of copy paper joined by metallic fasteners, she’d hand me several pieces of Pilot BP-S ballpoint pen in black or blue. Sometimes, they would come in other colors, too, like green, red, and purple.

My father did something similar. He used to work for a bank and he liked saving promotional pencils and pens so he could give them to me later. Once, he handed me a bundle of pencils and pens, each of them marked with some company’s logo. To this day, I remember that particular moment as one of the happiest moments in my childhood.

When I started joining writing contests in grade school, my parents were so supportive. Papa, in particular, always took me to the bookstore to buy me nice pens. He knew writing competitions were like wars and I had to be properly armed.

In high school, I started using Pilot G-Tec. It was the pen of choice of many upperclassmen in our publication, so I thought I should also try it. One day, Mama bought me one and I fell in love with it. It became my favorite pen as well. From then on, I started allocating a small portion of my allowance from Papa so I could buy my favorite pen. Even Mama was aware of how fond I was of it, so even after Papa passed away, she still made sure I’d always have a G-Tec in my pocket.

My obsession with pens continued in college, especially when I began working in my second year at the university. Apart from G-Tec, which was still my go-to pen, I also explored other types of pens from different brands. I tried gel pens of diverse colors and scents and felt tip pens of varying point sizes. I just wanted to have something nice to write with. I was a creative writing major, after all.

Of course, it didn’t stop even as I graduated and began working full-time. In fact, it just intensified. Now with higher purchasing power, I was freer to explore other types of pens that I had previously thought of as out of reach. I even hoarded those fancy-looking pens sold at Fullybooked.

Eventually, I discovered Muji, which was pretty life-changing for me. I fell in love with its products, particularly its notebooks and retractable pens. I just loved how smooth it was to write using those tools. Plus, they would still write smoothly even after getting dropped several times.

I learned about fountain pens, too. Many of my writer friends were into them, and from the very start, I have been in awe of them. However, according to a friend, they could be very addictive. I was already really crazy about books at that time, so I thought having another vice would not be a great idea. And so I had to forget about fountain pens to protect myself.

Then came November 29, 2020. We had to go out to buy a new computer monitor for my workstation at home. We dropped by a bookstore at the mall to look for a book I’d been wanting to read. It was not available at the moment, so I thought I’d just get some writing essentials. I bought new notebooks and felt tip pens.

Later that day, while unpacking my new writing tools, Tim asked if I’d ever considered using fountain pens. I told him about my decision to just avoid them because of how addictive they could be. But according to him, it was probably time for me to finally give in. He said fountain pens would surely suit my beautiful handwriting. Just like that, all my fountain pen fantasies were reawakened.

The following weekend, he bought me my first fountain pen: a Lamy Safari in matte charcoal. It came with a fine nib, some ink cartridges, a converter, a bottle of Lamy Blue-Black ink, and a set of fountain pen notebooks. I was so happy that I had a flashback of the moment Papa gave me a bundle of pencils and pens from different companies.

And as expected, it was only the beginning. Just a few days after getting my Lamy Safari, I bought a clear Pilot Kakuno with a medium nib and a bottle of Pilot Iroshizuku ink in Tsutsuji from an online seller.

Then, a few days after Christmas, I got another fountain pen: a TWSBI Eco in cement grey with an extra-fine nib. I also ordered a bottle each of Diamine Soft Mint and Diamine Oxblood inks online. Then, to complete the lineup, I also cleaned my Sheaffer Viewpoint calligraphy pen from two years ago.

Now I can’t stop thinking about my fountain pens and inks! I know it’s a bit too much that I got three new pens and four bottles of inks in a span of a month, so I’ve been trying to convince myself not to buy new fountain pens and inks in the next few months. But, come on! Who am I kidding?

Perhaps, my parents are to blame for this madness.

Jan 7, 2021
His memory will carry on

My Chemical Romance’s “The Black Parade” was released in 2006, the same year my father died.

I first learned about the album a few weeks after his death. My friend made me listen to “Cancer,” which, according to him, reminded him of his mom who had died a long time ago.

I took an immediate liking to the song that I listened to it over and over, Googled and memorized its lyrics, and owned it as though it had been written especially for me.

