Faces -Flashbacks

Everyone has triggers -sights, sounds, smells that bring them back to a different time and place. They may have lived it, they may not have, but those triggers take them somewhere else. Up until recently, faces weren't a usual trigger for me, but today at Mass, I was unassumingly looking around when the face of a Filipino man smacked me between the eyes and reminded me of home. It's been a while since I've had so visceral a reminder.

What's funny is, I've known this man almost my whole life. He is the father of a girl from my grade school. While we weren't close, her family was always around so I was very surprised when his face threw me across the world into a hot, muggy, open air Church where the old women were wearing veils and Church uniforms and the men Church vests or barongs. He threw me so far back I had to catch my breath and squint my eyes so as not to let tears fall.

What is this connection? I still can't figure it out. Is this what happens when somebody moves to another place, even if it's only for four months? It sticks with you? Sticks to your ribs and pulsates in your mind, waiting to flash through you like an electric shock? I can't figure it out, but all I know is that it's there and it's strong.

*On a complete side note -What is up with girls and women in Church wearing no clothes?! If they're not the shortest shorts in the world, they're the tightest pants ever or something inappropriately see through!!! And it's not just young girls, it's older women too. Whhhyyyy?!?!?! smh.

Unclench, Unwind, Breath Deep

Since arriving in New York, I've tried (not always successfully) to maintain the calm, relaxed state of being that I constantly found myself in in the Philippines. I was rarely wound too tight while I was there. Admittedly, much of this is because I was not working and did not have to surround myself by other people or live up to other people's expectations but my own. As my time in New York has gone on, I've found myself clenched tight more often than I would like and my forehead in my wrinkle inducing frown. Today, I realized that if I didn't consciously address the clench, I'd make it a habit. I'd make it part of my everyday.

Don't get me wrong. I love New York. I am sooooo happy here, but there's no denying the reality of the New York rush -folks speed on the freeway, people push on the subway and rush by on the sidewalk passing hundreds of people and looking into the eyes of none.

So for all those moments when I find myself burrowed deep in the negativity of the culture of the GRIND, I'm just gonna UNCLENCH, UNWIND and BREATH DEEP. If you're lucky, I might even add a smile to that.

Rediscovering New York

Despite the inhumane weather conditions, there are moments when it strikes me hard that I am home in NY and I become immensely grateful. Whether it be seeing two brown men chatting on 174th, watching some fly women walking down Stanton in leather jackets and 4 inch heels, getting stressed about because there are too many shows and too many events to see, riding the subway next to a gorgeous baby, or driving by the Sprain Brook everyday to work, it all makes me smile.

In some ways, it all seems so familiar while being brand new. After nine years away from my hometown, I'm rediscovering New York, so look out for the new posts about another semester in the Re-Education of Ms. Fu-Daddy.

Eating Pinoy Food Tutorial

This Mikey Bustos is too funny.

I really love, "Soooaappp allreeeadddyy!" during the fight over the dishes. How many times have you done that?!

Lisa Ono -Dahil Sayo

Wow. This version of Dahil Sayo is pretty dope if you like Bossa Nova. Love it.

Brownies in Rockland

Amen! I walk around the grocery in my hometown and there are so many more brown people here. It is so comforting. Growing up being one of the few Filipinos, Indians, or Haitians in school, it's nice to see more brown folks in the Rock. Woohoo!

Visualization for Stress Relief

"This technique uses your imagination, a great resource when it comes to reducing stress.

1. Sit or lie down in a comfortable position.
2. Imagine a pleasant, peaceful scene, such as a lush forest or a sandy beach. Picture yourself in this setting.
3. Focus on the scene for a set amount of time, then gradually return to your other activities."

Welcome Back!

I couldn't be more thankful for the welcome back that I received this week. Despite my withdrawal and the cold, I had such a wonderful time reconnecting with my parents, my cousins, and my friends. I had a fabulous week of freedom with my parents, a few warm move in/shopping/tea/movie/sleepover/lunch with Leigh, a lovely brunch with Tina and Anthony, a great birthday party for Jodi Ann, an AMAZING reunion with Oli and Feven full of reading, dancing and firfir, and an awesome lunch with my family.

Tina and Anthony!

Happy Birthday, jaebee!!

Fev rockin the merch -fly as ever.

Never static

Yummy lunch with the fambam.

I really couldn't ask for a better re-entry.

