“Ako ay…” (I am)
I want to be embraced by my motherland; to be pacified in my fragments, its humid touch making each seam of my being whole. I have gotten to know the feeling of longing well. It often resides in my chest, aching for a land that may not recognize me any longer.
Grief found me when I was uprooted from my Lolo and Lola’s house, leaving behind my friendship with the land. There were the macopa and coconut trees: my most consistent friends, gifting fruits all year. The orchids that adorned the front yard, suspended on driftwood, enclosed me safely as I learned to love my land’s flora and fauna. The santol tree by my Lola’s bakery kept watch as I was taught how to walk in my little part of the world. There are sampaguita blossoms as you enter the gates, welcoming you with its distinct aroma, luring you to stay and never leave. Calamansi bushes stood gracefully in themselves, an essential citrus fruit that elevates every Filipino dish, both simple and complex.
And of course, every season was governed by your favorite fruit. The excitement comes when your favorite vendor at the local palenke (wet market) starts selling lanzones at a good price. Everyone knew how good fruit can transform you. And once, an aunt had told me that the stem of the santan flowers from our bush was edible. So, I spent the afternoon unafraid of the sun picking the blossoms to taste, surprised by their mild sweetness.
We eat with our hands: an intimate act between food, land, and body.
We feed neighbors. We are always fed. There is always singing and mahjong and pusoy dos at parties and taho on Sunday mornings and infinite versions of rice desserts and ulam for your rice.
It is unfathomable that at one point all my thoughts were in Tagalog. Who knew, that once I stepped foot at Ninoy International Airport at 8 years old, I would leave behind these thoughts, completely forget, and be ashamed of speaking a different language? Now it has been replaced by my version of Taglish, broken in nature and spoken in desire for fluency.
When I came to America, I was taught to forget myself. If I showed my Filipino identity, I would never assimilate. My initial physical experience of this was my first lunchtime in third grade. My mom had packed me baon, with rice and longanisa (cured pork sausage). My peers immediately scrunched up their noses and loudly criticized the smell. I wished I stood up for myself, but all I wanted to do was shrink; to be as small as I feel. The next day I begged my mother to make us ham and cheese sandwiches, like what the other kids eat. The richness of flavor and texture is replaced by soft, bland bread and too-salty deli meats paired with fake, yellow cheese.
To this day, I am self-conscious about smell, as this was a recurrent theme for my shame. My dad would sometimes cook dried fish (tuyo) in the morning before school, its pungent aroma clinging to every centimeter of my being — my clothes, my hair, my skin — the fish claiming me as one of their own. I walked into school, my classmates making the same scrunched-up face as if disgusted by my presence. To them, I was alien and unworthy. Why is this part of the world so unkind?
Walking down the aisles of Jasmin Oriental Mart, a local family-owned grocery store where I grew up, I see tokens of my childhood displayed, aching for me. The little packets of tamarind sinigang mix earthing up the feeling of guilt and nostalgic hunger. They ask, “Why did you even leave in the first place?”. The grief of being uprooted from my home surprises me in the smallest of ways. All my life in America has been eras of yearning; of desire to get to know the self I once lost.
Naturally, my memories became a sacred place. They were all I had of my true self. The trauma of moving to an entirely new land has preserved those memories, kept in a bubble of joy that is unchanging and held with the utmost reverence and care.
The vibrant heaven that is my motherland was starkly contrasted by the lack of soul I felt in America. There were pockets of community that I held dearly, like my group of Asian friends I had made in middle and high school. Or now, as an adult, the Filipino poetry community. It is common knowledge that America is wholly unkind to immigrant families. We struggled greatly — financially and emotionally. The land of the great is barren of opportunities, making us unable to thrive fully within ourselves. In a conversation with my partner, I had said: “If there are alternate universes, I wish there is one where my mother is happy”.
And then I cried.
I cried for my identity. I cried for my motherland. I wanted to be pacified by her; to be told that I will always be Filipino enough; that the land will remember me and the softness of my being when I come home. I wanted to remember my Tagalog; to swim in its consonants and rhythmic words. I cried for little me, the depression that she overcame, and the violence it took for her to be rooted in tenderness. I cried for my sisters and wished for a do-over childhood where we had a chance to play and be kids.
If there are alternate universes, I wish there is one where my mother is happy.
I do not know how to end this. Mostly because this story still holds true. There is a never-ending well within that will continue to write this story over and over, honoring the ways my childhood has transformed every part of me. Lately, I am dedicated to planting myself where I was once rooted. To build my roots, stems, and leaves so strongly that they could never be uprooted again. I will plant myself there many times over until the land becomes me; the fragments of myself scattered with all the nature I loved. Then in turn, my motherland can begin to know me again.
