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  • Fellowship around the fire

    Thick, billowing smoke alarmed the passersby on the alley between Coco Grande and Silliman University’s Davao Cottage that Sunday afternoon. One of them, a woman in her 40s, was visibly upset as the smoke engulfed her, likely leaving a scent of something burned on her clothes that looked so pristine. I think she was on her way to church.

    I was looking out of the cottage’s chain-link fence at the time, and our eyes met eventually. Awkward. It then occurred to me that the woman might do something drastic like call the authorities. This idea frightened me, so I started walking away from the fence and turned to my co-fellows. I said we should probably do something about the smoke. I was not even sure whether what we were doing—grilling pork belly at the back of the cottage, our home for the duration of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop—was allowed. And considering the material the cottage was made of, plus the age of the structure itself, it was not hard for me to understand that our choice of cooking method posed serious threats.

    “Aren’t we getting in trouble because of this?” I asked them.

    No one seemed to hear me. But that wasn’t surprising. Amid the frenzy, we were also belting out Britney Spears songs—another obsession our group shared.

    Still concerned about the situation, I looked out of the cottage’s fence once more, this time to get a better view of the Coco Grande guests hanging out on the hotel’s veranda. Unlike the passersby who immediately showed disapproval in their faces upon seeing the smoke, however, they did not seem bothered at all. Perhaps they were already drunk, or maybe they were just too happy to care.

    There was no way for me to verify either of my suspicions, but their unbotheredness somehow assured me that everything would be just fine. And before I knew it, I was already busy helping my co-fellows with the grilling, completely rid of all the worries I used to have about the smoke emanating from our makeshift grill. Then all I could think of was feasting on those strips of charred meat with my newfound family.

    *

    I have always been drawn to the smell of burned meat and the sight of smoke rising from the grill. I know this fondness of mine goes beyond what science dictates. In fact, whenever I try to find out where it all began, I get a flashback of the celebrations our family had at our compound in Antipolo.

    Grilled liempo was always a staple at these gatherings, particularly those held on New Year’s Eve, as my grandmother believed eating chicken at the start of another year could usher in back luck. This, according to her, is because of the chicken’s habit known as “isang kahig, isang tuka” (one scratch, one peck), a phrase often used to describe a person who gets barely enough to get by.

    Our family’s version of grilled liempo is different from the ones usually served in restaurants and eateries around Metro Manila. It is seasoned only with lots of rock salt and looks rather pale in comparison to the ketchup-stained iterations sold by these establishments. I once asked an aunt about it, and she said it’s simply how people grill liempo in Eastern Samar. I have not been able to verify this, especially since I have not been to our province for more than two decades. And while I found it a little too plain to my liking when I was a kid, I now appreciate it. It is simple and straightforward, and it works like a charm with limited ingredients and low effort, as long as one is working with fresh meat.

    My grandfather, who worked as a cook for a high-end Korean restaurant, drank a lot during gatherings, and he usually wanted this version of grilled pork belly for pulutan. No wonder he and his pals, my uncles, and other male relatives normally started grilling pork belly early into the day, in preparation for the drinking session that could last until the next morning. Sometimes, they would even begin passing booze around the open flame.

    Grilled meat was not just for the drinkers, though, as it was also customary for them to share some with those who didn’t consume alcohol. This is why my grandfather always kept a separate plate by his side and on it piled strips and strips of perfectly grilled liempo until its contents were close to spilling. He would then call someone to take the plateful of meat to the main house, where hungry non-drinkers would usually wait for blessings in the form of ulam.

    There were also times when non-drinkers would simply wait around the open flame, waiting for the plate of meat to be ready. I loved doing this because, apart from watching how the grilling happened, I was also fond of eavesdropping on the drinkers’ conversations. They usually gossiped about people in our sitio or our clan, and I found it so entertaining. This is probably why, to this day, I still love eating barbecued meat with a side of chismis.