Sensual Dissonance aka Withdrawal

“As the expressive and sentient landscape slowly faded behind my more exclusively human concerns, threatening to become littler more than an illusion or fantasy, I began to feel –particularly in my chest and abdomen –as though I were being cut off from vital sources of nourishment. I was indeed re-acclimating to my own culture, becoming more attuned to its styles of discourse and interaction, yet my bodily senses seemed to be losing their acuteness, becoming less awake to subtle changes and patterns….

There [Nepal] the air was a thick and richly textured presence, filled with invisible, but nonetheless tactile, olfactory, and audible influences. In the United States, however, the air seemed thin and void of substance or influence…Hence, in America I found myself lingering near wood fires and even garbage dumps –much to the dismay of my friends –for only such an intensity of smells served to remind my body of its immersion in an enveloping medium, and with this experience of being immersed in a world of influences came a host of body memories from my year among the shamans and village people of rural Asia.” –Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous

~

There’s a painting of a beautiful sunset where a person sits on the boat by the shadows of the trees at my friend’s new apartment. The colors are familiar –orange, gold, purple, blue, and pink. I stare at it, letting every part of me travel to those moments where I was the one sitting in that boat, watching the sun, surrounded by warmth, water, and spirits. I breathe in deeply and catch a whiff of the thick island air, half praying that the spirits I encountered will manifest themselves so that I can just remember.

Just let me remember.

A siren squeals loudly outside and a cold gush of air sweeps over me through the window I’m sitting next to and I’m back in New York.

~

Every part of my body wants to remember the Philippines. Every minute back here in the States, I’m afraid I’ll forget it all. I’m afraid that the old images of things that I love will overcrowd the things that I love from my most recent home. I’ve kept myself inside for the past 3 days, subconsciously afraid that overexposure will make me leave it all behind completely. My heart warms at the sight of the New York skyline, but I foolishly fight the warmth I feel, thinking it will make me forget the bundok, the bukid, the dagat, the ilog…lahat –everything.

Like Abram, my nose itches to smell the scents of diesel mixed with heat, dust, and burning garbage of the city or the warm, gentle air of the waters or the clean, crisp air of the mountains. Walking down 139^th, I catch a quick scent of something burning. The familiarity excites me for a brief moment until the cold hits my nostrils with a shock.

My skin roars at the cold –cracked and itchy, screaming for moisture and the natural oil produced by the heat of the islands that kept my sin safe and protected. Granted, I’m not dusty like I was in the PI, but that’s what tabos are for. My hands reach for warm waters to dip into while my toes wiggle in winter boots, desirous of the freedom of tsinellas.

My ears strain for the sounds of birds, crickets, frogs thrumming in the day and the night and the constant chatter of Tagalog. I liked listening to people talk, trying to figure out what they’re saying and being happy when I could get the gist of it. I liked hearing the women gossip and the men guffaw. It always made me smile. Instead, I hear sirens, trucks, and loud voices bantering in English. I guess that’s all right too.

Meanwhile, my tongue trips over both English and Tagalog. I find myself eagerly chatting with my parents about what I experienced in the Philippines and what needs to be done at the house, but shying away from too much unnecessary chatter with other folks, afraid that falling back into my old gregariousness will signal a clutter in the mental space that I had just spent four months clearing. The space for Tagalog is even more limited now that I’m back home. I want to drop Tagalog into my sentences with friends, the Starbucks girl, the waiter at Queen Sheeba, but I can’t. I mean, I could, but you know…it wouldn’t make sense.

My eyes get tired from the screen -staring at photos from my journey over and over again. They long for the bright, burning sun and the green of plants and trees that I would wake up to. I look for Filipino faces all around me, but there are few. Instead, I’m met with the sight of snow, bare trees, and gray pavement. The connection to earth blocked by the concrete weights. Driving into Harlem, I’m shocked to process the sight of other brown people, not just Filipinos –Dominican flags, Black faces, Central Americans. "Oh my GOD!! A Black person!!" I scream at Leigh while she shakes her head at my weirdness. (I probably saw like 8 while I was in the PI. And yes, I was counting.) When’s the last time I saw a Latino…not on Facebook?

~

I look back at the painting longing to let myself be transported again. But it takes so much energy and I’m here now. I can’t always wish for there when I’m meant to be here, now can I?

Anyway, it’s all stored in my cellular memory. Any day now, it will all come back to me.

