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,

 

 

The Storyteller

“You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.”
~ Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

 

Starting from the left: My aunt, my Lolo, my Papa, and my Yaya.

Our world is made up of stories—stories of hope, despair, love, hatred, successes, and regrets. Stories may be radically absurd and falsified or may be bold and truthful. Stories are a means of wisdom or perhaps caution. Stories can be sung, written, drawn, or simply told. Stories are said to a crowd of many or to an audience of one.  Regardless of what they are, stories are very much a part of the human race–etched into our lives, forever shaping us into who we are. So, when someone tells you a story, you are essentially given a part of a person’s life and with that comes responsibility. You are given a choice: to let the story live on or let the story disappear. And so, you should ask yourself…what should I choose?

If there is anyone that could tell you a good story, it’s Yaya (my grandmother). As a child, I would always see her sitting at the kitchen table, with a cup of coffee, eating biscuits, as she looked off into the distance. I would slowly approach her and start asking her all these questions about her life, as if I was a reporter. Then, she would smile and a twinkle in her eyes would appear. I would look at her in awe and wonder, as she painted me a picture of her colourful life of hardship, scandal, gossip, love, travel, triumph, and pain. She told me about her life during a time of political instability in the Philippines—the Japanese invasion, martial law, and the People Power Revolution. She also told me about her life in general—how she was forced to be a mother to her siblings after her mom died of childbirth, how she fell in love, how she raised her own family, how she dealt with the sudden death of my grandfather, and how she learned to live a life without him. And despite how difficult some of these stories were to tell, she always managed to end the story with a smile.

In the Filipino culture and much of the Asian cultures, the elderly are highly respected figures of the family and are expected to be cared for by their children. And because of this cultural value, I was lucky enough to grow up under Yaya’s care. She taught me the power of stories through books and through her own storytelling. I talk about her as if she were already gone, but she’s not. She’s still here and at times, I feel guilty for letting life get to me  and allowing myself to get to forget about her. In a society that demands us to work long hours, to socialize after work, to live life to the fullest, we often forget about the people who first loved and cared for us. We make them an object of our past and we never take the initiative to make them a part of our present. We take them for granted and sometimes, we think that we are more forward-thinking. We live in a world that heavily relies on our questions about life’s anomalies to be answered by mere algorithms of a search engine, yet maybe the answers lie in the forgotten stories of the past. In a fast-paced world, we need to take it slow and let our naturally curious selves explore the hearts and minds of the elderly. Sometimes, it takes time for them to open up, but the conversations and the memories that ensue are priceless. Let’s not forget about them, because at the end of the day we are entrusted with their stories.  We are given a choice to let their stories live on or let them fade away.

I’ve listened to her stories countless times and without realizing it, they have become a part of who I am as a person. In essence, this blog is a living and breathing testimony of the power of story. I am only one person, but I am here to continue listening and to continue telling not just my stories, but the stories of the countless Filipinos in our diaspora. And now, I’m giving you the responsibility to listen and to continue searching for those stories that inspire, that move, and that change.

Yaya (left) and her sister (right). Baguio City, Philippines, 2009.

Salamat,

Courage, dear heart.

“Ang aking pamilya ang aking lakas at kahinaan.
“My family is my strength and my weakness.”
~ Unknown

The streets are filled with Christmas cheer. You can feel it. The holidays bring a sense of optimism, hope, and that need to be around the ones you love. Shoppers walk in and out of stores, carrying bags, looking haggard, yet hopeful that their last-minute purchases will put a smile on a loved one’s face. Children run around, their screams full of joy and their eyes filled with wonder as they stare up at the gigantic Christmas tree occupying the town square, decorated with ornaments and lights. Lovers walk hand-in-hand through the streets, and despite the chaos that surrounds them, they look at each other as if they were the only ones around. Then, there was me, trying to avoid Christmas altogether, trying not to be a part of it. And thankfully, I can put Christmas behind me and look forward to the new year.

I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to actually start this blog. As I said, it started from a spark, and now, I’m watching that spark slowly fade away and letting my fear and my doubts overpower it. This has probably been the roughest year, I’ve had—it has nothing to do with the presidential elections or the disarray this world has gone through, but it has everything to do with my family.

When you ask a Filipino about things that they love the most—they will give you varying answers, but the two that will always  be mentioned are food and family. You see, the Filipino way of life is not living life independently, but living life as a unit. Pamilya is the entity that thrives in the hearts of all Filipinos—and I’ve come to realize why. Family won’t let you down. If you fall, they will pick you up, care for you, nurture you, until you’re ready to move forward. I’ve seen this when my aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer earlier this year. The doctors have successfully removed it, but it came back with a vengeance. You wouldn’t think that the woman I look at today is the same one I saw six months ago. Chemotherapy took a lot from her—her hair, her normalcy, yet despite it all, it did not take her bravery, her faith and most importantly, her resiliency. The doctors say she has less than a year to live, but for her, she lives every day like she will live forever. Though my aunt has no family of her own or no significant other, we were her family and together, we walked with her through her darkest moments—her diagnosis, her chemotherapy, her radiation sessions, and her palliative care. And that’s why the holidays have been a rough time—because we’re celebrating our “lasts” with her—her last Christmas, her last New Year, her last birthday—everything. Yet, the memories we make for these “lasts” will forever be part of our first family celebrations without her.

So, with the New Year celebrations in queue, we are bracing ourselves for the worst. We will continue with the same traditions we do every year, to keep it normal. According to Papa everything we do on New Year’s Eve will determine what our year will look like. It sounds trivial, but to me, it’s the truth. To make sure our year is fruitful, we set out a basket of twelve different fruits, each representing the 12 months of the year. To make sure that we will thrive financially, we put money in our pockets. To make sure our homes are filled with love and joy, we celebrate the New Year at home, with the people we love the most–family–who will stay a constant every day of the year. In essence, we prepare for the new year with a sense optimism and with a clean slate. And I know as we move on from a disastrous 2016, 2017 will be much better. I know this year will bring pain, hurt, doubt, and loss, but it will also bring about love, hope, joy, and endless possibilities. I won’t let the cliché of new beginnings overshadow the realities of life, but I’m going to remain optimistic.

As you can see, starting a huge project like this is going to be difficult, because of what is currently happening in my personal life. Yet, the spark, though slowly fading, is still there…and I promise that I won’t give up on this. I grew up listening to my grandmother’s stories—and I remember how much I loved them and how much they meant to me, because they had everything to do with my family and my heritage. My love for stories started with my grandmother and I know that it will continue to grow when I start listening to the stories of my kababayans. And hopefully, you will be there to listen with me every step of the way.

Bagong Pag-asa, Bagong Simula, Mas Maraming Kasiyahan… Manigong Bagong Taon!
New Hope, New Beginning, Greater Joys… Happy New Year!

Salamat,