Malaya

“When a woman becomes her own best friend life is easier.”

― Diane Von Furstenberg

Broken. Lost. Zoned-out. This is exactly what my first half of 2020 felt like.

2019 was a year that made me a woman. I was no longer this naïve, timid, and socially-awkward girl, well, at least most of the time. Yes it may seem that, at 28 years old, I was a late bloomer, but I take pride in that. I took the time to build the necessary foundations–my career, my mindset– on my own without having to rely on another. There were so many adventures that I embarked on, new people that I met, and risks that I took. 2019 was one of the best years of my life. And though there were a few mistakes I’ve made, I don’t regret making any of them. However, towards the end of 2019, there were critical decisions that I had to make and for once, I made them not in the interest of others, but for myself. You don’t know how proud I was of those moments. I am usually a yes person, but it was one of the first times I had to say no. It was at these times when I witnessed the power of no…and if you have yet to say this word and mean it, you’re missing out.

I rang in 2020 onboard a plane heading back home from Hawaii. Despite having a lot of fun, I knew there was work to do and people to let go of. We were just in the finale of the takeoff procedure when the clock struck midnight. The flight attendants poured us some wine and we clinked our plastic cups and had a short, celebratory cheer altogether. As we looked out the window, the skies were ablaze with fireworks as people celebrated from below. We were in celestial limbo, neither here nor there. And little did we know, that this would be the predicament that we would be facing in the new year to come.

There were so many projects that I was ready to start in 2020, but I didn’t realize that the major project that I would be working on this year would be myself. The first two months of 2020 were completely normal. I was working, going out with friends, going out on dates, and just living life to the fullest. Despite the fun I had, I knew that the countless late nights I spent away from my family and the lack of recovery time for myself were not sustainable.

There were two things that I let go at the beginning of 2020. The first, was a 25-year friendship that taught me that, at some point in your life, you may not be walking in alignment with someone you’ve known for so long. And that’s okay–that’s life. It was certainly not a mutual parting, but one that required me to draw the line. This was a friendship that silenced who I was and instilled fear, complicity, and codependency in me. I was always trying to find a way to please and to be the source of comfort and empowerment for this individual, but it was certainly not reciprocal. There came a crucial moment in my life when I needed to prioritize myself, but instead of receiving comfort, I was accused of not providing the same level of care that they came to know. This is when I knew that it was time to walk away and so, the foundations of this friendship collapsed. I contemplated abandoning them so many times prior to this moment, but I always felt obligated to stay out of pity and out of guilt. There were lifelong memories from childhood to adulthood and meaningful conversations that this person and I shared, but I knew that it was time to part ways. So, I walked, despite knowing that they still needed me.

Simultaneously, as I was dealing with the termination of this friendship, there also came the ending of a relationship. We were on and off for six months, but it already felt like a lifetime. I was under the illusion that we would persist and that we had the potential to grow into something more. Unbeknownst to him, he taught me a lot of things about myself—he uncovered my shadows, but also the light that I had within. In addition to my previous relationship traumas, he further corrupted the mind of this hopeless romantic and replaced it with this monster who learned how to emotionally detach herself in future encounters of love. And in replacement of love, a desire for the physicality of human connection, as opposed to that of the intellectual, the emotional, and the spiritual. He made me crave love, but rejected it when I tried to bring it to him. He exposed the cracks in the foundation that I have worked so hard to build on my own and took away things that I would never be able to get back. He made me become an emotionless entity, fearing emotional attachment and commitment. But yet, despite all the mind games he played on me, I was in love and nothing could stop that, but me. And I did. There were certainly some moments where I wanted to run back into his arms and ask him to try again, but I never did and I know that I never will. I know my worth and this situation was one that did not testify to that.

To not be able to ring in the new year with these two people in my life, was certainly painful, but it sparked this hope in me that there were new things to come. It made me realize that I was running away from things that I deserved—independence, self-love, stability, and boundaries. But with the pain that came from letting these relations go, came a newfound freedom and one that gave me the opportunity to grow in my becoming.