I didn’t even care what it was really about or how its creators wanted it to be understood. Freely, I dissected the song, took its lines apart, and used each of them to fill in the gaps my father had left in my heart.

There were also times when I thought these lines contained messages from him—messages he had failed to utter before breathing his last.

No wonder, I found comfort in the line, “Cause the hardest part of this is leaving you.” This made me believe he would have stayed if he only could.

Around March of the following year, I was finally able to buy a copy of the album in CD form. At first, I was scared to listen to it entirely, given how peculiar its cover art was. Everything about it was so dark that my mother once told me it might have been “demonic” or something.

The album also came with an equally strange poster that I thought was too scary to look at at night. The band members and their pals looked like ghosts on it. They were even with women clad in Victorian dresses and gas masks, which made everything look creepier.

Before listening to the album in its entirety, I was nervous. It was my first serious foray into the emo genre, so I didn’t really know what awaited me.

But after the very last track, I realized that I actually loved it.

I thought “The End” was a great opener as it effectively set the mood, before abruptly transitioning to the adrenaline-pumping “Dead.”

“Mama” and “Sleep” scared the shit out of me, so I thought I should probably skip these songs when listening to the album at night.

“Cancer” remained a favorite, but it was soon rivaled by “Welcome to the Black Parade.” I loved the latter’s intro which, I believe, went well with the story it was trying to tell.

Of course, the whole thing about the dead father’s memory being able to “carry on” resonated with me.

My father might not have taken me to the city to see a marching band, but still, his memory will carry on.

Oct 4, 2020
Thoroughfares and trust issues

I was so scared when M and I began dating in 2008, but I continued going out with him, anyway. I didn’t even care that I was about to leave for college in a month. I was hopeful that we could pull off a long-distance relationship. Besides, he assured me that he’d remain loyal and wouldn’t flirt with other girls. He promised me this as he held my hand. We were hanging out at a McDonald’s branch along P. Oliveros Street in Antipolo City. Of course, I believed him. I was young and trusting, and he seemed sincere. A few months later, however, my mother caught him holding another girl’s hand just a few steps away from the same McDonald’s branch. Eventually, I found out that they’d been together for many months.

*

Aboard an ordinary bus to Philcoa one February afternoon in 2010, G told me he loved me. As the vehicle crawled along Quezon Avenue, he held my hand and let me lean my head against his shoulder. He sang to me, too. It felt like a scene in a movie. In April, we said goodbye. He was bound for Zamboanga, his hometown, where he’d spend his summer break. He promised me he’d communicate regularly, but that didn’t happen. In June, we saw each other again on the campus. He told me, I simply won’t commit to you, so if you’re assuming, don’t. The following month, I heard he had a new girlfriend. They were from the same program and apparently, they’d been flirting for a long time.

*

J didn’t make any promises to me when he held my hand as we walked down Magsaysay Avenue at UP Diliman one afternoon in November 2010. But something about it felt reassuring. We’d been texting nonstop since the first day of classes just a few days prior. So maybe, it means something, I assumed. Later that day, he surprised me with a revelation: He was actually in a relationship with someone else.

*

During countless walks along Taft Avenue between 2013 and 2014, E assured me that he’d take care of me and that he would do his best not to hurt me. I wasn’t expecting much from him, considering the fact that when we decided to be in a relationship, all we could say was, Let’s see where this goes. But his assurances sounded so good, and I’d like to believe I had found the one. What I didn’t know, though, was that in the years to come, I’d feel more attacked and more alone than I ever would.

*

D and I started dating in February 2018. He was different from the guys I’d dated in the past, but I was hopeful. Plus, he seemed so sincere and so sure. He liked talking to me about his plans, usually while we were having coffee in our go-to cafe along Maginhawa Street. His plans always included me, and I thought it was sweet. In April, I found out that he’d been cheating on me. He never stopped talking to other girls, after all. Well, maybe he’d been making plans with them, too.

*

For me, a thoroughfare isn’t simply a path that connects point A to point B. Sometimes, it can also connect me to a particular set of memories. Some, in fact, I’ve already linked to certain tales of betrayals that when I think of them, I cannot help but also be reminded of how they contributed to my snowballing trust issues. Yet I also try to fight these thoughts and unlink these thoroughfares with heartbreaks. Hate the people, not the streets and avenues, I tell myself over and over. It is not their fault people erred in the narratives entangled with theirs.

