VertigoCare Concierge

CHAPTER 1 | CINEMA PARDISO

PHILIPPINES: In my only memory of my parents together, time drifts in a golden haze, like an old film reel playing in slow motion—soft, fleeting, just out of reach.

I was about two years old. We were walking home from church, the road stretched before us—cracked and sunbaked, the scent of warm earth rising with each step. I ran behind them, arms outstretched, my fingertips grazing the brittle tops of burnt grass that brushed against my waist. The world felt vast, open, endless.

Ahead of me, my parents walked in quiet rhythm. My father’s white polo shirt was tucked neatly into his bell-bottom jeans, his stride carefree, his presence fully grounded in the moment. Beside him, my mother moved with effortless grace, her black dress swaying with the breeze, its thin fabric catching the light. Along the hem, red, yellow, and green flowers bloomed, their roots curling upward like veins stretching back to her waist, as if trying to tether her to this moment, to this man, to this life.

She turned back to look at me, her dark eyes searching, soft with something I couldn’t yet name. A silent check to make sure I was still there, still keeping up.

"Kapoy?" she asked gently. Tired?

I shook my head, breathless from running but unwilling to slow down. "Mommy," I called out, reaching for her.

She smiled, crouching just enough to hold out her hand. "Come."

For a moment, my small fingers curled around hers—warm, certain, safe. Then, just as gently, she let go, turning back to my father, slipping seamlessly into his stride. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they walked, the quiet rhythm of their steps continuing forward, as if the moment had never broken.

That’s how I choose to remember her. That’s how I choose to remember us—before the world shifted beneath our feet. Now, that golden afternoon exists only in memory, a relic of a life that once felt whole.

Life in Consolacion was much simpler then. The days were warm, the nights were quiet. Consolacion, about 12 kilometers from Cebu City, was still a town where everyone knew each other. Doors stayed open. Neighbors shared meals. Kids played in the streets until dusk, when the smell of burning grass lingered in the air. It was the kind of place where, if you did something stupid, your parents would hear about it before you even got home.

Cebu City, the island’s capital, was growing, but it wasn’t yet the urban jungle it would become. Colon Street was the heart of trade, lined with small shops, cinemas, and street vendors selling ngohiong and puso rice wrapped in coconut leaves. Ayala and SM were still just ideas. Shopping meant haggling at Carbon Market or braving the fluorescent-lit aisles of Gaisano or White Gold. The air was cleaner. The pace was slower. It was a time when even the busiest streets could still take a deep breath.

But cities grow, landscapes shift, and memory becomes the only place where the old Consolacion still exists.

Now, the city is unrecognizable. Bigger. Faster. The skyline is a tangle of concrete and glass, the roads perpetually gridlocked with cars, motorbikes, and jeepneys belching black smoke. The only ones left playing in the streets are kargadors weaving through traffic and trisikad drivers hustling for fares. Consolacion isn’t quiet anymore. The open squares where we once flew kites have been swallowed by government buildings and subdivisions. The kalamakan where we used to fish for halwan is now a crowded marketplace—one that floods with the first heavy rain.

But for those who knew the old Consolacion, it still lingers. In the smell of fresh pandesal. In the memory of an unhurried afternoon. In the feeling of home—not just as a place, but as something lost.

The first phase of my life was scattered, unpredictable, but full of love. I was raised by two aunts, Veronica and Concepcion, with occasional visits from my forever-playboy, forever-absent father—who was more familiar with a bottle of Tanduay and the sabongan than with fatherhood. Our home was never empty, a revolving door of yaya’s and boy’s keeping the daily chaos in check.

Meanwhile, my mother was thousands of miles away, navigating the dimly lit halls of a nursing home, working endless shifts to carve out a future for us in the United States. She clung to the dream that one day, she would bring us with her.

Once I turned two years old in 1978, my mother made her first attempt at life abroad, working at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland. But 1970s Baltimore, with its grittiness and chaos, proved too much even for a fearless Cebuana like her. She returned home a year later, shaken but not defeated. Her resilience was relentless—within six months, she was back in the United States, this time working at a nursing home in New Jersey.

She would eventually put down roots there, finding stable employment at a community hospital where she worked until her passing. But for 12 long years, I was separated from her as she navigated the brutal maze of the U.S. immigration system, securing a green card that would one day bring me to America. During that time, I remained under the guardianship of my Aunt Veronica, learning to grow up in a world without my mother by my side.

For twelve years, she fought against red tape and the weight of distance, clinging to the hope that each signed document, each sleepless shift, each whispered prayer would pull us closer. In the meantime, she clung to whatever fragments of motherhood she could send across the ocean—letters, birthday cards pressed with the weight of longing, gifts carefully chosen but never wrapped in her own hands.

Through it all, I was privileged to attend Mabolo International School for kindergarten before transitioning to private Catholic schools. Initially, my path seemed destined for Sacred Heart Boys School—I had even begun Chinese lessons in preparation and somehow managed to pass the entrance exam while in the middle of a convulsive fever. But then I saw Colegio de la Inmaculada Concepción (CIC)—and, more importantly, I saw that it was co-ed. Decision made. Independence established early.

One of my earliest memories of school was writing on the blackboard with my left hand, only to have my teacher correct me, insisting that I use my right. It struck me as odd, considering both my parents were left-handed. I later learned that this was a common practice in Catholic schools, rooted in the old belief that left-handedness was sinister—a relic of a time when being different, even in something as simple as hand dominance, was discouraged.

By fourth grade, I was taking the jeepney alone from Consolacion to school—a level of freedom unimaginable today. No tracking devices, no parental check-ins, just a kid navigating the city with fifty pesos and an overinflated sense of street smarts. By fifth grade, I transferred to University of San Carlos Boys High, since CIC became all-girls beyond elementary school.

It was around this time that I became painfully aware of social class differences. I had many friends in Consolacion who lived in dilapidated homes with dirt floors, no indoor plumbing, and an outhouse precariously perched near the murky kanipaan waters for the good old number two. Their clothes were tattered, their tsinelas barely holding together, held up by sheer will and a few rubber bands. Meanwhile, my schoolmates at USC had personal drivers, hot meals delivered by maids in crisp uniforms, and playdates in air-conditioned malls. I had public transportation and the kind of freedom most kids today will never experience. They had shopping sprees, while I mastered the art of window-shopping—not in fancy boutiques, but along the dubious streets of Honkera, Cebu’s red-light district, where the clip-clop of tartanilla hooves mixed with the unmistakable scent of horse manure. I was just a boy, weaving my way through this gritty section of Cebu on a regular basis, dodging drunks and street vendors, just to catch a jeepney back to Consolacion on the other side of Gaisano.