The Distance

"If you’ve never seen the distance in an immigrant’s eyes,

Then you’ve never seen resistance in the form of a cry.

...His hope...to one day return to his town,

To join his ancestors in their burial ground,

Almost forgot how the countryside sounds,

...In the distance between home and where we live,

It’s the distance between a mother and her kids

It’s the distance that keeps us apart,

And it’s the distance between my soul and my heart." -Blue Scholars

No, I'm technically not an immigrant in the U.S., but I'm definitely in withdrawal. I arrived home yesterday from my other home and as we drove around town this morning, I looked at little things around me, grasping for memories of the places that I just left -a ring statue reminds me of the circles I left behind, the clouds remind me of the sunsets at home. My mind bends itself to fit the two places into congruity -the ice of New York clashing soundly with the heat of the Philippines. My body wants to remember what I just left. My soul reaches for the spaces and images that I grew to love so much. I'm afraid of forgetting. I'm afraid of letting go. But I have to be here. And isn't it always the case that you lose or forget something when you travel that sea?

So, don't mind me if you see my eyes travel somewhere else for the briefest of moments. They're just trying to cross that distance, look back and get me back to the other side.

PI Day 33 -Crossing Boundaries in Cotabato

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PI Day 42 -Sights and Sounds: Perfect Faces, Perfect Limbs, and Potbellies

This is so shallow and I'm generalizing horribly, but I've thought it for such a long time! I've decided that like most island men and women, Pinoys are fly. Yes, yes, I've known it all my life, but three months in a place will reinforce the wonderful knowledge. The funny thing is, I've also noticed that Pinoys have perfect faces and perfect limbs. Arms and legs are on point. But then, ya get to the mid drift and it's just something about the San Mig and the rice that gives the most perfect faced, perfectly limbed person a pot-belly. So, here's to the 3 P's -perfect faces, perfect limbs, and pot bellies. Gotta love it.

Sorry folks, no pictures for this one! lol.

PI Day 45 -Sights and Sounds: Basketball and Karaoke

Doesn't matter where you go, if you're in the slums of Manila or the fields of the barrio, there are always two things you can count on -basketball and karaoke. Back in 2010 the NYTimes ran an article on how people in the Philippines were killing each other over karaoke. While I haven't heard of a karaoke murder in quite some time, I have heard the screeches of karaoke in every barangay that I've visited. Actually, I must have passed at least 2 karaoke machines per barangay. Even in the tiny island of Camiguin, we would be passing through the barrio of all barrios, I mean obscure, in the cut, like cows and carabaos right there and not another structure for a while and yet there was still a karaoke machine there. Even on the beach near the rain forests of Sarangani, we were able to hook up to a karaoke machine and sing late, late, late into the night. It's not a joke here. No, sir.

Karaoke on the beach in Maitum, Sarangani

In addition to the karaoke, a barangay is not a barangay without its basketball courts/hoops. It doesn't matter what the thing is made of. I've seen basketball hoops made out of driftwood and a wire for the rim on a dirt court. I've played ball in the garbage dump communities of Sapang Palay and be sure that everybody is playing in tsinellas, no high top ankle support kicks for them.

Random hoop

Basketball in tsinellas, the only way to do it!

No, no, no, what would the Philippines be without basketball and karaoke?

PI Day 47 -Starting the New Year Right: Cagayan de Oro and Camiguin

If Sagada and Banaue were the way to end 2010, Cagayan de Oro and Camiguin were the best ways to start 2011. The trip was totally unplanned for me. I had only heard about Cagayan de Oro once, through a Jesuit novice in 2003. I had never thought to go there myself until my friend Cris kindly invited me to go with her and her cousins. I bought my tickets and waited for January 8 to arrive.

Around 4am, I left the house in Manila after 3 hours of sleep (of course, my brain chose that night of all nights to be relieved of a mean case of writer’s block). We arrived in CDO around 8am and went to our hotel. CDO is a small city that reminds me a little of Iloilo Cityor the old Katipunan –a bit dingy and disorganized, the air clogged with dust and exhaust. There are vendors lining the streets and intersections are a serious hazard, “Turn left or go straight at your own risk,” type of thing. Of course, the drivers there maneuver with expert grace.

