The calvary is here yet again. I'm flanked by my giant green Flanigans cup with lemon water, hot tea, Vicks, cough drops and a roll of tissue paper. Getting sick on New Year's Eve seems ominous. And I don't even have grapes to fend off the bad luck. (I'm hoping blueberries for breakfast count.) This is the third time I've gotten ill, but ending the year in a sickly whimper seems appropriate for the blurry mess that was 2024. Oftentimes, I felt planted in the eye of a storm as I saw all the turmoil whip around me. I've managed to brace the impact as dynamics of every relationship around me constantly shifted. It felt like being in a mosh pit — pushing everyone away, refusing to fall down. Now I'm sat here with this hefty list of lessons, struggling to come up with some pithy takeaway. Honestly, I could offer up some saccharine platitude on the ups and downs of life, but we're eight years in. If that's all I have to say by now, then what hope do I have of moving forward? If anything, this year has shown me that I must practice exercising agency. I need to learn how to light a fire under my ass. There's just so much I want to do in this life. Never more have I craved the need to fuck off and just do what I want. And I'm curious to see what that looks like next year — and how that could backfire. (Pun not intended). But I'm ready to embrace some of the messiness — if just to see what I learn from it.
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In my next life, I think I’d like to be the wind
Make trees shiver in delight, dappling sunlight in my wake A song of sweet relief to counter unforgiving heat What is a force of nature, if not God itself To invoke fear and awe unto unwitting romantics Howling with pure abandon Propelling massive vessels across vast seas I carry your secrets I’m a vehicle not a vessel Twirling stray leaves Sweeping up tumbleweeds Formless and frictionless Forceful and free I thought I wanted to be the ocean but I envy the way the wind blows When people cower against gusts of wind — I open my arms wide Feeling a second hand high Because if I’m the wind Maybe then I can be set free Payongs made of flimsy membranes prevail
shielding from the sun’s harsh scrutiny pamaypays bloom in the pews pushing hot air fruitlessly scraggly strands of wires weave their way through haphazard buildings like a weak network of capillaries waiting to blow a fuse itchy ankles from phantom bites badger my underbelly I speak in little pops of Bisaya to stake some sort of claim an oppressive heat that rips the pores open unleashing our vices — our devils heat waves warp our morals our sense of self rippling in a mirage a 4-foot-5 Goliath whose self righteous opinions tower over you and a David who can’t see past her main character syndrome scathing words hard truths bottled up resentments suspended in thick air I am frozen in that moment caught in the crossfire I wish I could cut a hole into this moment and release the torturous pressure. But it’s futile. their pride is hot air now we’re sitting in these feelings there is no relief — no exit proving Sartre right. 
Despite the valiant efforts of media publications (see The Cut or the Atlantic's Instagram account), nothing truly prepares you for the politics of being a person. How do I navigate polarizing opinions with coworkers? What is the proper code of conduct for seeing an ex at a wedding? What kind of relationship should I have with my parents as an adult? How coy or forward must you be on Bumble? How much of myself do I give away in the name of earnestness? And at what point should I be worried that I've spent too much time alone — and often sought it out?
All of us, at some point, must deploy different aspects of ourselves to meet the circumstance. And this year, I've definitely had my work cut out for me. I'm grateful for all the moments of discomfort and hand-wringing that I've had to deal with this year. New relationships and experiences have germinated the beginnings of, what I hope, will become a new evolution of myself — one where I have a deeper, if not clearer, understanding of how to navigate my world as it stands. It's funny to see how these annual lists have evolved over the years. I've been making them since 2016. Seven years later, and the low self esteem, general anxiety and ennui of my early twenties has lessened greatly. Death feels imminent, now more than ever. I am equally and simultaneously self-assured but unmoored. I feel a bit stagnant but I've been physically itinerant. In the way that a fever is not an illness but a symptom, I'm sure a lot of these feelings are indicators that I'm developing a life that is whole. So, I bid adieu to 2023, not with resignation as I did the year prior, but with much gratitude in my heart that I have and will continue to stumble and get back up. 
On a mild Miami evening in January, I ordered what I believe was already my second or third Chipotle order that week. Thinking that DoorDash had saved my preferred toppings from a previous order, I unknowingly paid for a meager bowl of chicken — and absolutely nothing else. No rice. No beans. No salsa. The minute I peeled back the tinfoil of my burrito bowl to reveal that pathetic pile of poultry, I should have known this year would devolve into chaos.
