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Ice cream at alaala

Pinagbawalan ako ng doktor na magkape sa kasagsagan ng lockdown noong nakaraang taon. Lumala kasi ang hyperacidity ko. At dahil hindi puwedeng magkape, ice cream ang napagdiskitahan ko, lalo na’t may convenience store sa baba ng condo kung saan kami nangungupahan.

Isang araw, habang nag-aayos ng mga naipong lagayan ng ice cream, naalala ko si Nanay. Siya ang lola kong kumupkop sa akin noong naghiwalay ang mga magulang ko’t naging abala sa kani-kanilang mga buhay at bagong pamilya. Miss na miss ko na siya. Kaya lang, mahirap basta-bastang umuwi sa Antipolo dahil sa banta ng Covid-19.

Sa puntong iyon, naging mas malinaw sa akin kung gaano kalupit ang pandemya na patuloy na nagnanakaw sa atin ng oras na puwede pa sanang igugol sa piling ng mga mahal sa buhay na alam naman nating hindi laging nasa mundong ibabaw.

Dahil walang mapagbuhusan ng matinding emosyon sa mga oras na iyon, naisipan kong magsulat na lang ng isang sanaysay. Pinamagatan ko itong “Unti-Unting Pagkalusaw,” at napasama ito sa pinakabagong literary anthology ng Philippine Collegian na pinamagatang Points of Contact.

Puwede na itong mabasa nang libre.

Philippine Collegian Points of Contact by Caro Kan

Oct 31, 2021
In the church of Muji

I’ve been a believer in Muji products for a few years now, though 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 churches.

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 humble home to talk 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 way.

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’d learned about my brief romance with him began to attack me online and harass 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 hard 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 from looking 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.

Jul 11, 2021
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
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