It was my coming of age, my Cinema Paradiso. A time of boundless possibility, when the world still felt big, exciting, and full of wonder. I lived in both worlds—privilege in education, simplicity in everyday life—a volatile mix that sharpened my instincts, challenged my perceptions, and shaped the way I saw the world. It was an education far beyond the classroom, one that unraveled illusions and redefined how the world truly works: Intelligence and hard work aren’t always enough; sometimes, access and privilege determine success. I saw first hand, grit and resilience in people who had little, contrasting with entitlement in those who had everything. And I realized that morality and survival often collide in ways that aren't black and white.

Growing up in Consolacion meant homes were never just private spaces—they were open, bustling with movement, laughter, and the daily rhythm of life. At the heart of our world was my aunt’s clinic, where patients arrived in the afternoons, lining up patiently, some paying with cash, others with livestock, and a few with just their gratitude. She never turned anyone away. I can still picture how she folded prescriptions into delicate, triangular origami, slipping sample meds inside like little gifts of survival.

But the clinic wasn’t just for fevers and coughs —it was also the site of one of the most dreaded rites of passage for young boys in town.

The clinic was also where most of my friends were circumcised. Back in the '70s and '80s, circumcision at birth wasn’t the norm, so most boys underwent the rite of passage at around seven or eight years old. And with Aunt Veronica being the town doctor, she was the one who circumcised most of us.

What made it even funnier was that the clinic had windows on two sides—one facing the northern fence and the other facing the stairs. That’s where kids would gather, sitting on the ledge in their tsinelas, sweaty from playing under the sun, their clothes covered in dirt. They would peer inside, eyes wide with a mix of fascination and dread, watching the procedure unfold like a spectacle equal parts medical and nightmarish. It was a grim, inescapable rite of passage—one that none of us could avoid.

Afterward, we had to walk around wearing our fathers’ oversized T-shirts, pinching out the front to keep the fabric from rubbing against the wound. Some kids, in a mix of bravery and desperation, would head straight to the ocean to soak in the salt water, believing it to be a healing catalyst. It stung like hell, but it was supposed to speed up the process. I was one of those kids.

Of course, infections were sometimes inevitable. If the wound swelled up, turning reddish-orange and bulbous, we’d call it nagkamatis—like a tomato about to burst. Usually, after about a week, it would heal enough for us to wear briefs and regular shorts again. But even then, play was still limited—running, jumping, or anything that risked bumping down there was strictly avoided. It was a painful, awkward, but ultimately necessary passage into boyhood.

Painful, humiliating, and inescapable—but also a test. A test of endurance, of whether you could keep a straight face in front of your friends, of whether you had what it took to be a man.

My grandfather would have approved. He believed that hardship built character, that pain was a lesson, that discipline made men.

He used to joke—or maybe he really believed—that “Vetsin” was what made people gay, as my cousin Raul would later recall. For a man with six daughters, masculinity wasn’t just expected; it was reinforced. He ruled with discipline, the kind passed down in belt lashes and lessons meant to harden, not nurture.

But no amount of discipline could prepare him for war.

He was a land surveyor turned manghihilot, a healer of broken bones and twisted joints, who somehow found himself leading Consolacion during World War II. Unfortunately, Japanese forces had a different plan for him. Our home was seized and converted into a Japanese outpost. By the time the war ended, it had been burned to the ground.

His wife, my grandmother, Jacoba, was a simple woman, the glue of our family, making sure her six daughters survived. Jacoba, also called Nanay Babing, was the daughter of farmers and landowners from the western mountains of Consolacion, where her parents had amassed a small fortune in land.

By the time she met my grandfather, they had moved to the town proper, where they built a life together and raised their children. When the war came and the Japanese arrived, they had no choice but to flee. They left behind their home, their land, retreating into the mountains until it was safe to return.

But history has a way of rebuilding itself. The townspeople—those who had once sought my grandfather’s leadership—helped rebuild the very home he had been forced to leave. Within its walls, my grandparents would go on to raise six daughters, and within its walls, our family’s roots in Consolacion would take deeper hold.

History became legacy. Legacy became tradition.

It wove itself into the fabric of our annual town fiestas, religious holidays, and weekend gatherings. The house became more than just a home—it became the beating heart of our family, a place where stories were told, memories were made, and our connection to Consolacion remained unshaken.

The family motto was always centered on academics. Success in life was measured by the profession you chose. Of the six daughters, two went to medical school; Auntie Lily and Auntie Veronica, two to law school; Auntie Concepcion and Auntie Bebe, and two to nursing school; Auntie Carmen and my mother Ana.

My mother once told me that my grandfather used to say, "I want to make sure you’ll never have to rely on a man." To enforce that belief, he ruled with strict discipline—sometimes to the point of cruelty. Deviating from the path he set meant punishment. A belt if they stepped out of line. Public humiliation to make a point.

Once, in a fit of rage, he forgot which end of the belt he was holding. When he swung, it was the buckle, not the strap, that struck my aunt Carmen. The weight of it cut into her skin, leaving a mark far deeper than he probably intended—but he never apologized.

Another time, when my Aunt Veronica was still in medical school, my grandfather went to pay her tuition. But instead of handing over the money discreetly, he did something no one would forget.

He marched into the administration office, lugging a heavy bamboo alkansiya—his piggy bank—filled to the brim with single peso coins. The office was quiet, the kind of place where voices barely rose above a murmur. That changed the moment he dropped it.

Aunt Veronica gasped. "Tay?!" (Dad?! )she hissed, mortified, scrambling to pick up the scattered money.

But my grandfather only crossed his arms and smirked, as if he had just proven a point.

"Gusto ka moskwela? Mao ni ang bayad.” -You want an education? This is what it costs

Professors, students, even the school staff stopped what they were doing to watch as strangers bent down, gathering the pesos that had spread like water across the floor.

A school administrator cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. "Sir, pwede ra unta nimo dalhon sa opisina ang bayad..." He gestured helplessly, unsure of how to finish the sentence. -“Sir, you could have just brought the payment to the office..."

"Dili." My grandfather shook his head. "Kinahanglan niya makita unsa kakuti. Kinahanglan niya masabtan.” -“No. She needs to see how difficult this is. She needs to understand."

Aunt Veronica’s face burned with embarrassment, but she said nothing. She just kept picking up coins, her fingers shaking. She knew better than to argue.

It was his way of teaching a lesson—one that came at her expense. That paying for school was a hardship. That education had a price.