The so-called Great Chicken Chipotle Disaster of 2022 was just the start of an absurd year. It's funny, I had decided 2022 would be the year of sitting atop a mountain and emptying my mind, but I did quite the opposite. In the wake of heartbreak and change, I feared I had become emotionally numb, so I filled the void with spontaneous trips, unexplored vices and just random stuff to do — subconsciously placing myself in the “splash zone" in hopes of washing over this ennui I had been feeling. That said, I don't think I am closing out this year with any definitive or profound takeaways. If nothing else, it's time to set aside notions of fate and passivity, and call my mid-20s antics what it is: impulsive. This blurb is just a long-winded way of saying, I did a lot of stupid things this year without much thought behind them. (Re: The Great Chicken Disaster of 2022) Defining this year according to how good or bad it was seems reductive. Frankly, I'm left grateful and humbled. Next year, I hope to put (some of) the chaos to rest and siphon that energy into fulfilling experiences that add shape to my life — not fill a hole. 
Moments of joy and despair shared custody of 2021, tossing me around whenever it was their turn to play ball — and just when I thought I had sussed myself out too. Anthony Bourdain put it best, “smug clarity.” What a perfect encapsulation of my year. For all the times I expressed wariness over slipping into self righteousness, I found myself fulfilling my own prophecy. I know I should contribute to my 401K, I know I should settle down by this age, I know I should invest more in my relationships, I know I'm not supposed to have all the answers. I know I have a lot more to learn. I know what's easy and what's right often do not align. Bourdain also said, “it's not enough just to know, we must apply.” I guess that's the crux of life at 25. We're old enough to know better but not enough to know exactly how — at least for me. Cheers to another another year on this damned planet.  My Lola Ene standing on her porch, looking out at the plaza. (2017) Memories of my Lola Ene send me back to the house on the plaza. Lola Ene was neighbors with God, a sea of pavement and kalachuchi trees separating her from the church across the street. A chorus of church bells and rooster cries woke me up before dawn. My Lola Ene always made me breakfast: a fried egg, rice, pandesal and instant coffee. If I wasn't ready to eat, she always covered the rice with a saucer on top to protect it and keep it warm. During the 24 years that I have been alive, I have only visited the Philippines three times. And every single time we went home, we always stayed with her. When I was a little kid, my dad would tell stories about his time living in the house. It was the nexus of his childhood. All of the cousins grew up there, he told me. Three floors had just enough room to squeeze multiple branches of the family. The staircase in the living room leads up to an altar, the perfect stage for at-home prayer services. And there's a big wraparound porch that hugs the house. Generally, the porch serves a front row seat for people watching, but when there's a party, it's crowded with people lining up for food like lechon or pancit. On balmy nights, the sliding doors and jalousie windows are open to let fresh air carry out peals of laughter and song. Inevitably, time took its bittersweet course. Everyone grew up and moved away. Soon enough, the house on the plaza was a bit quieter, more hollow. Lola Ene was the last woman standing, keeping the hearth alive. But even when we couldn't be together, my Lola Ene had ways of closing the distance between us. The first time I stepped foot in the house, I saw my brother and I taking up space on every shelf. There were pictures of us at all ages, from chubby babies to awkward teenagers. I remember when we celebrated my dad's 60th birthday at the house for the first time in years. We had live music prepared. Before the guests arrived, the musicians were moving a cabinet to make room for their equipment. Naturally, my Lola Ene was overseeing the progress. Hinay-hinay, she said. Slowly, slowly. They had to be careful, my Lola Inday said because pictures of her apo, grandchildren, were on top.  My Lola Ene holding newborn me visiting me in the states. That's what I loved the most about my Lola Ene. She wasn't shy about loving us. Because of our language barrier, more times than not, that's all she could say. I love you. I miss you. I'm proud of you. And honestly, that was more than enough.