Sep 3, 2020
Sleepless in Lucban

Isa sa mga pinakapaborito kong lakad noong 2019 ay ang pagpunta ko sa Lucban, Quezon. Naimbitahan ako ng isang kaibigan para magbigay ng talk sa creative nonfiction sa event ng paaralan kung saan siya nagtuturo.

Mahal ko ang Lucban. Marami akong masasayang alaala sa bayang ito, mula sa Regional Press Conference na sinalihan ko noong 2006 na siksik sa gala at ghost stories (malapit ang paaralang tinuluyan namin sa sementeryo at sa isang sapa kung saan daw may mga engkanto), hanggang sa mga panandaliang dalaw ko roon para sa Pahiyas Festival. Kaya naman, lalong di-matawaran ang pagkasabik ko a biyaheng ito.

Maaga raw magsisimula ang event, kaya bumiyahe na ako pa-Lucban isang araw bago ang talk ko. Sakto, gusto ko ring makapasyal-pasyal sa bayan dahil matagal-tagal na rin akong hindi nakakabalik. Isa pa, marami namang puwedeng tuluyan sa lugar na maganda ang lokasyon at sulit ang presyo.

Maaga akong pumunta sa sakayan ng bus sa Buendia noong araw ng biyahe ko. Matagal ang paglalakbay, lalo at ilang bayan din ang dinaanan. Medyo kabado ako dahil iyon ang unang beses kong sumakay ng pampublikong bus pa-Lucban. Madalas kasi, may service kapag nagagawi ako roon. Pero buti na lang at tinuruan ako ng kaibigan ko kung saan bababa sa Lucena at kung saan hahanapin ang mga jeep papuntang Lucban. Mabait din ang konduktor ng bus na nasakyan ko. Bago ako bumaba sa may Diversion Road sa Lucena, inginuso niya pa sa akin kung saang direksyon ako dapat pumunta para hindi maligaw.

Pasado ala una ng hapon na ako nakarating sa Lucban. May kalakasan ang ulan, kaya napadesisyunan kong kumain muna at tumambay sa kung saan. Iyon nga lang, inaantok ako’t pagod sa biyahe, kaya wala pang lakas na maghanap ng magandang puntahan. Kaya iyon, sa Buddy’s ang bagsak ko. Nag-order ako ng Lucban longganisa, ang pinakamasarap na longganisa sa balat ng lupa! Sinabayan ko ito ng kanin at itlog, pati na rin kape.

Pagkatapos kumain at tumunganga, dumiretso muna ako sa aking tutuluyan. Buti at mahina na ang ulan kaya naglakad na lang ako. Malapit lang din iyon sa plaza, kaya kayang-kaya. Doon, nagbaba ako ng gamit at nagpahinga. Pagkatapos, naisipan kong lumabas ulit para sa magpamasahe. May branch kasi roon ang paborito kong spa.

Nakatulog ako habang nagpapamasahe, kaya pakiramdam ko ang lakas-lakas ko pagkatapos ng session ko roon. At dahil buhay na ulit ang diwa, naisipan kong huwag muna bumalik sa tinutuluyan. Sa halip, pinuntahan ko ang Pepe n Mary’s, ang kainan at kapehang nirekomenda ng kaibigan ko.

Natuwa ako sa kape nila. Akalain mo, puwede kang mamili ng mula sa iba’t ibang brewing methods! Chemex ang pinili ko dahil iyon pa lang ang hindi ko pa nasusubukan. Madalas, French press at pour-over ang gamit ko sa bahay. Ang aeropress, nasubukan ko na rin sa maliit na coffee shop sa loob ng isang laundromat sa Maginhawa. Bukod sa kape, kumain din ako ng cheese sticks na paboritong-paborito ko.

Matagal akong tumambay doon. Nagsulat-sulat din kasi ako, saka nag-ayos ng Powerpoint para sa talk kinabukasan. Bandang alas sais, sinundo ako ng kaibigan ko at niyaya papunta sa paaralan kung saan siya nagtuturo. Doon din ang talk ko. May short film festival daw ang mga mag-aaral, kaya may mga ipapalabas sa gabing iyon. Sumama naman ako.