There were obviously setbacks that came at the beginning of 2020. I hurried into another situation-ship, not even giving myself the opportunity to recover. I transitioned into one codependent friendship to another. I spent more than I could afford. I worked more hours that I could never get back. I gave my time to people that didn’t deserve it. And still, I was under the illusion that I was healing.

Come March 2020, all that I knew was abruptly taken away from me. The lockdown did me a favor and ended the lackluster relationship that I was in as he ghosted his way out of my life. My nightly social outings ended as my friends headed into isolation, only seeing them occasionally via computer screens. My office became my bedroom. Zoom became my only portal to the outside world. And I was stuck with family that I hadn’t spent time with since January. And even though I felt like this was a setback, it was only the beginning of my recovery.

For a person who always craved for certainty and structure, 2020 certainly did not give me that sense of comfort. I had to relish in this uncertainty, realizing I took many things for granted. As the world, the routines, and the structures I knew and loved collapsed, I slowly retreated into a life that I didn’t know. A life that didn’t require me to take the torturous daily commute into the city. A life that didn’t require me to be with friends 24/7. A life that didn’t require me to prove myself to anyone. It was an excruciating transition, realizing that I had to be alone with my own thoughts and bask in my own worries. But I managed to find strength to get through it.

I mapped out certain thought patterns of mine that were recurrent and that were destructive to my well-being and to my relationships by digging out my past traumas and relishing in the pain and in the hurt they caused me. I did a lot of envisioning of who I want to become and where I saw myself in the next couple of years. I took the time to learn how to breathe, to relax, and to be present. I shared moments of laughter, tears, frustration, and anger with my family that wouldn’t have happened if I was still living the way I did. I read books that I dared not to crack open prior to this lockdown. My siblings and I raised a reckless, but loving puppy who taught us to take things day to day. I explored my local surroundings that I avoided before. In essence, I found myself again in the people I met this year and in the moments that oft were put aside before the lockdown. And most importantly, I found myself in me.

As I sit here writing this post in the first week of an already tumultuous 2021, I’ve realized that 2020 was a wild ride and I know that it’s not over yet. I do acknowledge my privilege to have the opportunity to do this inner work, as many in this world faced more difficult challenges than I.

But if it’s one thing that I’ve taken from 2020, it’s learning how to unapologetically live simply without the frills. It’s learning how to face your inner demons and doing the work to challenge and stand up to them. It’s learning how to cherish the time that we have with people that are worthy of it. It’s learning to find that spark from within. I know that I still have inner work, but I know that I’m on the right path. Even though 2021 brings the same uncertainty as 2020 did, I’m ready for it.

As you can see, all through this year, I was silent here. This was the first year where I had to leave this blog alone. I needed to find my voice again. I want to let you know that I’m still here and that there will be more to come. I’m also announcing that this blog will be steering towards something new, but know that I still aim to find the voices of our diaspora, but in a different way. A way in which you will enjoy as much as you hopefully enjoyed this one.

Malaya ako. I am free again.

Happy New Year! Maligayang Bagong Taon!

Ginto Part II

“To be Filipino is to feel a deep connectedness to one’s fellow being, to the Creator, to the country, to one’s self, and to everything else outside of the self. To be Filipino is to feel connected to the country’s history–past, present, and future. This connectedness remains even when the Filipino leaves the Philippines.” – Leny Mendoza Strobel, Coming Full Circle

Indigenous. A word I often reference to the First Nations people of North America–their traumatic past, their unsettled and tragic present, and their uncertain future. After celebrating Canada’s 150th birthday, the forgotten echoes of the indigenous past are once again silenced, their reputation tarnished by stereotypes of drunkenness, instability, and laziness–and yet, despite it all, their people’s voices continue to thrive, to flourish, and to remain optimistic. The indigenous people of Canada are all trying to find a voice, to pick up the pieces of their past, and trying to reconcile it with their present state. They are still mourning what has been lost, and yet they are still hopeful that they could re-build what was brought down many years ago. This is not just the reality faced by the indigenous people of Canada, but by many whose lives, whose cultures, whose futures, whose identities were at the discretion of their colonizers.