    *

    Money became scarce after my grandfather’s retirement, and everyone else became busy with either work or school. With not a lot of cash to burn and leave credits to spend on special occasions, our family began to settle for smaller, simpler celebrations. Drinking sessions were no longer as grand as before, either, as some of the resident drinkers, as they were called, were now getting older and had been warned by their doctors against consuming too much alcohol and fatty food.

    Gatherings grew even quieter after one of my uncles died of a heart attack. It seemed people were finally seeing the link between eating habits and mortality. Even New Year’s celebrations became a little too quiet than I’d been used to—no more merriments around the fire; just humble meals shared in front of the television.

    This did not mean I simply forgot how fun it was to eat charred meat while having a great chat with other people, however. In fact, it was quite the opposite. As I embraced adulthood and began the search for my rightful place in the world, I also started to look for more circles around the fire that I could be part of.

    The university was a perfect venue for this new quest of mine. It helped a lot, too, that I somehow ended up in UP Diliman, where I felt freer to become whoever I wanted to be. On the campus, I met people I’d also consider family, and of course, we all spent a considerable amount of time sharing food, including grilled meat.

    One of my favorite eateries on the campus was the old Beach House Canteen behind the Main Library, which always reminded me of home as an undergrad. The sight of its staff members grilling batch after batch of pork barbecue on sticks underneath a huge tree while patrons patiently waited for their food reminded me of how busy people could get at home when preparing for another grand celebration. The smell it produced took me back to those gatherings, too. Then it made me realize that while the people I was about to share meals with at that canteen—usually friends in the writing program I was enrolled in—were technically not related to me by blood, they were family nonetheless. And I was right. To this day, many of those individuals remain and play important parts in my life.

    I felt the same level of attachment to other places serving grilled meat on and around the campus: Mang Larry’s Isawan, where a good friend brought me once to try not only their isaw but also their pork BBQ; Maong’s in Krus na Ligas, from which my writer friends and I ordered pulutan while drinking at Sarah’s; and Grill Queen along Maginhawa Street, where the same friends and I liked having proper meals before drinking our worries away.

    When I moved to Galas in Quezon City before the eventual death of a four-year relationship in 2018, it was also around an open flame that I was able to find a sense of belongingness. Although I knew someone in the area, I still felt somewhat like an outsider since it was a place where people practically grew up with each other. But as soon as I began frequenting the carinderias and the panaderias there, I became more familiar with these individuals. I started to form not only a transactional bond with them but also a sense of community.

    Yet, I felt I was in the right place when I became a regular at the roadside ihawan right across the panaderia. I think it was because it required customers to literally gather around the fire while waiting for their food to get ready. The thing with this kind of setup is that it makes it a lot easier for people to connect.

    One evening, while waiting for my dinner—two sticks of pork BBQ, one hotdog, and one tenga ng baboy—I overheard a conversation between two other customers about a TV series they were following. Also fond of the same show, I looked at them and smiled. They smiled back at me, and that was it. We did not say a word to one another, but it was so clear to me that at the time, they understood what I was thinking.

    When traveling, I also tend to look for smoke coming from a grill. I think of it as a smoke signal, as though telling me that somewhere in that area, I can find my people. While visiting Cebu with my husband and some of our friends in 2022, for example, I felt at home at Sugbo Mercado in IT Park, where the sight of smoke rising from stalls offering sinugba gave me a sense of comfort despite the language barrier. And although I was expecting something different with the way meat was being grilled in that part of the country, I also got the assurance that something about it would be familiar for sure. For some reason, this sense of familiarity made it easier for me to feel a certain attachment to the place.

    *

    I was scared when I arrived at Davao Cottage days before the grill party. The idea of living under the same roof with strangers in the next two weeks did not seem appealing at all, especially after a global pandemic that had conditioned people to become a little too comfortable with their own worlds. I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to socialize with too many individuals in the next few days, so definitely, this setup seemed like a lot.

    Luckily, I warmed up to them rather quickly. On our first night, over seven bottles of Red Horse Mucho, I already got a sense of how kind everyone was. Even when disagreeing, people remained respectful toward each other.