That making a spectacle of it somehow made the sacrifice worth more.

It was a spectacle, a lesson, a moment that lingered long after the last peso had been picked up. A reminder that sacrifice wasn’t just made—it had to be seen.

Years later, Aunt Veronica would laugh when telling the story, but there was always something unspoken beneath her voice—a quiet resentment, maybe, or just the exhaustion of someone who had spent a lifetime proving she was worth the sacrifice.

Looking back, I see now the weight my aunts carried in exchange for what was called success and family support. Each of them endured it in their own way—some in silence, some with indifference, others through repression and inevitable acceptance. I don’t know if there’s a right way to handle a childhood like that. We are all different people, shaped by different wounds.

But my mother? She fought.

She wanted a career in foreign service. She dreamed of working in embassies, traveling the world. Instead, she was forced into nursing. As the youngest, she had no say. The choice was made for her.

She was a great nurse by every measure—scientific, methodical, compassionate. Old-school nursing. No shortcuts. No distractions. Cell phones had no place in the workplace, and the rules were meant to be followed. If you were unlucky enough to get sick but lucky enough to have her as your nurse, then the world had balanced itself out.

Maybe it was the hand-me-downs, the experiences she never got to have, the dreams she never got to chase. Maybe it was the feeling that her siblings had taken that freedom from her. Whatever it was, it fueled her defiance, her strength, her fearless spirit.

And yet, for all her rebellion, she became her father in ways she probably never intended. She, too, valued education above all else. She, too, believed in discipline, in strict and uncompromising parenting. The very rules she once resisted became the ones she enforced.

She had inherited her father’s fire—only now, she was the one holding the torch.

Chapter 1 | Glossary:

*Alkansiya – A piggy bank or coin bank, traditionally made of bamboo, used by Filipino families to save loose change over time. Often broken open only for important expenses or special occasions.

*Cebu City – The capital of Cebu province and the “Queen City of the South,” known for its rich history, economic activity, and vibrant culture.

*Cebuana – A term used to refer to a woman from Cebu, known for resilience, beauty, and strong-willed nature.

*Cinema Paradiso – A reference to the classic Italian film, symbolizing nostalgia, coming-of-age, and the magic of childhood memories.

*Consolacion – A once-quiet town in Cebu, now a bustling suburban area undergoing rapid urbanization.

*Halwan – A type of fish found in brackish waters, often caught in the kalamakan areas.

*Honkera – Cebu’s former red-light district, once known for its nightlife, bars, and brothels, now a remnant of Cebu’s urban past.

*Kalamakan – Coastal mangrove areas, often murky and teeming with marine life, where locals sometimes fish or gather shellfish.

*Kanipaan – Swampy or muddy areas near bodies of water, often associated with fishing or farming communities.

*Kargador – A laborer or porter, usually seen at markets or piers, carrying heavy loads for a living.

*Manghihilot – A traditional healer or folk chiropractor in the Philippines, specializing in massage therapy and treating ailments using natural methods.

*Ngohiong – A deep-fried spring roll made from ground pork, vegetables, and five-spice powder, a beloved street food in Cebu.

*Pandesal – A soft, slightly sweet Filipino bread roll, usually eaten for breakfast with coffee or hot chocolate.

*Puso – Rice wrapped and boiled in woven coconut leaves, often paired with barbecue or fried food in Cebuano cuisine.

*Sabongan – A cockfighting arena, where the traditional and often controversial sport of sabong (cockfighting) takes place.

*Tanduay – A popular Filipino rum brand, widely consumed across the country.

*Tartanilla – A horse-drawn carriage commonly used in old Cebu for transportation, now mostly seen in tourist areas.

*Tsinelas – Flip-flops or slippers, a staple in every Filipino household, worn casually or even formally in some settings.

*Trisikad – A three-wheeled pedicab, a common mode of transport for short distances in Cebu.

*Vetsin (Bitzen) – A Filipino term for monosodium glutamate (MSG), a flavor enhancer commonly used in cooking to add umami or depth to dishes.

CHAPTER 2 | A SILVER SEIKO

I was surrounded by comfort, family, and an abundance of love. Whatever low-grade bullying I experienced was just background noise, easily drowned out by the warmth of home and the company of friends. Life felt effortless, like a current I could float along without resistance. When you grow up with security, you believe—especially as a child—that it will always be this way. There is no urgency, no thought of what lies ahead, only the quiet certainty of now.

Mornings, though, were a different story. Getting to school was a chore. If I wanted to be in class by 8 AM, I had to be up by 5:30 AM—a cruel hour for any kid. Most days, that meant taking a jeepney to General Maxillom Avenue and walking to school the rest of the way, or hopping another jeepney in Honkera after walking through Gaisano Mall. If I was lucky, my father was around, and I’d get a ride on his motorcycle, or on his infamous beige 220SE 1960 Mercedes Benz. But luck, when it came to my father, was rare.

Public transportation meant 1.5 hours of waiting, sitting, sweating, and inhaling the thick air of the city. But life had its small luxuries.

Every morning, I’d wake up to find my uniform crisply pressed with a charcoal iron, hanging just outside my door. On the bathroom counter, my toothbrush already had a neat dab of toothpaste waiting for me.

Nana Tina, always one step ahead, would grin and say, “Sir, Andam na imong toothbrush. Andam na pud imong pamahaw.” ("Sir, your toothbrush is ready. So is your breakfast.")

Still groggy, I’d mumble through a yawn, barely lifting my head. “Salamat, Nana.” ("Thanks, Nana.")

Breakfast was always ready—a spread of corned beef, rice, eggs, and coffee. And on some mornings, just as I was finishing my meal, Auntie Concepcion would arrive from church, setting down a warm bag of pandesal on the table.

"Hala, hapit na ka ma-late, dong." she’d tease. ("Oh, you’re about to be late, kid.")

I’d smirk, grabbing a piece of bread.

She’d nod, pouring herself coffee. “Nag-ampo ko nga dili ka malate.” ("I prayed you wouldn’t be late.")

I’d roll my eyes, stuffing the last bite of pandesal into my mouth before grabbing my bag. She knew as well as I did—no amount of prayers could keep me from cutting it close.

School ran from 8 AM to 4 PM, and if you had extracurricular activities—like Boy Scouts or soccer—that meant another hour tacked on. That didn’t sit well with me. I had no interest in spending extra time in school. So, in my usual streak of inherited rebellion, I found a solution: sneaking out. Looking back, I still don’t know how I managed to avoid the trouble I probably deserved. My aunt Veronica—my official guardian—was only ever called to school once regarding my behavior.