~

We scheduled a late morning rafting course. When the jeepney arrived for us, it was a big huge, bright blue rickety thing with this giant blue raft at the top. It looked like a Disney ride and I thought to myself, “So much for blending in. We are really in for it.” Our half hour drive to the starting point for the advanced course was pleasant, showing peeks of mountains and valleys that caused me to strain in order to get a better view. I did find myself disdainfully looking around and thinking, “This isn’t anything new or special,” similar to my feeling upon arrival at Sagada. I was wrong again. The river would show me differently.

~

Since New Year’s I’d been feeling antsy and frustrated –too much time in my head, missing my folks, not enough writing getting done, not enough prayer, and absolutely no job in the Philippines in sight. I was still fighting heavy remnants of that internal frustration on the drive up, felt awfully ungrateful, and prayed, “Please let what I have be enough for now.” I mean, it’s a hell of a lot compared to most people I know. The river took care of that as well.

When we arrived at the starting point of the advanced course, we geared up while the guides set up our raft. After a briefing with our head guide, Howard, we boarded the raft. We were in for 24 rapids.

Being in the middle of the river was gorgeous. Cliffs, rocks smoothed down by the water, and green, surround you. The rapids varied in force and length –each fun, exciting and challenging in its own way. The guides did most of the work, though. I think they just told us to row in order to make us feel like we were doing something. There was even one set of rapids where we could stand. In Tagalog Howard said, “Whoever wants to stand can do it now!” I looked at him like, “Forreal?” And he nodded so I stood. Granted, I got bumped off balance fairly quickly but it was a dope feeling to be standing on the raft while gliding over bumpy waters. If I had felt the need to be active, to get my mind off of things the rowing, the bumping, and flowing did a good job of knocking my self-absorption out and giving me a healthy dose of gratitude.

We turned over on the third rapid and it was a frightening feeling to flip into the water. I suspect we were turned over by our guides on purpose se we’d literally get our feet wet and get our nerves out of the way. We were very wet to say the least. My shoes are still squishy. In those rapids, we were face to face with waves that looked intricate, beautiful, and menacing. In those moments, I could really feel the power of water and of the river itself. It could eat you alive and pull you under if it wanted to and if you’re not careful or smart. On the plane I had been reading more from Francia’s book about native Filipinos’ deep respect for nature and their animistic traditions. He briefly spoke about the practice of asking nature for permission in different situations saying, “…they reverenced stones, the wind, headlands of water, and trees. To cut down an old tree, for examples, was considered a sacrilege. Or to fail to ask permission to pass in front of an ant mound in a field was tantamount to inviting retribution…from the mound’s resident spirit…duende…” (Francia 44). As I felt that first crash of waves over my head I found myself asking for permission from the river to be there challenging its strength and flow. Sounds a little crazy, I admit, but I felt like I was in the river’s space. Who was I to intrude?

~

After each rapid there is a beautiful contrasting calm. We sliced through still waters, little noise besides the lapping of water against our raft. We swam then, jumping off the raft into 8-10 feet of water. The current gently pulled us down the river. There was one point where we swam through light rapids. Howard pointed out the water gliders swimming on the top of the water and explained that they indicated that the water was still clean. He said that once the water gliders left the water wouldn’t be useable anymore.

Enjoying the swim with Ate Cris.

Such a water baby.

We passed people doing laundry or bathing in the river, their lives tied to the water –probably a blessing and a curse, or just life to them. Kids walked on the banks of the river in their undies, ready for a dip at any moment. I envied their ability to plop down on a rock and let water wash over them whenever. On our way down the river, we even saw a school contraption that connected children living on the far side river to the side where the school was located. The contraptions consisted of two bamboo rafts on the water, and a wire that was used to pull the rafts across the water. Once to the other side, the kids would hit a cliff and would have to climb up a bamboo pole with horizontal bars that would help them climb to the top of the cliff. There was also a large bamboo cage hanging of another wire that was used to transport different goods from the main side of the river to the smaller side. Much respect to the creativity of necessity!

Humans weren’t the only things we saw on our path. We also came across lizards, lots of cows of course (that’s cow country), and snakeskins. Much to Cris’s teary relief, we didn’t actually see any snakes though our guides and her cousins did a good job of scaring the life out of her. In the rocks, there were fossils in the sediment of the river walls –shells and leaves that had been fossilized years ago.

As our raft drifted on towards Rapid 24, I found that I didn’t want our trip to end and would have been more than happy to continue floating away if I could. The trip did come to an end, though. Afterwards, we were tired and sunburned, but it was beyond worth it. How blessed can one person be? And is there a better way to start the New Year? I don’t think so.