    Still, I held back. Inside my head, I made up explanations for why they’d kept their cool: Maybe they were just being tolerant to avoid conflict, maybe they did not really mean it, and maybe things would be different the next day.

    But that afternoon we shared around the open flame, grilling liempo under the most bizarre circumstances and exchanging stories and trading secrets, I felt I truly belonged.

    Now, whenever I look back to that writers workshop, what comes to mind first aren’t the sessions in which we discussed each other’s works. Instead, it is that very same afternoon. I remember the smell of the charcoal burning and the sound of it as it crackled in the unforgiving fire. I remember how the meat hissed as it touched the grill for the first time, as well as how our laughter boomed through the cottage as we took a pair of tweezers from the first-aid kit because we needed something to pick up the meat with. I remember how we joked about being dugyot for making such a decision, especially because we did not even bother to sterilize the instrument.

    I remember how the pork smelled on the grill, and how it reminded me of home. I remember singing to “Baby One More Time” while waiting for the meat to cook and how amazed and touched we all were as one of our co-fellows began preparing ensaladang pako and salted eggs with tomatoes using the ingredients he bought from Valencia that morning.

    I remember how smoky it got inside the cottage that I started to worry about getting reprimanded by the workshop organizers. I remember how I almost froze as I looked out of the cottage’s fence, particularly when I was greeted by the furrowing brows of the woman who looked so bothered by the smoke. I remember becoming even more paranoid about the situation and how I lost care, anyway, eventually realizing that apart from the passersby, no one cared. Besides, my co-fellows were just happy. They were still talking, laughing, and looking forward to finally eating some grilled pork.

    As soon as I stopped worrying, I began to fully enjoy the moment. Even my doubts about the people I was with went away—like smoke curling upward and disappearing into the sky.

    An earlier version of this essay was published in Degustación: A Taste of Poetry & Prose, a 2024 zine released by the fellows of the 61st Silliman University National Writers Workshop.

  • From delulu to trululu

    Magandang umaga sa lahat—sa mga bisita natin ngayon, sa mga guro, magulang, at siyempre, sa mga completer!

    Nakarating na tayo sa exciting part! Congrats sa inyong lahat!

    Sa mga magulang, kulminasyon ito ng pagsisikap para mabigyan ng magandang buhay ang mga anak. Sa mga guro, pagwawakas ito ng kabanata kasama ang mga estudyanteng ginabayan sa loob ng ilang taon. Sa mga mag-aaral, pagtatapos ito ng isang bahagi ng buhay at pagsisimula ng isa pa.

    Marami sa mga completer natin ngayon, tutuloy sa senior high school. Ang ilan, sa kung ano mang dahilan, sasabak diretso sa kung tawagin ay real world. At siyempre, mayroon din mga tutuloy sa pag-aaral habang kumakayod. Sa anumang kategorya ka nabibilang, isa lang ang hiling ko para iyo: Ang magkaroon ka ng buhay na kasiya-siya o fulfilling.

    Sa tingin ko, makakatulong sa pagkamit mo nito ang pagsiguro na nasa tama kang kuwento. Gaano man kaganda sa paningin ng iba ang mga nangyayari sa buhay mo, kung ikaw mismo ay hindi kumbinsido na nasa tama kang istorya, malamang, hindi ka masyadong masisiyahan.

    Pero paano mo nga ba masisigurong nasa tamang kuwento ka? Mayroon akong ilang tips na puwede niyong sundan.

    1. Take charge of your own story

    Maging paladesisyon ka. Isipin mo, wala ka sa isang fictional narrative. True story ito, at hindi ka lang basta main character. Ikaw din ang writer. Kaya huwag kang maging extra sa sarili mong kuwento.