Ang galing ng gawa ng mga bata! Sa totoo lang, walang-wala yung production skills ko noong nasa ganoon akong edad. Marami ring pelikula ang may potensyal pagdating sa kuwento. At ang acting, ibang klase rin. Halatang hindi lang basta biro-biro ang proyekto nila.

Kumain kami ng hapunan pagkatapos manood ng short films. Doon kami napadpad sa isang cafe malapit lang din sa paaralan. Crispy bagnet kare-kare yung kinain ko, at oo, nag-order ulit ako ng kape. Habang kumakain, todo rin ang kuwentuhan namin.

Hindi ko na maalala kung anong oras kami natapos sa huntahan, pero basta gabi na. Sumakay ako ng tricycle papunta sa tinutuluyan, kung saan nanood pa ako ng TV, nagbasa, at tumunganga. Sa madaling sabi, halos hindi rin ako natulog. Hindi rin naman iyon nakakagulat dahil hindi talaga ako palatulog kapag nagbibiyahe. Pakiramdam ko kasi, kailangan kong sulitin ang bawat sandali sa lugar na dinadalaw.

Sabaw na sabaw ako kinabukasan. Pero ang mahalaga, hindi ako nahuli sa pupuntahan. Nag-check out agad ako sa nirentahang kuwarto, naglakad papunta sa plaza para sa kaunting sight seeing, at saka sumakay ng tricycle papunta sa venue. Dumating ako roon halos kalahating oras pa bago ang simula ng event.

Buti na lang, masaya ang opening program kaya hindi ako inantok. Dumating din ang ibang tagapagsalita sa araw na iyon, at nagkataong marami kaming common friends nung naka-assign sa fiction. Di tuloy namin namalayan, biglang close na rin kami. Sakto, taga-QC rin pala kami pareho noon.

Pagkatapos ng opening program, hinati na ang mga bata depende sa kung ano ang genre na pinili nila. Dahil mas kaunti ang mga pumili ng creative nonfiction, ang genre namin ang pinalipat sa isang classroom sa baba lang ng main hall. Doon nangyari ang munti kong talk na sinundan din naman ng isang writing contest. Ako ang hurado, siyempre.

Iniwan ko muna ang mga bata habang nagsusulat para makasilip sa main hall. Sakto pala, naroon na ang isa pa naming kaibigan na siya namang magsasalita tungkol sa poetry sa hapon. Halos hindi matapos ang kumustahan namin, lalo pa’t ilang buwan kaming hindi nagkita.

Natapos din ang oras na nakalaan para sa pagsulat. Binalikan ko ang mga mag-aaral at kinuha ang kanilang mga papel. Oras na rin ng tanghalian, kaya dumiretso muna kami sa Sulyap sa Pahiyas, kung saan kami nakatakdang kumain.

Maganda sa Sulyap sa Pahiyas at masarap din ang kanilang pagkain. Napakaganda rin ng tanawin, lalo sa veranda kung saan kami nakapuwesto. Para sulitin ang view (pati na rin ang libreng kape), naisipan naming doon na lang gawin ang judging.

Samantala, ang iba naming kasama’y bumalik muna sa venue para sa lecture at contest sa pagsulat ng tula at dula.

Nang matapos sa judging, bumalik na rin kami sa venue at doon na muna tumambay. Nakailang labas din kami sa campus para bumili ng kape lalo na’t may malapit na 7-Eleven doon.

Bandang alas singko, nagkaroon na ng awarding ceremony. Iyon na rin ang pagtatapos ng creative writing event. Masaya ang mga bata at nakakatuwa silang panoorin mula sa pagkasorpresa matapos malamang nagwagi, hanggang sa pagpunta sa entablado para kunin ang award. Naaalala ko ang kabataan ko. Ay, tumatanda na nga ako!

Tumambay kaming tatlo (ako, at iyong mga tagapagsalita sa fiction at sa poetry) sa Pepe n Mary’s noong tapos na ang event. Doon namin hinintay ang kaibigan naming pasimuno ng lahat, na noong oras na iyon ay abala pa sa pag-aasikaso ng mga kung anu-ano sa pinagtuturuang paaralan.