~

We also spent a day and a half in the nearby island of Camiguin, which is a two hour boat ferry away. It was relaxing and beautiful. Here are some additional photos from the highlights of that trip:

Almost everything I need in life: Malong, book, writing utensils, music, and shades.

Storm passing over the White Island, Camiguin

Me and Cris on the bangka

Katibawasan Falls, Camiguin

Swimming in the Soda Pool, Camiguin

Sunset on the ferry from Camiguin to Cagayan de Oro

So Far To Go Winner

Earlier in 2010 The J Dilla Foundation announced an art contest in honor of Dilla's lifetime and work called So Far To Go. I heard about the contest through my homie Pro Blak who entered one of his gorgeous paintings. The artists were recently chosen and while Pro Blak didn't win I had to share the first place piece by Joe Buck. It's TIGHT! (Peep a larger image on the website above.)

Day 55 -Family First: Our Barangay Lifestyle

Even though Christmas and New Year’s have passed, it is still holiday season here in the Philippines. We go through til the Feast of the Three Kings. All the time I have been spending with extended family makes me think of the Filipino American community back in the States and the upbringing that we experienced together. While I can’t say it was purely Pinoy, for sure, there were many remnants of the Pinoy lifestyle brought to life throughout my childhood –the Barangay being one of them.

I’ve been reading about Pinoy culture and history while here and have come to a better understanding of the word “Barangay,” through my research. I was first introduced to the word in 2003, when I studied here. At that time, I understood it to mean community or neighborhood. Lots of small neighborhoods are named Barangay this or that, have a barangay captain and even a barangay council who represent the interests of the community.

This year, I came up against a more formal definition of a Barangay and its etymology. A barangay is the smallest political or social unit here in the PI. It comes from the word “Balangay” which was a boat used to travel with a whole clan and/or kin. People used the word “kabangka,” meaning ‘from the same boat’ to describe relationships with family or clan members. In Luis H. Francia’s book A History of the Philippines: From Indios to Bravos to Filipinos, he describes how the history of the balangay impacted the way Filipinos operated. He says, “Blood ties were thus of the utmost importance for they guaranteed fealty to the barangay…the barangay was essentially an extended family, a gathering of a particular clan” (33). Family came before any other ties because of the shared experiences and loyalty promised to the leader and to one another –not so different from the modern day Philippines and some Filipino American communities in the States.

The concepts of ownership and public space were also impacted by Barangay culture. Francia argues that land ownership was irrelevant saying, “Every member of the barangay was a shareholder theoretically and could derive profit from land use” (32). This is very different from the life we are used to in the States and the modern Philippines where ownership means so much to us whether or not we have strong family ties. This idea of shared space extended into what Westerners call the public and private spheres –the government vs. home, the work place vs. home, etc. In barangays, the distinction between these spaces did not exist in the same way that we think of it in the States:

“Made up of kinship ties, the barangay did not constitute a system independent from its inhabitants...a barangay had no public buildings for government or community affairs, no castles or town halls. The datu’s (chief’s) residence would have been the largest building and the center of the barangay. The idea of what passed for ‘public’ was really the private world write larger” (34-35).

In the States and modern day Philippines there are clear and purposeful distinctions between government, political, or communal interests and life in the private home sphere. These oftentimes opposing Eastern and Western views of space and relationships were always things that my peers, my family, and I had to negotiate on an everyday level. It wasn’t always something we were hyper aware of though. We didn’t go around thinking, “Oh, I really have to negotiate this bi-cultural lifestyle that is occurring in my life,” since assimilation and acculturation can happen so quietly today. The impacts were subtle yet defining at the same time. It was more than food and language that was different from the other American families around us. It was our way of being with one another –a way of life that manifested itself in the way we treat(ed) one another back at home.

Similar to the Filipinos of long ago, you might say that my family was part of a barangay in Queens when they arrived here. Queens was and still is a center of Filipino immigrants. Drive down Queens Blvd. and you will see restaurants advertising longsilog, tapsilog, menudo and other Pinoy foods. My parents landed there with other folks they knew, my father following a job and his older brother from Manila to New York City. While there were many groups of Filipinos there, my family stuck with a few of the same people –almost as if they were “kabangka.” When some of these families, including my uncle’s, started to move up North to a suburb of New York City, my family followed moving to a house about five minutes away from my cousins’ house. I even lived with my cousins for a bit while my parents settled the move from Queens to the burbs.