    Natutunan ko iyan noong second year college ako’t nagipit nang husto ang pamilya namin. Imbes maghintay na bumuti ang sitwasyon, nagdesisyon akong magtrabaho. Sakto, 18 years old na ako noon. Na-hire ako bilang isang part-time academic tutor. Di nagtagal, pinasok ko na rin ang iba pang raket. Sulat-sulat, edit-edit, tutor-tutor para may pantustos sa pag-aaral at pang-araw-araw na pangangailangan, lalo na’t hindi pa libre noon sa UP. Hanggang sa di ko na lang namalayan, nasa finish line na ako. Pinagpatuloy ko lang ang ganoong mindset. Kapag may gusto ako, pinaghihirapan ko. Pinapangatawanan ko ang gusto kong daloy ng kuwento ko.

    2. Take what you need, leave what you don’t

    Habang isinusulat mo kuwento mo, makakarinig ka ng opinyon ng iba tungkol sa kung ano ang dapat mong gawin. Di ito maiiwasan dahil kahit sa mga literary work, uso ang pagbibigay ng feedback, solicited man o hindi. Pero kahit sa workshop pa iyan, malinaw na bilang may-akda, ikaw pa rin ang masusunod sa huli.

    Ganoon din sa buhay. Kahit anong sabihin ng iba, ikaw at ikaw pa rin ang masusunod—kung anong landas ang gusto mong tahakin, kung sa anong paraan, at kung anong standard ng success ang susundin mo.

    Mahalaga ang mga ito, lalo na iyong huli. Sa panahon kasi ngayon, madali tayong mabudol ng social media. Kaka-scroll natin at kakasilip sa kung paano mabuhay ang iba, minsan ang dali nating mapaniwala na dapat ganoon din ang buhay natin. Unhealthy ito dahil may iba’t iba naman tayong gusto sa buhay. Iba-iba rin ang mga privelege na mayroon tayo, pati na rin abilidad.

    Noong bata pa ako, akala ko, may isang depinisyon lang ng tagumpay. Kaya noong magtapos ako bilang veledictorian noong high school, ramdam ko ang pressure. Dapat maging successful ako. Pero habang tumatanda, naisip kong hindi ko pala trip ang mga bagay na tipikal na iniuugnay sa tagumpay. Puwedeng iba pala ang meaning nito depende sa tao.

    Ngayon, ito para sa akin ang tagumpay: Pagkakaroon ng buhay kung saan hindi ako nasi-stress kung may kakainin pa o kung may panggastos sa ibang pangangailangan. Pagtira sa isang lugar kung saan naroon ang lahat ng kailangan ko. Pagkakaroon ng kakayahayang maghanapbuhay sa paraang gusto ko—sa kaso ko, pagsusulat. Pagkakaroon ng sapat na oras na gawin ang iba ko pang gusto—paglikha, pagbabasa libro, pagtunganga habang nagkakape para magmuni-muni, at pagkakaroon ng quality time kasama ang asawa ko, ang dalawa naming pusa, iba pang kapamilya, at mga kaibigan. Sa madaling sabi, tagumpay na para sa akin ang pagkakaroon ng de-kalidad na buhay na hindi ko kinaiinisan paggising ko sa umaga. Di perpekto, pero hindi ko gustong takbuhan kahit may mga aberya minsan.

    Marami pa akong ibang ambisyon. Bilang tao, hindi naman din talaga tayo natatapos mangarap. At siyempre, tagumpay ding maituturing ang pagkamit sa mga iyon. Pero kung ano ang mayroon ako ngayon, masasabi kong kuntento ako.

    Sana, mahanap mo rin kung anuman ang makakapagbigay sa iyo ng ganitong pakiramdam. Kaya sana, huwag mong hayaang ibang tao ang magdikta sa iyo ng kung ano dapat ang maging batayan mo ng tagumpay. Kaya kapag may naririnig kang opinyon ng iba, kunin mo lang ang kung ano sa tingin mo ang makakatulong sa iyo. Ang hindi, iwanan mo.

    3. If you’re happy and you know it, don’t be afraid to start over

    Hindi totoo na kung nasaan ka ngayon ay di ka na puwedeng umalis. Gawa-gawa lang iyan ng illuminati. Sa karera man o sa personal na relasyon, hindi kailangang magpaka-martir.