Habang naghihintay sa kaniya, nagkape at kumain kami, saka nagkuwentuhan. Sa sobrang daming istorya, pakiramdam ko hindi kami matatapos magsipagdaldalan. Ganoon lang talaga siguro kapag nagsasama-sama ang mga manunulat. Hindi puwedeng walang kuwenta at laging may kuwento.

Madilim na noong dumating ang hinihintay namin. Imbes umalis, nagtagal pa ulit kaming apat doon.

Hahabulin ko pa sana ang last trip ng bus, pero sabi nila madaling-araw na lang ako umuwi. May mga van naman daw pa-Maynila na umaalis ng alas tres ng madaling araw. Mas maikli ang biyahe kumpara sa biyahe ng bus, kaya siguradong aabot ako sa pasok ko kinabukasan. Pumayag naman ako. Siyempre, ayokong mapag-iwanan. Alam kong nagsisimula pa lang ang gabi.

Mula sa sa kainan at kapehang tinambayan, naglakad kami papunta sa plaza kung saan kami sandaling tumambay para magkuwentuhan pa rin. Nang magsawa, naglakad kami paikut-ikot sa bayan habang walang habas sa pagpapalitan ng istorya. Parang wala kaming kapaguran.

Nang makaramdam na lumalalim na nang husto ang gabi, pumunta na kami sa tinutuluyan ng kaibigan namin na siyang pasimuno ng lahat. Akala ko’y matatapos na ang kuwento roon. Hindi pa pala! Inabot kami ng pasado alas dose dahil sa daldalan. Ang labo, dahil balak naming gumising pagsapit ng alas dos para makapaghanda sa pag-uwi.

Pero nagising pa rin naman kami sa oras. O, hindi lang talaga ako natulog at pagpatak ng alas dos, kinalampag ko nang todo ang bagong kaibigan na siyang kasabay ko sa pag-uwi. Pupungas-pungas kami habang naghahanda ng mga gamit at sinisugurong walang maiiwan sa kuwartong tinuluyan.

Sa kabutihang palad, nakapag-empake naman kami nang maayos at nakalakad nang mabilis papunta sa terminal ng tricycle. Doon, sinabihan namin ang driver na ihatid kami sa kung saan makakasakay ng van pabalik ng Maynila. Hinahabol namin ang biyaheng alas tres.

Saktong dalawa na lang ang kulang ng van pagdating namin, kaya nakaalis na rin kaagad. Nagpaalam na kami sa dalawang kaibigan. Dalawa, dahil yung isa’y doon daw muna tutal taga-Quezon din naman siya. Sa ibang bayan nga lang.

Dalawang oras lang mahigit ang inabot ng biyahe pauwi, kaya nakaidlip pa ako sa bahay bilang paghahanda sa trabaho ko sa ganap na alas siyete.

Shet. Sabaw na naman. Pero, ang saya. Parang college days lang ulit. Saktong trip lang siguro, bago pa mas tumanda.

Aug 23, 2020
Why I write

It all began when I was in fifth grade. Our English teacher and adviser asked if I would like to join the school’s English publication. Back then, I didn’t really understand what it meant. But campus journalism seemed fun. Also, Mama said, “Why not?” And so I did.

The following week, I was told to go to school early, so I could attend the training sessions in the morning. I belonged to the afternoon shift then, and going to school early meant having to wake up earlier than usual. It didn’t thrill me at all. Plus, it also meant missing my favorite morning shows on MTV Channel. Worse, I found the training sessions boring. Editorial writing? Duh.

A few days into the training, the coach approached me, telling me that we were attending a series of lectures on campus journalism at another school the next day. She instructed me to bring a packed lunch and extra cash and inform my parents that I’d be out for the entire day in the next two days.

It wasn’t the first time I was participating in an activity outside school, so of course, Mama was okay with it. In fact, she was excited for me. She thought it would be cool for me to learn more about writing.

What we didn’t know, though, was there would be a competition at the end of every lecture. I only realized that on the first day of the event. I was scared because I hadn’t really prepared. I had only been training for a couple of days, and the only type of article I’d been thoroughly taught about was Editorial.