By the time I was in Boys High, I had perfected the art of skipping class. After lunch, I was often nowhere to be found. Strangely, no one ever called me out for it. The only time I ever faced disciplinary action was for something as trivial as talking during mass. The principal, Father Rizal, summoned my Aunt Veronica for a meeting. Thinking I had won some kind of award, she brought Aunt Bebe along for what she assumed would be a proud moment.

Imagine their surprise when they found out I was there for disciplinary action. For talking too much. In church.

I got yelled at, of course, but that was the extent of my punishment. No grounding. No real consequences. In fact, Aunt Veronica even signed a lunch pass that allowed me to leave school grounds during lunch—a privilege I took full advantage of. Some days, I never came back.

One afternoon, I walked past a movie theater and saw a poster for Cocktail with Tom Cruise. That was enough. I cut class on the spot. I spent the afternoon in a dark, empty, air-conditioned theater, my school shirt flipped inside out to hide my school’s logo, my shoes off, feet propped up on the seat in front of me. I watched it twice. I left just as school was letting out, met up with my friends, and rode the jeepney home as if nothing had happened.

But one day, my delinquency caught up with me.

I had spent too much time playing video games at an internet café next to St. Theresa’s College, losing track of time. By the time I finally decided to head back to USC, the streets were empty. Most students had already returned to class. As I walked past the Iglesia ni Cristo, just 200 meters from my school, I noticed a tall, lanky man in a tank top and cheap glasses cross the street toward me.

I barely had time to react before he wrapped his left arm around my sweaty neck. In his right hand was a knife.

He whispered his demand, “Hoy, Reloj” My watch. A silver Seiko that Aunt Veronica had given me.

At that moment, I knew better than to argue with a man holding a blade inches from my neck. I unclasped the watch and handed it over without saying a word. He took it and walked away without a word. I never saw him—or that watch—again.

Strangely, I wasn’t scared. If anything, I was proud of the story. I bragged about it to my classmates.

That night, I met Aunt Veronica in her office at the City Health Department of Cebu. We walked down the street to White Gold, a mall, where she bought me my first video game console—the Family Computer. Then we had Chinese rotisserie chicken for dinner.

The earlier events of the day? Gone. Obliterated by a new gaming console and a full stomach. The universe had somehow found a way to tip the balance in my favor.

That night, I unboxed the console while my aunt returned to her clinic to tend to patients. I was glowing—until 30 minutes into my gaming session, when she came storming back inside.

Apparently, one of my classmates had told their parents about the mugging, and their parents had called Aunt Veronica to check on me.

She demanded to know why I hadn’t told her and screamed,

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME THAT YOU GOT MUGGED?”

I shrugged. "Because if I did, you wouldn’t have bought me the Family Computer."

She stared at me with frustration and disappointment, speechless. Then, without another word, she told me to turn off the console and go to bed.

Surprisingly, she never brought it up again and life went on for the young prince.

Later, I found out that the watch my aunt had given me was a gift from my grandfather. I felt terrible. But I got over it eventually.

Within weeks, I was back to hanging out with friends, playing basketball, skipping school, and watching school day afternoon movies at Belvic Cinemas.

My friends were older than me. My second cousin once removed Lalay, and his friends Cliff and his brother, both from Consolacion. Some mornings, we’d catch the jeepney together, but mostly we’d meet in the afternoons in front of their trade school. This was where I learned the art of kapyot, or hanging from a jeepney.

Back then, jeepneys were always packed to the brim. The only way to get on was to cling to the side, grip the back, or, if you were feeling particularly daring, perch on the roof. We held on for dear life, swaying with every turn. The police would occasionally stop overloaded jeepneys, but most of the time, they turned a blind eye—either out of practicality or a full belly.

Looking back, jeepney culture was an experience in itself. Each jeepney had its own character, a rolling masterpiece of stickers, neon lights, and religious imagery. The drivers were legends in their own right, and one universal truth remained: their girlfriend always got the front seat, the most comfortable spot in the entire vehicle—a status symbol that the girls absolutely loved.

Every jeepney had its own sound system, blasting anything from love ballads to bass-heavy disco, setting the mood for the ride.

These rides weren’t just transportation; they were a soundtrack to my growing-up years. It was in the back of a packed jeepney, sandwiched between students, vendors, and office workers, that I was first introduced to the music that would shape me. The crackling speakers played ABBA, Bee Gees, The Police, Queen, Black Sabbath, and a whole lot of other bands that would later become the foundation of my musical world.

There was something cinematic about it—the neon lights of Colon Street flashing through the window, the bassline of Under Pressure humming beneath the chatter of passengers, the wind whipping against my face as the city blurred past. Jeepney rides weren’t just a way to get from one place to another; they were where my love for music began.

Aside from the driver, there was usually a conductor—the acrobat of the operation. These guys weren’t just collecting fares; they were orchestrating the chaos, banging on the roof to signal stops and directing traffic with a flick of their wrist.

And then, the familiar call—sharp, clipped, and rhythmic—

“‘Lascion, ‘Lascion!”

Their shorthand for Consolacion, barked into the air like a beat to the city’s unending symphony.

They moved like gymnasts, contorting their legs around the back rails, hanging off the vehicle while expertly counting fares, each bill folded strategically between their fingers like a human cash register. Some took it a step further, climbing onto the roof mid-ride to clear space for more kapyot passengers. Others would jump off the still-moving jeepney, landing with effortless precision—half for efficiency, half just to show off their dexterity. It wasn’t just transportation; it was a performance, a daily display of skill, agility, and sheer street smarts.

I got strong hanging off those jeepneys. Sometimes we had to jump on while it was still rolling. If it was too crowded, we had only enough space for one foot and one hand. You had to hold on like a bonobo chimp dangling from a single branch, swaying with every pothole.

The first few times, my sweaty palms nearly betrayed me. As people got off, new gaps opened up, allowing me to grab on with both hands. That was always a relief.

What I liked least about jeepneys was the suffocating mix of gasoline, humidity, and thick smoke. It was especially unpleasant when you got stuck on the wooden bench in the middle of the aisle, wedged uncomfortably against a stranger, knees knocking into other passengers, trapped in a human sandwich of varying degrees of aroma and hygiene. The stale air, layered with the scent of sweat and exhaust, made every inhale a gamble.

In gridlock traffic, the stop-and-go motion of the jeepney could be nauseating, your head bobbing back and forth as you clung to the overhead rail, half-conscious, questioning your life choices. It felt purgatory-like—an endless limbo where all you could do was endure.

