As I Go
I leave today for a faraway school that sits at the top of a mountain. My reasons for leaving are simple — more opportunities, new experiences, independence — nothing out of the ordinary.
I am cruising ten thousand feet above the ground, but emotions don’t really leave us the same way airplanes leave their running pads. Departures always come with strings of goodbyes — strings we tie to our fingers in hopes that they will remain tied until we return. It is with these strings that we weave the tapestry of memories we hold on to: Sunday lunches spent in Chinese restaurants, long car rides back from school, lazy afternoons spent on mahjong tables or basketball courts or movie houses.
Most of the biggest differences, however, will be subtle. After all, many things will remain the same. The orange afternoon Manila sunsets will be replaced by mountaintop sunsets in downtown Hong Kong. The heavy downpour of a signal number three replaced by the strong gusts of a signal number eight. The all-nighters on my bed back home in Quezon City replaced by all-nighters in the corner of a cramped dorm room up a mountain. It is, after all, the same sun and the same sky. This is the same game, just with different pieces and modified rules.
Someday, Hong Kong too will become home. Somehow, I will master this game. Or at least I hope so. Maybe Hong Kong will never feel like more than a pit stop in a long race. Maybe I will realize after a few months that how beautifully we see the sky depends on where we're looking from. Perhaps by that time, I may have tired myself of keeping the string tight around my fingers: unwound it, kept it in a drawer, maybe even lost it.
I may find new strings to weave with after four years. Even then, after four years, what will home be like? Will home still be home? Will the melodies I hear still be the same melodies then? Who is there to keep singing?
I cannot seem to shake off the thought that choosing to leave has been a selfish decision. Studying abroad, in its very nature, is a self-centered pursuit. Indeed, it may be an investment, but there are no visible results. Not yet. Probably not in the near future.
I am leaving behind my parents who will probably stress every night about whether I’m eating right or sleeping enough or studying well. I am leaving behind a country that is in shambles, a country in serious chaos that might tear itself down from the inside out.
When I return home four months later with countless more stories to tell, the stories from home might not be as pleasant.
Every Sunday in Hong Kong, there will be a group of Filipino domestic helpers gathering to eat and hold beauty pageants and share memories from home. Their picnic blankets will be laid out on sidewalks, or on overpasses, or crowded MTR stations. These Sundays — these small pockets of home — add meaning to their lives: it keeps their strings tight around their fingers, not ready to be unwound until home becomes a reality.
As for me, my Sundays will likely be spent with a group of friends in a nearby mall, or maybe we’ll be in Causeway Bay. Maybe I’ll be playing basketball or in the library. Somehow, the whole meaning of my being here still eludes me. It probably will for a few more years. Maybe it will dawn on me when I march up the stage to get my diploma. Or one sunny afternoon while strolling along the streets of Tseung Kwan O. Or ten years down the line, while seated in some office halfway across the globe. Maybe it will come when I retire. Maybe it never will.
These Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) probably wonder all the time when they’ll next see their families. It somehow reminds me of my inquiry on meaning. Same answer, I guess. Maybe next Christmas. Maybe when they retire. Maybe never. But OFWs don’t get paid for wondering when the next time they’ll see their son is; they get paid for their work: the steaming pot of adobo they cook or the sweeping motions they make with a plastic broom they know will never replace the walis from back home.
So, too, will I work. To me, this may be mastering process thermodynamics or cloud computing or multivariable calculus. It may be leading a club, maybe even starting an organization. It may be being a good friend. It doesn’t matter, not anymore. I’ve learned to stop thinking.
For someone so rational, it’s funny how I invest so much in things I have yet to find the meaning to. Uncertainty is irrational. But then again, so is the language of heartbeats, held back tears, and whispered goodbyes. That’s a language we love to speak. It’s one the OFWs have mastered. And it's one I’ll probably be immersing in for the days and months to come.