Blood Memory. A word that the indigenous use to reference to something–whether it be a memory, a yearning, an attraction, an acknowledgement–to our past, to our ancestry. It is a word that my friend learned for an Anishanaabe elder. A word that resonated with me. After learning what it had meant, it all just made sense. No matter where you are in the world or who you have become–you feel this strong connection to the past and to your ancestors without really knowing it. It’s that feeling that your ideas, your traditions, your knowledge, your identity are grounded in something far beyond who we are, beyond our genetics. In a sense, this feeling of this connectedness are the seeds that our ancestors have sowed in us–the future generation–a way for us to bring the past into our present and to bring their legacy forward. And it is in these concepts of blood memory and the indigenous that I begin my story…

I first started this series with the lady from Fiji–the one who had held her grandparents accountable for her pride in her Fijian roots. And you will see that there’s a reason to this madness that I have created for myself and possibly for you–the reader. There was a jealousy that I had felt when I visited Hawaii–the Polynesian Cultural Center, in particular–because there was a sense of pride in the past traditions and in the culture of the Polynesian people. They all seem like they were deeply rooted in their cultures and they were not afraid to show it. It was something that I wanted to be a part of and yet, I couldn’t because I didn’t know where to start or where to go. And so, it inspired me to begin looking for ways to participate in my culture…

Pamati. A Visayan word for the “call of our ancestors”. A word that is also inscribed in a bracelet that I bought two weeks ago. This word opened a Pandora’s box of knowledge that I would have never known if it weren’t for a festival I went to. You would never think that you would find an answer to your lineage at a festival, but I certainly did. The Kultura Festival celebrated Filipino culture through modern music, food, art, dance, and drama. It was thanks to my friend and my sister, who let me tag along and who led me to find the stories–the stories that I’ve been patiently waiting for. And lo and behold, I had found what I was looking for, but not exactly what I had expected.

Queue in Diyan. She was the catalyst to all of this–whether she knew it or not! And if it were not for her, I would not be here writing this blog series. She, along with Maravel, are part of the Kollective Binhi, a group of Los Angeles artists creating indigenous art.  And it is through their work–their art– that showcase our indigenous roots. It is through their collection of pins, bracelets, necklaces, hats, and pipes all inscribed in baybayin (the original script of the Philippines), that offer us a glimpse of the Philippines’ colourful origins. Each of their wooden accessories are created using solar pyrography where Diyan uses a crystal ball to catch the sun’s light to engrave the words into the wood. Each pin/necklace had a significant meaning and I don’t know if it was by chance or perhaps fate that led me to pick pamati. And it was at this serendipitous meeting where I realized that I was finally on the right path.

I hate to admit that I didn’t know what baybayin was before I had met Diyan. I felt ashamed that my sudden resurgence of Filipino pride didn’t acknowledge this part of history that I was confronted with. There is so much more to the Philippines than I had ever imagined. In my ignorance and in my own mindset, I often referenced the beginning of Filipino history with Magellan, because it was all I knew and it was because it was where all the stories had stopped.

Indigenous was never a word that I was be able to relate to. And ironically, it is the word that I find my answers. In my search for my family history, I would frequently obsess over how much Spanish ancestry I had, while I would completely discard my Filipino ancestry. I always thought that Filipino was Filipino. It was something ordinary, but it was the Spanish running in my blood that made me think that we stood out somehow, that made me feel special. And as I shamefully admit to you these thoughts I once had, I’ve come to realize that there is much more to the word Filipino–it is not just a word to identify where you’re from or who you belong to, but also a word to help you remember, to help you reflect, to help you embrace, and to be proud of all that has happened to our people. It is a word that is continuously evolving into something different every day and it is a word that I am proud to call myself–after all these years running away from it.

And it is kabayans like Diyan and Maravel–the Kollective Binhi–that guide people like us to reclaim the word Filipino, to revisit our roots, and to plant the binhi (the seed) of change. Salamat for answering all of our questions and passing on this seed of change to us to help rediscover the past that is oftentimes lost and forgotten. Salamat for inspiring us to use this rediscovery to help us weave together our past with our present and to use this knowledge to reshape our futures. You have definitely made an impact on me and I am sure to many others. You have also assured us that the culture and the traditions of our native kapwa are thriving in the modern world. I only wish you the best in your journey of reclaiming what was lost and planting the seeds of change in the people that you meet. Mabuhay ka!