Hanging onto the side of the jeepney, despite the obvious danger, was a relief compared to this claustrophobic hell. At least outside, the wind was fresh, the space was open, and for a moment, you could breathe.

Chapter 2 | Glossary:

*Jeepney – The most iconic mode of public transportation in the Philippines, originally repurposed from U.S. military jeeps after World War II. Known for their colorful decorations, blaring music, and packed interiors, jeepneys remain a symbol of Filipino ingenuity and resilience.

*Kapyot – The act of hanging onto the outside of a moving jeepney due to overcrowding. A risky but common practice among daring commuters, requiring balance, grip strength, and a willingness to embrace the chaos of Philippine streets.

CHAPTER 3 | THE ANCESTRAL HOME

Like a calachuchi flower in full bloom, life came alive in the summer when school was out. Summers in Consolacion were the best— no academic obligations, no rigid schedules—just pure, unfiltered childhood. The only goal was to be a kid, live like a kid, eat like a kid, and maximize every ounce of freedom. No grueling commutes to school, no need to cut classes.

Adventure began the moment the first light of dawn stretched across the sky.

Mornings in our neighborhood always started the same way—basketball practice for the ALFA team, short for Alivio Family Association. It was more than just a team; it was a brotherhood, a tradition, a way of life.

There was no need for alarm clocks—not when my friends had their own tried-and-true wake-up method. Like clockwork, they'd gather outside my house, their voices ringing out in the crisp morning air.

“Yan, bangon na, practice na!” Wake up, its’s time to practice.

I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. There was no escaping it.

Hardly anyone called me Christian. In Consolacion, I was just "Yan Yan"—a nickname from the last syllable of my name, Tian, shortened to "Yan" and doubled, like many Filipino names. Whenever it echoed from the street, I knew it was time to get moving.

Their shouts bounced off the houses, carrying through the sleepy streets, probably rousing half the block in the process. Somewhere, a neighbor would grumble, a dog would start barking, and the world would stir awake—but that was just part of it. That was our soundtrack, the signal that another day was about to begin.

By the time I rushed outside, sneakers barely laced, the crew was already in motion, dribbling, stretching, hyping each other up. We weren’t just playing for fun—we were playing for pride, and for each other.

Our day usually kicked off with a 5 AM jog to the coastal town of Liloan, about 5 km north of Consolacion.

The road stretched ahead, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. My legs burned with each stride, but stopping was never an option—not with Coach Estong leading the way, his pace unwavering.

"Coach, lima ka kilometro? Sayu pa kaayo!" I huffed, trying to catch my breath. ("Coach, five kilometers? This early?")

He didn’t even glance back. "Kung gusto ka mahimong lig-on sa dula, kinahanglan lig-on ka sa training." ("If you want to be strong in the game, you need to be strong in training.")

I groaned, wiping the sweat from my forehead. "Puwede ra unta mag-shortcut? Usa ra ka tuyok sa barangay, okay na siguro?" ("Can’t we just take a shortcut? One lap around the neighborhood should be enough.")

`Coach let out a chuckle. "Shortcut? Wala’y shortcut sa kadaugan, Yan." ("Shortcut? There’s no shortcut to victory, Yan.")

Once we reached the town, we’d cool off by diving into the sea or leaping from a small wooden bridge into swirling whirlpools. Lilo, literally translates to “whirlpool” in Cebuano, named after the very currents we dared to jump into.

The heart of the town was its church, the San Fernando Rey Parish Church, a modest yet historic structure that stood as a landmark of faith and tradition. In front of it, a massive acacia tree extended its thick, sprawling branches over the road, casting a cool shade that provided relief from the tropical heat. Its roots pushed through the cracked pavement, a silent testament to the town’s deep-rooted past.

I used to welcome the sight of that gigantic tree because it meant one thing—the beach was just around the corner, and our run was finally over.

After the dip, we’d hop on a jeepney back to the Consolacion municipal basketball court, where we practiced and played from 6 AM to about 7 AM.

After practice, the perfect reward awaited us—steaming bowls of pospas (rice porridge). The first scent of morning wasn’t the fresh air—it was the smoky, greasy aroma of Nanay Ethel’s sizzling garlic rice wafting from the court side carinderia, the kind of meal that tasted even better when you earned it with sweat and sore muscles.

It was incredible how deeply we were all invested in that team. Despite the early start, everyone showed up for practice, ready to play. After breakfast, we would go our separate ways, only to find ourselves reunited just a few hours later, as if no time had passed at all.

By the time I got home, Aunt Veronica would be heading out for work at the City Health Department, while Aunt Concepcion began her sluggish commute to Tolotolo, a remote barrio in Consolacion where she worked as a school teacher. Nana Tina, my childhood yaya would be somewhere between cooking, cleaning up breakfast dishes, or preparing to tackle the day's chores. Uncle Bebe, Manoy Boy or Tatay Aldot would usually be outside, sweeping the driveway, watering the plants, or sawing a piece of lumber to fix some odd repair around the property.

The family’s ancestral home sat along the north side of the National Highway, the main artery running through the heart of Consolacion. The 373-square-meter lot faced west and was once much larger before a road-widening initiative claimed part of it. In addition to losing frontage, the family had to surrender a walking path along the northern border of the property—a right of way for the neighbors behind the home and a cut-through access point for the village heading toward the kanipaan.

The house itself was set back another 30 meters from the road, shielded from the relentless rumble of passing trucks by the family pharmacy, Boteca Alfa. The highway was alive with the sound of heavy vehicles, particularly coal trucks and stone haulers from the quarry, their tires grinding against the pavement at all hours of the day.

The home was tightly surrounded by neighboring residences and small businesses, including a mechanic shop and a carinderia next door, run by my much older second cousin, Papa Mayot, and his wife, Mama Emma. I spent countless hours there, whether freeloading on dinner, boxing with their kids, Kleeko and Lalay, or hitching a ride to the beach at the end of the day.

Mayot had a ritual—after a long day working on cars, he would drive to Liloan, where he washed away the grease in the ocean. We’d all pile into the back of his truck, ride to the shore, splash around until sunset, and return just in time for dinner. At one point, Mama Emma even had a chair made just for me, so I could sit comfortably at their table whenever I ate with them. Nothing beat the shae, paklay, balbacua, and other delicious leftovers from the day’s sales.