    Gets ko, hindi lahat ng tao at di puwedeng sa lahat ng oras, puwedeng mag-walkout ka na lang basta. Lalo na kung may mga taong umaasa sa iyo. Pero sige, ganito na lang: Kung hindi man kaya ngayon, edi sa susunod na pagkakataon. Ang mahalaga, hindi mo nakakalimutan kung ano yung sa tingin mo ay deserve mo. Isa pa, magandang simula na rin iyong alam mo na may iba ka pang gusto. Huwag mong bitawan ang kagustuhan mong iyan dahil iyan ang sasagip sa iyo kapag tingin mo ay susuko ka na.

    Ilang beses na rin akong naligaw sa maling kuwento. Buti na lang, kahit medyo natagalan, natauhan pa rin ako’t nagkaroon ng lakas ng loob na umalis at magsimula ulit—bad breakups, resignation sa kumpanya na matagal nang pinapasukan, pati pag-drop out sa master’s program kahit thesis na lang ang kulang dahil iba ang gusto kong gawin. Grabe ang kaba ko as mga oras na iyon, pero hindi naman ako makakarating sa kung nasaan ako ngayon kung hindi ko nilakasan ang loob ko.

    Kaya huwag kang magpadala sa pressure ng lipunan tungkol sa mga imaginary guidelines at deadlines na naglilimita sa tao, lalo na kapag babae ka. Respect your pace. At, hangga’t maaari, doon ka sa gusto mo. Mas madaling maging magaling sa isang bagay na gusto mong gawin.

    4. Focus on characters that value to the narrative

    Sa kuwento mo, may karapatan kang magdesisyon kung sinu-sino lang ang bibigyan mo ng oras at atensiyon. Malaya ka ring huwag bigyan ng airtime sa ang mga taong toxic na walang ibang ginawa kundi iparamdam sa iyo na hindi ka sapat, o kaya iyong mga marites na mas marunong pa sa iyo kahit walang ambag.

    Na-bully ako noong high school. Akala ko noon, normal lang iyon kaya kailangan kong magtiis o maghintay na lang hanggang mawala ang inis nila sa akin. Pero pagdating ko sa kolehiyo, nakakilala ako ng mga tao na tanggap ako at kayang sakyan ang mga trip ko. Doon, nagdesisyon akong sila ang mas bigyan ng oras, lalo na’t pakiramdam ko, mas makakatulong sila sa personal growth ko. Hindi naman ako nagkamali, dahil malaki talaga ang naitulong nila sa akin para mas mapayaman ko kung ano ang mayroon ako. At hanggang ngayon, bahagi sila ng support system ko.

    Applicable din ito sa mga kaibigan at pamilya. Gaano mo man sila kamahal, kung hindi sila nakakabuti sa iyo, baka kailangang dumistansiya ka muna. Baka ito na rin ang magbibigay sa iyo ng sapat na espasyo para maisulat mo ang istorya na gusto mo.

    5. Be comfortable with roadblocks and loose ends

    Di madaling maging kabataan ngayon. Ang daming problema sa lipunan at mundo. Mahirap din talaga ang buhay. Ang mahal ng lahat. Kaya kung mahirapan ka man kahit grabe na ang kayod mo, isipin mo, hindi ka nag-iisa. Hindi ka failure. Mahirap talaga kapag sistema ang problema.

    Pero di rin ibig sabihin nito, susuko ka na. Magpatuloy ka pa rin habang nananatiling mulat at may pakialam sa lipunang ginagalawan mo. Para hindi ka masyadong mapagod, kailangan maging komportable ka sa ideya na hindi laging aayon sa plano ang mga bagay. Kumbaga sa pagsusulat, kailangan mong tanggapin na minsan may mga roadblock at loose end.

    Kahit sa kuwento ng buhay ko, may mga bagay pa rin na hindi ko pa napi-figure out. May mga oras pa rin na pakiramdam ko, hindi ko alam ang ginagawa ko. Pero laban pa rin! Wala namang perpektong manuscript. Kahit iyong mga published na, minsan, may flaws pa rin.