As I write this, I realize how little I know of her. Everything I've heard has come from other people. Every time I received a letter from her, all scrawled in English, my dad would remind me, your Lola Ene is very smart. She would travel to different provinces to teach, he said. I was also surprised to learn that my lola had a bit of a rebellious side when she was younger. According to my mom, she was stubborn and independent. But she was also incredibly kind and sweet. She was your best friend's mom, the neighborhood tita, your childhood dance teacher, a loving older sister, and a true confidante. So, when she had passed, it felt like a fire had been snuffed out. Generations of family and friends have grown up in that house or, at least, crossed its threshold. I don't know when I will get the chance to visit the house on the plaza, but it won't be the same — that much I do know. She left a little too soon, but I rest easy knowing that she is at peace now, with no more aches or pains to speak of. I am eternally grateful that she had lived such a long and good life because of how much she was loved by us and by all that had the privilege of knowing her. Being thousands of miles away is never easy, but home base was and will always be with Lola Ene. Elastic bands compress
Sometimes too snug for comfort A megabyte of a photo zipped into a file The waist band reins me in keeping the fat at bay, oozing out the side. Suck in, she commands like a lie told through the teeth, it’s a ‘fit. Fraying threads signal decay Cheapness mistaken for frugality remains I can wear the band down until it molds to my hips It loosens its grip and extends a forgiving stretch I can breathe now. But the waist band never lets me forget She’s a ruler without measure Just a little salt, a little sugar to taste Eye it at your own risk She’s ruthless in her discrete numbers Too old, too tight, it’s a fight to squeeze Too old, too loose, it’s an outline of the crime scene Marking red ruts in my flesh cleaving the fat into a valley A spectrum of insecurity in its security She hugs me insincerely — all in the wrong ways as hours melt into blurry days Vacillating between my bed and my desk I try to run it away then sink into a pint of ice cream by day’s end I didn’t used to have the bandwidth to care about this before  Grandpa and Grandma visiting my Preschool class for my 5th birthday.  Father's Day card I made for my grandpa. I’ve written a 4,000-word research paper comparing "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Their Eyes Were Watching God". And turned in election stories under the pressure of late-night deadlines. But nothing was as difficult as writing about my grandpa. It’s hard to epitomize a constant – a person who has always been there in the backdrop of my life. And now he has gone. It’s as though the sun stopped shining or the birds forgot how to sing. How do I begin to comprehend a life without my grandpa? He’s been a witness to my minuscule moments as well as the milestones. There was no mistaking my grandpa’s split-pea green Mazda in the carline after school – the doors were always wide open waiting to carry me home. To think, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want my classmates to see that he had a habit of hoarding things. The backseat doubled as a closet with an array of jackets slung on top of the headrest. Packs of bottled sweet tea shared leg room with my feet. Close the doors, I told him, but looking back, he was just excited to see his only granddaughter. Now whenever I visit my grandma’s house – just five minutes down the road – no longer will I hear “Leeeeesssa”. He would call out my name even before I stepped inside the house. His voice rang out like a song. Nothing could sound as sweet or as joyous. I’ve begun compiling a collection of my memories of grandpa – each one threaded together by our love for words. My grandpa financed my book addiction and we often ventured out to Barnes and Nobles, so much so that I recognized the employees. We created our own language. Before the age of ten, I taught him how to mispronounce words. When he said yellow I said "lellow". When he said ice-cream, I said "ah-keem". But for some reason, he took my word as law forever using it in his daily vocabulary.  In a digital age marked by laptops and iPads, my grandpa had a typewriter. Just like his van and most of his wardrobe – it was also green. My mom says I take after my grandpa’s knack for writing and so his typewriter helped me spin my half-witted daydreams and long-winded lists. For someone who worked his whole life as a doctor, my grandpa had all the trappings of a writer. He consumed literature, studied philosophy and challenged preconceptions about the world. Even his handwriting written in black fine-tipped Sharpie resembled the neat serif font of a typewriter. I always tell people, my grandpa spoke in prose. Are there any pretty butterflies hovering around the flower, he would say. It was his way of asking me if I had a boyfriend. It’s how he courted my grandma, he told me. Poetry laced my birthdays and Christmas cards and even our text messages. He wrote letters to me about his doctor’s visits and recounted trips with his sisters, my Lola Dada and Lola SuSa.  My grandpa had strong, sometimes abrasive opinions and he never held them back. But his writings softened his hard edges and his stubborn ways. Whatever faults and failings he had vanished when I read his words.
It was clear that he poured his heart onto paper and loved me, my brother and all of his family so deeply. Every letter he wrote always ended with a yearning to meet again soon. Words gave him solace when we were apart. So I hope these words give him some peace before he begins his next journey. I don’t know if I’ll ever become the columnist he wanted me to be, but I will learn how to speak my mind. Grandpa, I will make sure to hug and kiss Andrew for you. And I promise to take care of grandma. It may be a long time before we meet again, but I promise we won’t be apart forever. You just happened to get a head start. |
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