Mama Emma’s carinderia was a favorite among jeepney drivers and conductors. Around lunchtime, the jeepneys would line up along the road as their drivers squeezed into the few available tables, eager for a hot meal. Just a few steps away, Mayot would be elbow-deep in an engine block, banging away at a repair job or draining oil. It was a one-stop shop where mechanical work and culinary excellence coexisted—and no one seemed to mind. Business was always good.

That carinderia was also where my father used to send me—at just six or seven years old—to fetch him a bottle of beer. It wasn’t really frowned upon because that’s just how it was in the Philippines at the time. Mama Emma never questioned it; she just handed me the bottle, and I’d run back home with it like it was the most normal thing in the world. No cash needed, no hesitation—just another tally added to the growing utang list, another promise to be settled later.

After lunch, a few conductors—sometimes even the drivers—would wander over to our little pharmacy to buy two or three bottles of cough syrup. At first, I didn’t think much of it, assuming they were just prone to colds. But after a while, I started to wonder—how could they be sick all the time?

It wasn’t until later that I learned the truth: they were taking the cough syrup recreationally, chasing the euphoria, hallucinations, and dissociation that came with high doses of Dextromethorphan and Codeine. This was my first glimpse into the unregulated world of 1980’s Cebu. By the time my aunt realized what was happening, she began limiting access, and the pharmacy clerks casually started telling these customers we were “out of stock” to keep them away.

By the time I was in 4th grade, the old post-war house had completed its transformation from a large wooden ancestral home into a yellow concrete and stucco structure, blending Spanish Colonial influences with something uniquely its own. The original house had been a huge wooden structure, a blend of hardwood, nipa, bamboo, and corrugated steel, typical of post-war Philippine homes—built for resilience, but never truly permanent. Over time, the delicate balance of wood and thatch gave way to something more enduring.

It was a modest home, featuring verandas on both the first and second floors, arched windows lined with glass jalousies, and black wrought iron grilles for security. But no amount of ironwork could shield it from the relentless noise—the constant squeal of tricycles, trucks, the rumble of jeepneys, and the everyday symphony of the bustling streets outside.

The geometry was a little off—the arched patterns clashing slightly with the sharp angles of the structure. The house had a flat roof with an overhang in the front, and while the rigid stucco exterior stood firm, it was no match for the relentless mold that thrived in Cebu’s humidity. The south side of the house had no windows due to strict fire codes enforcing firewall construction. Years later, this design would be put to the test when a fire swept through the neighborhood. While cinders rained down, the firewall held, and the ancestral home remained standing.

The front of the house featured a thick, heavy sliding Narra door that led into the living room. To the right, a stairway led upstairs to four bedrooms and a bathroom, while a left turn from the entrance opened into the other side of the living room, which flowed into the dining room, a downstairs bedroom, and the first-floor bathroom. The furniture was a mix of old native wood and rattan, with sofas arranged around the perimeter. In the corner, an old wooden console TV doubled as a platform for an assortment of framed family photos, small decorative trinkets and religious figures.

It was on that very TV, through the whirring mechanics of a Betamax player, that my father, in his infinite wisdom, decided it was time for my formal introduction to manhood. One afternoon, he sat me down—flanked by Uncle Bebe and Tatay Aldot—for what he must have considered an educational experience. The lesson?

Sex education through the eyes of a Japanese porn director.

Bushy-haired actresses pranced across the screen, bouncing in exaggerated enthusiasm, the volume set at a respectable yet unmistakable level. A sharp “Oishi” or an unexpected squeal would punctuate the room, making my already wide eyes even wider. And no, it was not pixelated. I sat there, wide-eyed, barely comprehending what was happening, while the three of them nodded in approval as if they were imparting the secrets of the universe.

My father, ever the macho man, muttered something about how this was important, how I needed to learn. I was about eight years old at the time, barely old enough to understand, yet somehow expected to absorb this so-called wisdom like a rite of passage.

Then came the reckoning. My Aunt Concepcion, with her distinct bow-legged gait, stormed down the stairs, her voice cutting through the room like a whip.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

The men barely flinched. My father, cool as ever, simply waved a dismissive hand. “Calm down. He’s going to be a man someday. Might as well start today.”

If this was his version of a rite of passage, it was lost on me. All I remember was Aunt Concepcion furiously unplugging the TV while cursing them under her breath, and me, caught between horror and reluctant amusement. I would never look at Oishi, the famous Japanese prawn snack, the same way again—

As if nothing had happened, the house itself stood unfazed—its walls holding onto decades of memories, both sacred and absurd.

The hum of an electric fan buzzed from the corner, barely cutting through the heat that crept in from the open windows. Life carried on, the way it always did.

The dining room featured a circular table surrounded by quasi-Victorian chairs, their design a blend of modest elegance and practicality. At the center of the table sat a well-worn lazy Susan, endlessly spun during meals. On the adjacent wall, the ever-present wooden spoons and forks—staples of Filipino home decor—hung in their cliched but familiar glory.

The yellow walls were adorned with an unfortunate maroon-veined pattern, applied with a paint roller in what could only be described as an ambitious but misguided design choice. It was odd, unnecessary, and downright distracting. Thankfully, the many family photos hung on the walls softened the aesthetic faux pas.

A portrait of Aurelio and Jacoba was prominently displayed at the base of the stairs, next to a family picture that featured all six daughters along with the husbands of those who had already married at the time the photograph was taken.

Just off the dining room, a side entrance led to the dirty kitchen, a staple in most Filipino homes. This was where the real cooking happened—where wood and coal stoves simmered stews all day, and deep-fried delights crackled and splattered in woks. The scent of slow-cooked meals and burning firewood lingered in the air, marking the space as the heart of the home’s culinary magic.

In those days, the refrigerator was mostly empty, holding only a few bottles of juice or soda. Most meals were prepared with ingredients bought fresh from the local market just before cooking. Meat and poultry were as fresh as they came—the chicken was still warm from the boiling water used to pluck its feathers, and the butchered meat, deep red and marbled with streaks of white fat, glistened with moisture, carrying the unmistakable scent of raw vitality. Vegetables, stiff and fragrant, exuded freshness, their crispness a testament to their journey straight from the farm to the table.

Fish, still slick with seawater, their scales shimmering under the light, lay packed on crushed ice, their eyes clear and bright—a sure sign of their freshness. It was a world where food was unprocessed, unpreserved, and as natural as it could get. For a dirty kitchen, it was the cleanest and most organic experience in the truest sense.

Behind the house, where my grandfather’s makeshift grave lay—a solemn marker of his legacy, where his blood had been placed in a quiet tribute—an avocado tree stood tall, Its thick branches arching over the narrow footpath along the northern edge of the property. Over the years, it had grown strong, its lush green leaves casting a protective shade over the sacred ground beneath it. Season after season, it bore fruit, as if carrying forward a part of him, deeply rooted in the land he once called home.