But since I was so scared of Ma’am Luz, our coach, I joined the contests anyway. All of them. Despite having limited knowledge about campus journalism, I tried my best to be creative, spell words correctly, and ensure my handwriting was legible. And I followed the lecturers’ instructions.

I ended up bagging five awards, including top spots in Feature Writing and Editorial Cartooning. Ma’am Luz was so happy, and she kept bragging that it was my first time, that I had only been training for a few days, and that I was just in grade five. I was too young to be there. At that time, it was usually the graduating students who were set to compete. Of course, school paper advisers from other schools were impressed.

That went on until I reached sixth grade and then high school. The only difference was, out of stubbornness, I decided to join the Filipino publication in high school instead. Just for a change.

I kept getting awards in high school, and I always made it to the Regional Schools Press Conference, which meant a lot to every honor student. Just being a participant there meant having extra points for extra co-curricular activities, which of course was included in the computation of the grades among those running for honors.

In my third year, I made it to the National Schools Press Conference. Not just that, our team actually won first place in Scriptwriting and Radio Broadcasting. At that time, I was already the editor-in-chief of the publication. It was weird, for the position was usually given to graduating students who needed the points the most.

It all continued in my fourth year. I did not make it to the National Presscon that year, but I was able to win other essay writing competitions, both in English and Filipino.

Because of my victories, it became too easy for me to decide what course to take in college: journalism. Some of my teachers weren’t too happy about it, thinking it would be such a waste of talent. They thought I should choose another program, preferably something more practical like accountancy or engineering. I told them I didn’t like to be like everyone else in our batch. Plus, writing was my thing.

Then, graduation came. Again, I graduated top of the class-number one among around 600 students. I was once again named Journalist of the Year. I got other awards, too, but I can no longer remember all of them. Let’s just say that at that time, I was convinced that I was really good at writing. I was ready for UP Baguio, where I was about to major in Communication.

At UP Baguio, things seemed fine. In fact, a professor encouraged me to write more after reading my first output in his class. He praised my essay for its creativity and boldness, and he liked it despite having some grammatical errors. He liked my other submissions, too. That year, I also fell in love with literature. Finally, able to have a legitimate library experience, I tried to expose myself to more literary classics.

A few months before the end of the academic year, I made up my mind: instead of pursuing journalism, I’d be a creative writer. And so, I submitted my application for the creative writing program at UP Diliman. Apart from grade requirements, there was a writing test as well. Fortunately, I passed. I transferred the following school year.

I was so thrilled with my new program. However, it was also there that I began developing a lot of insecurities. My classmates, who were mostly from prominent private schools and who grew up speaking English and reading good books, intimidated me. I admired how eloquent their prose and verses were and I was jealous. Around them, I realized how unpolished my language was.

But I did not give up. Despite getting a lot of negative comments regarding how awkward some of my sentences were and being reprimanded over grammatical errors, I did not give up. Instead, I pushed myself harder.

During my last semester, a professor told me that I had actually been improving. Hard work was paying off. Not bad.

Then I graduated and went to work as an article writer in Makati. It was not my first job. Even before that, I was already working as a writer for a production company. I had gigs with several companies, too. In the years to come, I would do editorial work for other companies as well. So I’d learn about other forms of writing, particularly the types of writing that could pay the bills.

But even then, I made a commitment to myself that I would still read a lot and try to improve my creative writing skills. I would polish my craft. I knew I had to work harder, given how behind I had been compared to other writers my age. I was okay with the idea. In fact, I found it exciting.

However, life happened. I had to deal not just with work but also with family-related dramas and messy relationships, which were so draining and time-consuming. I also struggled financially, especially when I decided to leave my family’s home.

Suddenly, I had little to no time to write. It was hard. I wanted so bad to create, but there was just too much happening around me and I was overwhelmed. Yet, I realized: Why would I let people around me dictate what I could and couldn’t do?

And so I fought. I fought for the chance to write again. I fixed my life and turned it into something that would let me do things that I really wanted to do, even if it meant losing certain people along the way. In my head, I was simply choosing myself and my dreams.