    6. Root for your own character

    Napansin mo ba, uso sa ating mga Pinoy na kapag may pumuri sa iyo, di mo dapat i-claim? Kapag sinabihan kang magaling, isasagot mo, “Di naman!”

    Ganito ako noon. Pero, habang tumatanda, natutunan ko na kapag may pumuri sa gawa ko, ang mas dapat ko palang sabihin ay, “Salamat!” Anong gagawin ko kung talagang pinaghirapan ko naman talaga ang output ko kaya maganda? Sasabihin kong hindi para lang masabing humble?

    Dahil sa ganitong mindset, naging mas magaling akong cheerleader ng sarili ko. Lagi kong ina-assess kung kumusta ang gawa ko, at kung sure akong pinagpaguran ko iyon at maganda ang kinalabasan, ike-claim ko talaga. At dahil alam kong ginalingan ko, kahit walang ibang makapansin, at least, malinaw sa sarili ko na deserve ko ang magandang outcome.

    Alam ko, minsan, iniisip ng iba, ang delulu ko. Pero sa dami ng nega sa mundo, pati ba naman ako, magiging hater ng sarili ko? Oo, di maiwasan na maging kritikal sa sarili kung minsan. Kailangan din naman iyon. Pero, malaking bagay talaga na alam ko kung kailan magbubuhat ng bangko. At sa totoo lang, sa mga pagkakataong pakiramdam ko ay walang ibang naniniwala sa akin, okey pa rin ako dahil kakampi ko ang sarili ko.

    Sana ikaw din. Root for yourself. Maniwala ka sa kakayahan mo, keber kahit isipin ng iba na feelingera ka. Dahil bukod sa pagiging mabuti at patas sa kapwa, mahalaga ring maging mabuti at patas ka sa sarili mo na main character sa kuwentong nililikha mo.

    Maganda pa rin ang daigdig. I-romanticize mo ang buhay paminsan-minsan. Celebrate your wins, big or small. Huwag mong pigilan ang sarili mo na sumaya. Dahil ang taong masaya at kuntento, mas may kakayahang maging mabuting anak, kapatid, kapareha sa buhay, kaibigan, kapwa, at produktibong mamamayan.

    Kung fulfilled ka dahil alam mong nasa tamang kuwento ka, mas may energy kang mag-ambag ng kabutihan sa lipunan at mundo. Mas kaya mong ipaglaban ang mga adbokasiya na malapit sa puso mo. So, may your delulu come trululu!

    Maraming salamat sa pakikinig at isang mainit pagbati muli sa lahat!

    Ibinahagi ko ang talumpating ito bilang panauhing pandangal sa Ika-9 na Palatuntunan ng Pag-Angat ng Antas sa San Isidro National High School, Antipolo City, na ginanap noong Mayo 30, 2024.

  • In the Church of Muji

    I’ve been a believer in Muji products for a few years now, but I won’t say that my devotion to this brand is comparable to the kind one would have for a god. Despite this, however, a recent visit to a newly renovated Muji store in my city made me think about church.

    It’s been so long since I attended a religious service, and I haven’t prayed in years. Whenever someone asks me about religion, I simply tell them I’m Roman Catholic on paper but don’t actually practice anything. I’d rather focus on trying to be a good person—or someone who treats everyone fairly at the very least.

    If my younger self could hear this, she’d probably cringe. Or, perhaps, she would even call me names. That’s because the younger me was so obsessed with the idea of finding the perfect religion that she was willing to hop from one church to another and try different ways of worshipping a god and following a set of beliefs in hopes of being saved from whatever it was she needed saving.

    Almost Mormon

    It all began when two Mormon missionaries knocked on the gate of our apartment in Antipolo sometime in 2003. When Mama came out of our home and talked to them, they asked her if she’d already accepted Jesus in her life. For some reason, she decided to let them in. Before we knew it, we were already attending bible study sessions in their church.