Salamat, 

P.S. Are you interested in Kollective Binhi’s amazing products?  Check out their website Ginto Seeds. Or follow them on Instagram @KollectiveBinhi . 

 

 

 

Ako

“I’m a hopeful cynic.”
– Tracy Chapman

Deep breath in from the nose. Deep breath out from the mouth. Repeat.

Writing is a thought-provoking process in which you need to construe your words in order for them to make sense–to make your thoughts tangible and relatable. But if your head is clouded with worry, stress, grief, and fear–it’s hard to write things down. It becomes difficult to focus.

When I first thought about my blog, I thought to myself that I would constantly be blogging, constantly having new ideas, and being able to write them down without hitting any barriers. I thought I would be confident enough to meet people, to ask them what their stories were, and to have meaningful conversations with them. I pictured an easier path. And then, one day, I got nothing. My doubts began to cloud my ideas and to overcome my confidence.  The photographs that I wanted to take, the people that I wanted to meet, the conversations that I would have had with them–all lost in my reluctance, because I don’t know if I really am the right type of person to write something like this.

But I took this time to reflect on what the true purpose of this blog is and why I first started it anyways. And then I realized, that it’s easier to search for people’s stories and so much harder to tell yours. And so here I am, before I officially start this blog over–maybe it’s time to tell you my story, to break the walls between us, to be able to relate, and to hopefully cleanse my doubts and clear my mind. And hopefully, in telling my story, I will be able to find the right questions to ask, the right people to talk to, and the kind of blog I want this to become.

Sometimes, you want to over-romanticize all of your experiences so that your story sounds like something found only in scripts or in the pages of a novel. Sometimes, you just want to tell it how it is–raw, uncensored, unchanged–no matter how boring or mundane your story may seem, but ultimately, you just want your story to be heard, to be questioned, to be made palpable by the person listening. And the stories you tell are only told to someone that you trust, someone that you care for, or someone that you want to reach out to, but no matter who this person is or what your story is about, you just want to make a point. To make a point that you are human and things happen.

So, I sit here trying to find a way–a way to get the bottom of who I am–so that maybe I can catch your attention again. To relive that moment–that spark–and to regain my focus.

2009. A crowded car, a tearful reunion, jetlag, and suddenly, a loud knock on our windows. I peered outside of the window and see three skinny kids dressed in oversized clothes holding a squeegee, trying to get their hands into the window–they were quickly dismissed and we resumed our homecoming, as if nothing had happened. Little did I know, that moment would stick with me. In the midst of a golden age in tourism for the Philippines, where foreigners yearn to swim and bask in the sun of our beautiful beaches, we are still a developing nation, waiting for the day where we can break free from the cycle of poverty. It is when I only got back to the Philippines did I realize that we were the lucky ones, the ones whose parents gave up their jobs, their degrees to bring us up in a place where opportunity is endless. And because of this sacrifice, this blessing, I am who I am today.

But growing up in an immigrant family, you don’t realize how lucky you are. Your uniqueness stands out to you, but growing up, you just want to conform. You just want to fit in. There were times when I would question why my parents decided to bring us up in seclusion–where we were different from the rest of the kids. I often got angry at them in secret, because they didn’t let me do the things that other kids wanted to do. I wanted to be part of ballet, to have that dance recital or to play soccer and to have that chance to be part of a team. But I never did have those opportunities, because my parents said that it  was too expensive or because there was no one to drive us since my dad was working night shifts at the factory. Rejection was my enemy, acceptance was my dream. And as a kid, you tried so hard for that dream to be attainable. You just want to feel like you belonged somewhere. And you wanted people to see that you are just like everyone else. You see, everything about me was different and at a young age, I was already conscious of it. With black hair, brown eyes, a tan complexion, and the famous Filipino flat nose–I stuck out like a sore thumb. I grew up eating rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, singing karaoke, having large family picnics, driving in convoys to Niagara Falls, and finding joys in food. I grew up not enjoying the things that other kids used to have–the latest toys, the latest pieces of clothing, everything. I became so frustrated of not being able to get the things I wanted. And over time, that frustration began to grow.