Amid the ceaseless hum of provincial life, the property remained a thriving oasis, shaded by an abundance of fruit trees that provided a deep connection to the land. A towering water apple (tambis) stood proudly, its delicate, bell-shaped fruit ripening into crisp, juicy treats with the season. Nearby, a star apple (kaymito) stretched its fine branches toward the sky, casting shadows over the pig pen, its deep green leaves concealing the smooth, star-shaped fruit with its sweet, milky pulp.

A lone guava tree (bayabas) stood in the middle of the driveway, its sturdy branches daintily weighed down by small, perpetually aphid-ridden guavas that never quite reached their full potential. Behind the property, several banana trees stood tall, just beside a row of tangi, small A-frame shelters built to shade and protect individual fighting cocks—roosters my father would bring to the sabongan on weekends, each one a contender in the brutal dance of cockfighting.

In a quiet corner, an bilimbi tree (eba) stood with its thin, winding branches, bearing clusters of small, tart fruit—a childhood favorite for puckering sour bites and impromptu snacks straight from the tree. It also served another purpose—its slender branches were the perfect tool for bunal, the Cebuano word for whip, making it an infamous part of childhood discipline.

The land was alive with movement, the trees offering shade, food, and a sense of belonging. It wasn’t just a property—it was a living, breathing memory of simpler times, where every fruit had a season, and every tree held a story.

Chapter 3 | Glossary:

*Balbacua – A slow-cooked stew made from ox tail, beef skin, or knuckles, simmered for hours in a rich broth of peanuts, tomatoes, and spices, known for its gelatinous and flavorful texture.

*Barrio – Used to refer to a rural village or district within a municipality. Traditionally, barrios are small close-knit communities with their own local governance, culture, and way of life.

*Bayabas – The Filipino word for guava, a tropical fruit with a slightly grainy texture, a fragrant aroma, and a sweet-tart taste, commonly eaten fresh or made into juice and jams.

*Bunal – A Cebuano word meaning whip or lash, often referring to corporal punishment using thin branches or sticks.

*Calachuchi – Known as Frangipani or Plumeria, a fragrant flowering tree with waxy, delicate petals commonly found in tropical climates and often associated with cemeteries and religious offerings.

*Carinderia – A small, roadside eatery in the Philippines that serves affordable home-cooked meals. Typically family-run, these humble establishments offer staple Filipino dishes and are a go-to spot for quick, flavorful food.

*Kaymito – Known as star apple, a round fruit with smooth, purple or green skin and sweet, milky, star-shaped pulp inside.

*Liloan – A coastal town in Cebu, Philippines, named after the Cebuano word “lilo”, meaning whirlpool, due to the swirling currents found in its waters.

*Narra Tree – The national tree of the Philippines, known for its durable, reddish hardwood, often used in fine furniture and construction.

*Paklay – A traditional Cebuano dish made from beef, pork, or goat innards, stir-fried with ginger, chilies, and bamboo shoots, often enjoyed as a pulutan or hearty meal.

*Pospas – A Filipino-style rice porridge, similar to congee, made with chicken, ginger, and garlic. It is often served as a comforting breakfast or a hearty post-practice meal.

*Shae – A savory dish made from pork or beef intestines, slow-cooked in rich spices and commonly sold in carinderias as pulutan (bar food).

*Tambis – Also known as water apple or rose apple, a bell-shaped, crisp, and juicy tropical fruit that thrives in humid climates.

*Tangi – A small A-frame shelter used to shade and protect individual fighting roosters from the elements.

*Utang – A Filipino term for debt or credit, often used in everyday transactions where items or services are taken with the promise of payment later. In small-town communities, utang is built on trust, with informal credit systems allowing families to buy essentials from sari-sari stores or carinderias without immediate payment.

CHAPTER 4 | ESQUINA

For young children, adolescents, and adults alike, life in Consolacion revolved around the basketball court and the esquina—the corner where everything seemed to converge. This part of town, known as ‘Ubos’—the lower district—was more than just a place; it was a meeting ground, the steady pulse of everyday life. The court sat nestled at the base of a downward slope from the national highway, just across from San Narciso Parish Church, where the bells tolled through the thick provincial air, marking time in a way that felt eternal.

Within steps of this bustling intersection were the carinderias, the barbecue stands with smoke curling into the sky, the post office, the public high school, several sari-sari stores, and a couple of watering holes—each a small universe of its own. This was where life converged—where jeepney passengers stepped off only to transfer onto tricycles heading toward the highlands and remote barrios of Consolacion. If you wanted to witness life as it was, raw and unfiltered, this was the place to be.

The basketball court itself felt grand, built into the natural incline of the land like a sunken stage. A knoll extended from the sidewalk down to the rim of the court, where rows of concrete seating were carved into the slope in a crude, stepped pattern—a hybrid of a Roman coliseum and improvised stadium seating. Cracks in the concrete seats sprouted wild patches of grass, their stubborn growth a testament to time. But you wouldn’t notice the worn conditions on the nights of big games. Then, the seats would be packed elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, as the town gathered in collective excitement, filling every inch of space with cheers and the unmistakable energy of competition.

Adding to the atmosphere, a man with a megaphone would call the games like he was directing traffic in Colon—his voice booming over the crowd, announcing plays, fouls, and the occasional exaggerated commentary that sent waves of laughter through the audience. His words cut through the humid night air, a chaotic but essential part of the game, as familiar as the bouncing of the ball and the echo of sneakers squeaking against the concrete.

Standing guard over the northern corner of the court was a majestic Acacia tree, its sprawling branches casting a shadow over the highway and a small sari-sari store owned by my mother’s first cousin, Inday Dolores, an old maid who had seen generations pass through her humble shop. This was where we’d buy ice candy or ice water, whichever our coins could afford—both a welcome escape from the oppressive heat after an afternoon of basketball or kite flying. It’s hard to believe the sheer size of that Acacia tree now, knowing that I once saw old photographs of my grandfather planting it alongside other town officials at the end of World War II. Decades later, it loomed over Consolacion in sprawling dominance, an unshakable reminder of time’s quiet march forward.

Just a few meters south of Inday Dolores’ store stood a hand-operated water well, a puso, where life moved in slow, deliberate cycles. In the mornings, women gathered to wash their clothes, labanderas, their voices rising over the rhythmic splashes of water. Men filled containers, hauling them off to homes and shops, carrying the weight of necessity on their shoulders.