It’s already been three years since I made that difficult decision, and I am happy about my progress. It isn’t that much, since I still have to mind other things like work and grad school, but still, not bad. I have produced a couple of strong pieces in the last three years, published a piece in a magazine, and made it to a national writers’ workshop. And, just last week, I received an email saying that my essay has been accepted in a major literary journal in the country.

Moreover, I am still writing. I don’t stop. No matter how busy I am with work and personal life, I still find time to create. And I’ve never felt more confident with my work.

Of course, I still have bad days. A lot of them. There are still moments when I simply feel bad about everything I produce. However, I don’t let these moments completely distract me from my goal: to be a writer who writes, not a writer who just keeps on whining about writing.

So I go on. I take small breaks when things seem too much. I pick up something else to do like reading books I like and need. Of course, I indulge in unproductive activities, too. I watch shows and films on Netflix and elsewhere. I listen to a lot of sad songs on Spotify and sing my heart out loud on WeSing. I eat a lot and sometimes just do nothing. Sometimes, I just sleep.

And once I am fine again, I continue to write. This time, more energized, focused, and determined. It is during these moments that I become more certain about the reasons why I am writing in the first place.

I write because it’s what I want to do and because I’ve already given up a lot of things to get this far. I write because I believe in my stories. I write because I have faith in its ability to amplify the voices of the marginalized and document what’s taking place not just in me but also around me. I write because it matters.

I write because I believe helps me get to know more about myself. By writing, I get a chance to scrutinize facts and narratives and memories until they make more sense until I heal from whatever wound they previously caused me.

Sometimes, I even write in order to forgive. That’s because writing allows me to take a step back from experiences and process them more objectively and more thoroughly.

I write because I can’t imagine myself doing something else. I write because although it’s so hard that it fleshes out all my flaws and insecurities, it also occasionally brings out the best in me. I write because, by writing, I get a chance to immortalize people and things. I also get to immortalize experiences.

I write because even if it’s usually unrewarding, just being able to produce something can also feel great. Even if it takes a lot of work. Even if the process is sometimes painful.

I write because I believe that I’m meant to do this, so even if there is still a lot of work to do and a lot of things to learn, I am ready. I write because I am willing to make the necessary sacrifices.

I write because I’m a writer, and no, I don’t want to be anything else.

Aug 20, 2020
Our hero is dead, and so is our love

I didn’t become a fan of Anthony Bourdain until you came into my life. It was you who introduced me to the joys of cable TV, after all.

It was 2014. We had only been dating for a couple of months but moved in together, anyway. It just happened, and before we knew it, we were already sharing meals in the studio apartment owned by your family and watching the same shows on TV.

Before that, my idea of television was limited to the shows produced and aired by mainstream networks. While I was not too fond of these programs, I developed a sense of familiarity with them. I was well aware of how convoluted a teleserye plot could be, especially when ratings were high and the producers felt the need to stretch the storyline just to make more money.

No wonder, lifestyle shows on cable TV seemed like a blessing from the heavens to me. I was especially amazed by Anthony Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown.” I admired how great of a storyteller he was and how his features defied formats usually employed by other television personalities. I also liked how he respected different cultures and how humble he was each time he had to interact with people from the places he was visiting.

One of the episodes I could not forget about was that one on Glasgow. It was, to me, as truthful as truthful could get. Instead of going for the usual cheap tricks other hosts usually resorted to, he chose to present the place as honestly as possible: He showed how dark and bland the place seemed and why, for many, this wasn’t considered a viable tourist destination at all. But of course, he also told about the beauty he found in it — all those lovely little things that made it unique. And yes, it had a lot to do with food.

You were so glad to welcome me into the fandom as I grew fonder and fonder of him. Then, eventually, you told me about “Kitchen Confidential,” something you had read and learned a lot from. It was, according to you, what taught you about why one should not order fish at any restaurant on a Monday. It was also where you learned how blasphemous ordering a well-done steak was. These revelations intrigued me, so I read the book as well. And I devoured it.

It easily became our bible. All of a sudden, our decisions on what to eat and where were influenced by the bits of knowledge we’d picked up from the book. There were even times when you’d call me out for my “boring” and “too safe” food choices. Shame on me, you would say, before reminding me that I, too, would have to explore and strive to become an educated eater to uphold the teachings of Bourdain, our hero.