    The whole bible study thing fascinated me. It was something we hadn’t done in our Catholic household. I also liked the fact that we were making new friends and learning how to pray together as a family. Somehow, all those changes gave me something to look forward to. And things suddenly felt so reassuring despite the hardships our family had to regularly deal with, particularly finances.

    We were close to converting, but there was a problem: They wouldn’t allow Mama and my stepfather to become members of their church because they weren’t legally married. And they couldn’t just tie the knot as Mama was still married to my biological father.

    It saddened me since I had already set my mind that we’d continue our journey as a family. But according to Mama, I didn’t really have to wait for them. I could simply get converted and continue going to that church if I wanted to. I said no. I realized that if the church could not accept my parents because of their circumstances, maybe it wasn’t the right fit for me.

    Skeptically Catholic

    It took me four years to regain interest in any sort of organized religion. A classmate of mine was an active member of the Legion of Mary at that time and she invited me to attend one of their sessions. I ended up liking it.

    What I really appreciated about the meeting the most was how it gave me a deeper understanding of some things I had only been hearing about. I learned about the relevance of confession and communion, which I knew many Catholics would routinely practice despite not knowing what they were really about. I also learned how to properly prepare for a mass and participate in other church activities I hadn’t even heard of growing up.

    I learned about the saints, too, who they were, and what each of them was for. I took inspiration from what they had done during their short stay on Earth and began to hope that someday I would also make a difference in the world in my own ways.

    Most importantly, I went to church almost every day and heard the mass every Sunday, even on days when we were short on cash. Sometimes I would have to borrow money from friends just to afford the trike ride to the city proper, where the cathedral was, and that was just fine with me. That was just how devoted I was.

    However, as I continued to learn more about Roman Catholicism, more questions formed inside my head. I started questioning rituals and how they sometimes seemed to matter more than people’s intentions. It just got to a point when I simply thought I should maybe take a break and explore.

    Incompletely INC

    I once dated someone who was a member of Iglesia ni Cristo. Right from the start, though, I knew it was wrong. INC members should only date people from the same church, so our relationship was essentially built upon sin.

    But according to some INC friends, my case wasn’t that unique at all. Some members simply didn’t follow the rules, and, if I’d really end up with the guy, I could just work my way to being a member.

    I wasn’t thrilled with the idea. However, since I thought my thing with that guy was somehow serious, I realized I should not completely dismiss it. And, in preparation, I should start familiarizing myself with what he believed in. I was in love, or so I thought.

    Yet, the guy wasn’t—at all. A few months into our relationship, my mother caught him cheating on me with someone who turned out to be a churchmate of his. Not long after, I learned that the girl was the “ex” he had told me about, and, surprise, they hadn’t really broken up. So, technically, I was the third party in their relationship. An unwilling third party.

    I broke up with the guy immediately. But even then, some of their churchmates who learned about my brief romance with him began to attack me online and harassed me via SMS. They called me names and told me, countless times, about my blunder. As if the guy wasn’t the real problem in the situation.

    Naturally, I stopped attending INC’s events. The way some of its members treated me was just unacceptable. Just because I was an outsider, they attacked me without even knowing the real story. I wonder if they’d treat me the same if I were one of them.

    I know their behavior wasn’t representative of how everyone in the church was, but at that time, I was just turned off.

    Foolishly provident

    Sometime around 2010, I was approached by a good-looking guy while chilling at UP Diliman’s Sunken Garden. I no longer remember how exactly our initial conversation went, but I’m sure he asked me how I was and in turn, I told him I had been feeling so down and defenseless. It was true. I was indeed faced with a lot of problems and since I was so young and had no means to get out of the shit I was in, things were extra harder for me.

    He then told me something that hit me: “Maybe you just need to revisit His Word, which will serve as your ammunition.”

    We had a lengthy discussion on faith afterward and I was impressed by how smart the guy was. He was also very patient in answering all my questions. And since I wanted to learn more, I accepted his invitation to a bible study session, which eventually happened again, and again, until he asked me to meet his other churchmates and then attend services and other events at their church, dubbed Providence, along Katipunan Avenue.