When I became a teenager, I rejected everything Filipino. I always concealed my Filipino side and always told people that I had some Spanish blood in me, even though it was only a small drop. I always told people that I hated Filipinos, because they never said hi to you in the streets, because they didn’t acknowledge you as a fellow kababayan, because they were mayabang, because you couldn’t trust them, because you heard of the things that they did, things that didn’t make you proud of your heritage. I always hated my nation, frustrated that we had a backwards way of thinking. I always hated the fact that all we did was glorify the celebrities, the love teams, and we couldn’t even acknowledge the working class. I was so angry. And when you sift through the Filipino magazines or you watch all the actors and actresses, you realize how beautiful they were–how white they were. They all spoke English so beautifully and didn’t have that dreaded Filipino accent.  And it’s this ideal of whiteness that struck me real hard as a teenager. And it’s this ideal that got me to reject my nationality, my heritage, my love for my language, and erase my true colours. I washed away my Filipino-ness with a bar of whitening soap, in hopes of becoming just like the actresses at home. I wanted nothing to do with my homeland. And that’s the way I lived for a while.

Renaissance. It is a term used in history to described the time of rebirth–a profound movement, that bridged the old with the new. And it is this term that I use for that moment when I first caught sight of that spark in 2009. When I realized that my homeland is more than just the past to me. I wasted all this time running in shame from who I am supposed to be. And like those people that lived in the Renaissance, I am slowly starting to discover the beauty that is our country. I have come to embrace what I have, what I am, and what I will become. I’ve found this renewed love for my culture, my heritage, and my language. I am slowly starting to pick up the pieces that I have tucked away from everyone. And I am putting them together, as I write this blog. And I’ve come to the realization that I am not ready to surrender to my doubts.

I want to say that I am sorry. Maybe these words hurt you. Maybe you could care less. Or maybe you just want me to change my way of thinking. And it’s that responsibility that I am going to leave to you, as the reader, as the person that listens. Just like with every story, there’s something to take away from it. Looking back at my childhood and my teenage years, you may think that I was a miserable soul. But when I look back, despite my inhibitions, my doubts, my fears, my insecurities, I see happiness. My parents could never get me to a ballet class or a soccer team. My parents might have gotten me to eat rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My parents couldn’t give me everything that I wanted to fit in. But they gave me more than that. They gave me a life worth living, they taught me that hard work pays off, that family is forever, and in moments of adversity, just trust the process. And for that, I am forever grateful for their sacrifices.

And you know, they left it up to us siblings to find our way back home, to the Philippines. Without knowing it, they made my curiosity, my nationality, my love of country, to ignite over our every day conversations of the days past and the bygones of their childhood. It is at the kitchen table, where I found my love for the Philippines, where I learned about the past and where we discussed the future. It is at the kitchen table where I would ask my grandma all those questions about her life. Food and family–the two most important things to a Filipino–was also an avenue in which I have discovered who I truly was. And I hope after reading this, you realize that I am telling you these things for a reason–that there’s hope for you and I. To tell you that together, we must look to our past, to embrace the present, and to help us to change the future. It might be over the kitchen table, surrounded by friends and family, it might be in the comforts of your bed, all alone, but no matter where you are in the world, or where are you are in life–it is never too late to change who you are and to learn to love yourself. Because it is at this moment where you find your true purpose in life–to create a movement that you are passionate for–and who cares how big this movement will be. All that matters is that you are fighting for what truly matters to you.

And so I end this long post to thank you for letting me share my story. Thank you for letting me to break down the walls between us, to break down the façade that I have built around myself, and to break free from my past. I’m not perfect and no one will ever be, but just know that I am ready to listen to your stories. I am ready to embrace the imperfections of your life. To make your stories tangible. To paint a picture of the beautiful mess that is the Philippines.

I am ready.

Ako si Viel.

And welcome again to A Moreno Blogs.

Salamat,