It was fun, I must admit. It even changed me for the better. From the overly picky eater that I used to be, I finally started trying new things out. I no longer asked for a well-done steak. I stopped myself from fancying dishes whose meat swam in too much sauce, knowing how chefs typically used those rich liquids to conceal flaws. I also tried to suppress my seemingly endless fascination with fried chicken, especially when eating out. Chicken meat was all about playing safe, as you often said, making a reference, of course, to the book. In other words, it was a boring choice. Something I should avoid, yes.

With all the bits of new wisdom inside my head, I also became more open to trying out different cuisines. I graduated from being the pasta girl and braved Korean restaurants in Malate, finally able to appreciate the beauty of unlimited side dishes. I also became a bit more daring to try other dishes at Japanese restaurants and broke up with karaage, which had been my go-to order.

I even agreed to go to a Greek restaurant in Makati once. Although its pretentious atmosphere irked me upon entering the establishment, I soldiered on. I bravely asked for the menu, threw quick yet sensible questions about dishes at the server, and ordered what I thought we’d enjoy. As soon as the food landed on our table, we looked into each other’s eyes, as though we were sending one another an important message telepathically: “Mission successful!”

Our cooking habits changed, too. Since we were eager to prove how much we were learning, we started buying spices and ensured each of them was used with the right type of meat or in the correct dishes. We also tried, as much as we could, to buy ingredients from nearby wet and dry markets instead of the big supermarkets close to where we were living.

We also became more appreciative of the people behind the meals we consumed. Now aware of the preparation process as well as the struggles usually faced by the people involved in the food industry, we waited for our orders more patiently, said “thank you” to the servers more often, and gave bigger tips.

Like many other things, food kept us close and made our relationship stronger. Our shared commitment to educating ourselves on food and the different processes involving it gave us something to hold on to and nourish, besides our feelings.

However, it came to a point when our shared enthusiasm for food could no longer save us. Perhaps, we simply grew apart. When not trying out interesting dishes or conjuring meals together, we were nothing but two different people with different sets of values and priorities.

Remember the last food trip we had together? It happened in Manila’s Chinatown on your birthday in 2017. We ate Indonesian Tauhu at Quik Snack along Carvajal Street and wolfed down a platter of Kuchay at Dong Bei. Then we shared half an order of Sincerity’s iconic fried chicken.

It seemed like a perfect day, except I had already been full of doubts about our relationship deep inside. You had been cold for the past few weeks, and I was getting tired of having to initiate most of our conversations and plan our dates. It was as if you were no longer interested in me and whatever we had. I don’t know if it was because I had chosen to move out of your place, or if you were simply no longer excited to spend time with me. In fact, earlier that day, I had to force you to meet up with me for us to do something together on your special day. You said you didn’t have work that day, it was your birthday, yet you’d rather stay at home and prepare for a company dinner you weren’t even required to attend.

Your coldness and lack of interest persisted even during the holidays. And then, one day, I just woke up and realized that I no longer cared much about you. Maybe I just got used to not having you around. Or, maybe, I just got tired. Maybe I just realized that enough was enough, that I should devote my time and energy to other things instead of chasing after you. And so I decided to call it quits. I insisted, even if you objected, even if you promised me you’d do better. I was simply done.

I will remember our love in the same way that I will remember Bourdain’s life, or what I know of it: It was good while it lasted.

I know that to this day, many people still believe that what we had was too great to be thrown away—just like that. I am sure they remain convinced that it could have not ended if only we had enough courage and drive to fight for it a little bit harder. But what do they know? Our relationship may have seemed ideal from a distance, but they aren’t aware of what we had to go through and how difficult things were for us, especially in the last months we spent together. They may have seen our relationship ideal from a distance, but they aren’t aware of what we had to go through and how difficult things were for us, especially in the last months we spent together.

In the same way, some people probably still have no idea what Bourdain had to go through while trying to live his life and what really pushed him to the edge, until he could no longer take it. And while they can live their lives wondering about the things they could have done differently in order to save him, one thing will remain unchanged: It is too late now. He’s dead.

And like him, our love is, too.

I wrote this essay in June 2018, a few days after Anthony Bourdain’s passing and five months after the death of a four-year relationship.

Jan 12, 2020