    I was hesitant at first, especially how strange I found things in their church were. Their services ran for hours, and members were encouraged to minimize bodily movements while attending them. It was so intense. They also had a lot of beliefs that were rather shocking to me. For instance, they called themselves “brides of God” and they were so obsessed with how they looked, especially during services.

    Despite my doubts, however, I continued going to that church. Besides, everyone was so nice, especially the Korean members. For the first time, I felt that I was with a community that accepted me for who I was. Everyone was so generous, too, which I appreciated at that time because I was a struggling university student. I even got “baptized,” whatever that means. And I started training for the music ministry.

    Just when things were becoming better and more exciting for me, I learned a vital piece of information about the church and why its members were discouraged to look it up online: It was one of the most notorious cults in Asia, and its leader, “self-proclaimed Messiah” Jeong Myeong Seok, had been charged with multiple counts of rape. All of a sudden, the whole “bride of God” thing made sense. But not in a good way.

    I stopped attending the church immediately.

    Not so victorious

    I was so desperate to find the right church for me that even a cult couldn’t put an end to my quest. Or maybe that was just me being stubborn.

    A few months after I stopped going to the shady church, I began attending services at Victory. I felt so safe there. Plus, everyone seemed so nice. I also appreciated how thorough our discussions were on the bible.

    However, I easily lost interest in it after someone from our small group called me out for not being able to attend our sessions regularly. And when I told her I just didn’t have a lot of time because I had to work most days, she told me to stop worrying because God would always provide.

    I knew she meant well, but I guess she just didn’t realize how privileged she was in comparison to me. When you’re poor, you cannot just wait for God to provide.

    It was at this point that I got tired. I also became busier with my studies because I was closer to graduating. On top of it all, I had to earn more so I could support not only myself but also my family. And so, I stopped thinking about any kind of organized religion. Time to be the captain of my soul.

    Around that time, I began to realize what truly mattered: how I’d treat people around me.

    Blissfully agnostic

    Now I don’t even know if there’s really a god, and that’s okay.

    I remember, someone once asked me: “What if, when you die, you find out that there’s actually a god and that god wouldn’t allow you to heaven because you did not follow their teachings?”

    Here’s how I answered the question: “If there’s a god, then that god would probably know that I did my best to treat everyone in this world fairly and show kindness whenever possible. And if that god thinks believing in his existence would be more important than actually doing good things, then fine, I’d gladly accept his decision to deny me entry to heaven or whatever that would be called. It just means that god is an insecure god.”

    Yet, I won’t deny that from time to time, I still miss the feeling of being in a church. I miss that inexplicable sense of clarity I used to have whenever I’d enter a place of worship, especially if there was a service going on. Everything would just seem so light and bright and the singers’ voices, as well as the sound of instruments accompanying them, would sound so good and comforting, as though they were cleansing my soul and getting rid of every sin and burden I had in me until I was light enough to float in the air and dance with the clouds. Yes, I still long for that feeling sometimes.

    But since I no longer go to church, I can only make do with what’s available: that feeling I sometimes get when confronted by beauty, like when I travel to a coastal town and I stand on the beach while looking at the horizon and hearing the relaxing sound of the waves crashing gently against the shore. Or when I look over a cliff and see the mountains from afar slowly being blanketed by a sea of clouds.

    Perhaps, it can even be as simple as being greeted by the nice interiors of a store while a calming track plays in the background, like when I visited the newly renovated Muji store at Shangri-la Plaza. While marveling at the beauty of how simple everything in it was and appreciating every beat of “Jos Sä Olet Minun Hellunani” playing in the background, I was reminded of the times I had entered a place of worship, feeling safe and calm.

    Muji will never be able to save my soul as capitalism is another evil to fight, but, at that moment, there was clarity. I was so at peace that I was almost convinced I could find salvation on the shelves of that shop.

    It might be foolish, but it was good enough for me.

  • 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.