Our families created another small barangay in our tiny town. We celebrated together, prayed together, mourned together. Sundays, we would see one another at Church, the majority of us children singing in the folk choir while our parents directed or played instruments for the group. Afterwards, we would all play tennis and eat at the local park. Parents and older kids would rotate on the tennis courts while other kids were listening to music, playing at the park, biking, rollerblading, or entertaining ourselves in some other way. About once a month, we had Block Rosary where a statue of Mary jumped from house to house in the county. Our families would pray the rosary together, end the prayer with a unified, “Good evening,” and then of course, grub.

Family Parties at Our House

Even if we weren’t related by blood, everybody was Tito or Tita. At get togethers we had to greet each elder. Even if there were as many as 30 lolos, lolas, aunts and uncles, we had to make sure every adult was greeted properly. You can imagine how crazy weddings and funerals are with all the greeting! Holidays were always together. It was pretty weird to even consider going to a non-family member’s house for Christmas, Easter, or New Year’s. Even in college up to now, I never even pretend like I’m going to party outside the family for New Year’s and it was rarely something I even wanted to do since being with the family was so much fun!

Tina's Bridal Shower -Jam Packed with Fam

~

My cousins were my best friends. While so many kids at school were playing over their friends’ houses, we were playing at our cousins’ houses. We went on trips together to Florida, Rhode Island, and Wildwood together. A large group of us went to Catholic school for seven or more years together. Some of us even shared the same classrooms and homeroom teachers. We followed one another’s footsteps and once the first generation had gone through St. Paul’s and Albertus Magnus High School, the teachers knew who was coming up and what to expect. In those moments of otherness, when a kid would make fun of our food, say that we were dirty, or not invite us to their parties even though the whole class would be invited I always had my cousins. After a while, my otherness didn’t matter as much and while we eventually made friends with many of the white kids in our classes, the drama that often occurred in social circles passed over our heads because we just didn’t care. Granted, we had our own drama in our own circle, but it rarely got aired out in public the way some of the other kids’ crap did.

Together Forever

1997

1998 or 1999

2009

My family was my safe, home space. I grew up in a diverse New York firmly believing that everybody should assimilate and not segregate themselves into cultural/racial groups, little acknowledging the safety and confidence that I ended up having because of my barangay. After I read Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria by Beverly Tatum in college, I finally realized the value of having a place where my culture was understood, accepted and practiced. It didn’t/doesn’t have to be my whole life, but it was and still is a legitimate space and foundation for who I was, am, and will be.

~

Now that I'm here, I see exactly where our Filipino American barangays came from. Here, everybody takes care of one another. While I don't have many friends, I have my family on both sides. We go on trips together. Eat meals together. Celebrate holidays together. Pray together.

Fullons at Coco's Wedding

I listen to stories about the Castros and how the cousins spent summers together in the province with their Lolo, my great grandfather. They can name small intricacies about one another from childhood that nobody else will ever know -Lolo's strict schedule, Mom's clumsiness

Castro Cousins with Lola Pat

Castro Cousins with Lolo Joy

Castro Cousins 2009

Castro Reunion 2009

Dad's family is similar, recounting the days when they spent summers at their Lola's in Iloilo all together. Even today, they value the little time they are able to spend together. When my aunt said she was thinking about not coming to the wedding in Manila, my uncle who rarely talks said, "Huh? Why?" So, up to Manila she came!

Fullon Cousins in Iloilo

I watch all of my aunts and uncles and realize how much the family meant to them, how good it was for them to be around cousins their age and to know that there were aunts and uncles in addition to their parents who were supporting them. That's why we are the way we are -like brothers and sisters with our cousins. Tons of unconditional love, different as we may be.

My parents brought that with them to the States and I'm thankful.

~

Barangays have their weaknesses, though –infighting, grudges that last for years, heavy chismis, and other downfalls of the human condition. Sometimes, if not handled thoughtfully, community becomes so important that individuality is bruised and stunted. For me, the concept of the barangay is not necessarily the culprit, but our weaknesses as humans are at fault for breakdowns in both the barangay and the individual –pretty common for most social structures out there, I suppose. Acknowledging that though I still have to say that the barangay played and still plays a powerful role in my life. I always know I have a home to go back to. I always know that I have people supporting me and praying for me.

I hope this little girl can make her barangay proud, help it grow, and serve its people the way it serve(d) me.