I particularly remember a man named Canor, who labored tirelessly, day in and day out, carrying water with the relentlessness of someone condemned by Zeus himself—an unbroken cycle of struggle, as if fulfilling some ancient, unspoken punishment.

Occasionally, someone would bathe—fully clothed, unbothered by the passing jeepneys whose passengers stole curious glances, as if witnessing something both ordinary and profound.

That well had always been there. I don’t remember a time before it. Its rusting tubó stood weathered but unyielding, a silent witness to decades of calloused hands and sunburned backs. A relic of another era—perhaps post-war construction—it bore the scars of time, its surface pitted with rust like the lines on an elder’s face. The metal always seemed on the brink of decay, yet it never failed.

Water gushed from it with force against the heat of the day, spilling down the hill into the basketball court, carving a damp path along the cement like veins running through the town’s beating heart. The handle, the bomba, worn smooth like driftwood from years of relentless use, groaned in protest each time it was pulled, yet it never gave in. It was as if the well itself refused to surrender.

On humid afternoons, the air around it smelled of wet earth and rust, mixing with the faint scent of soap from women scrubbing their clothes. The rhythmic creak of the handle was a familiar melody, accompanied by the chatter of people gathering, trading gossip between buckets and basins. At dusk, when the last bathers finished rinsing off the day’s labor, the well stood quiet again, waiting for tomorrow, waiting for another story to spill into its depths.

And just as the water from the well found its way to the court and the esquina, so too did the stories. The basketball court was more than just a place for games—it was the heart of the town’s culture. It transformed into a dance floor during town fiestas, a stage for beauty pageants, and even a shallow river where kids launched paper boats when the court flooded.

It was where we played marbles and tops under the scorching sun, when the heat was too unbearable for basketball. It was where friendships were tested, sometimes with words, sometimes with fists. I remember one fight in particular—my friend June, three years older than me, punched me so hard in the stomach that I urinated myself right then and there.

And yet, for all the games, fights, and rivalries, it was also where we gathered on the steps of the small barangay hall, talking about everything and nothing—especially who the prettiest girl in the neighborhood was.

Stories—countless stories—were exchanged and passed down in the shadows of the esquina, where life unfolded in ways that were sometimes heartbreaking, sometimes unsettling, but always captivating. We Filipinos always find a way to laugh, always find a way to see the silver lining, no matter how grim the tale.

Among the many characters that roamed the esquina, there was a group of kids who called themselves the “Akyat Saging Gang”—a gang in name only, their mischief consisting mostly of climbing banana trees and playing peeping tom. They had a knack for scaling walls and squeezing into the tightest gaps, their prying eyes turning stolen glimpses into late-night gossip. Then there were the older kids, the ones who ventured into the high school classrooms at night for “iring-iring”—a term whispered with knowing smirks, referring to the risky thrill of sneaking in for stolen moments of teenage experimentation. Some took it even further, letting the bayots have their way with them—not for desire, but for something far more practical: a free meal. A few sticks of barbecue, a plate of rice—cheap trade-offs in a town where hunger often dictated choices.

Lining the southern border of the basketball court, along the village road, were shaded resting spots where people gathered beneath the protective canopy of the Perez family’s ancestral home. Its roof cast dappled sunlight onto the worn wooden benches and makeshift concrete ledges below. This was where the town’s pulse slowed—a place where stanbys swapped stories, players cooled off after a heated game, and passersby paused to escape the midday heat. The shade offered more than just relief from the sun; it was a space where conversations lingered, laughter echoed, and life, even in its stillest moments, remained connected to the rhythm of the neighborhood.

The term stanby (from standby) comes from the local term tambay, borrowed and adapted from English, referring to someone who lingers, loiters, or simply waits without any particular urgency. But to the stanbys, waiting was an art—a way to be present, to observe, to absorb the world around them, one story at a time.

More than just onlookers, the older stanbys looked after the younger ones, watching over them in ways both subtle and unspoken. They knew which fights to break up, which kids needed a little toughening up, and which ones just needed a quiet nod of encouragement. We were all connected, whether through blood, friendship, or something even stronger—basketball.

The Ubos had a system, an unspoken hierarchy that revolved around the game. The adults had their team, Black Sabbath, a battle-hardened squad that played like they had nothing to prove. The late teens ran with The Mechanics, a group that lived and breathed basketball, hustling their way into games and earning their place through sheer grit. And then there were the young boys—our team, team ALFA. We weren’t just playing for fun; we were learning the game, learning life, and most importantly, earning the right to one day take our place in the lineup of the teams that came before us.

There were so many characters, and each one left an imprint. I was about eight or nine years old when I started hanging out regularly in that corner, absorbing every story, mimicking the way some elders talked, or practicing how they dribbled on the court. The older stanbys would guide us, sometimes with words, sometimes just with a knowing glance, their presence a mix of authority and camaraderie.

They offered wisdom in the strangest ways—sometimes about life, sometimes about basketball, and sometimes about things no kid should be hearing.

One of them once told me with complete seriousness, “Never, ever think of your crush when you're masturbating (to her)—it’s bad luck." I didn't question it at the time, but for years, it haunted me like a half-remembered superstition.

Though time has blurred many of their names, a few remain etched in my memory. Across the years and thousands of miles apart, I have always thought of them fondly. Some have passed, while others are still alive. No matter how their lives unfolded over the years, I hold onto the great memories we shared—back when we were kids and, perhaps, a little more innocent.

Chapter 4 | Glossary:

*Acacia Tree – A large, fast-growing tree known for its expansive canopy and resilience in tropical climates. In the Philippines, it is often planted along roadsides, town plazas, and schools, providing much-needed shade. Its thick, twisting branches and sprawling roots make it a prominent feature in many communities, symbolizing endurance and longevity.

*Bayot – A Cebuano term for an effeminate man or a gay person. While sometimes used pejoratively, it is also widely accepted within LGBTQ+ communities in the Philippines.

*Bomba – A hand-operated water pump commonly found in rural areas, used to draw water from deep wells.

*Esquina – A street corner or intersection where people gather, often becoming an informal hub for socializing and storytelling.

*Iring-iring – A Cebuano slang term referring to sneaky romantic rendezvous or secretive meetings, often involving young lovers or teenagers seeking stolen moments together.

*Labanderas – Derived from the Spanish word lavanderas, labanderas refers to women who wash clothes for a living. In the Philippines, labanderas are often hired by households to do the family’s laundry, scrubbing clothes by hand using large basins of water and detergent, then hanging them out to dry under the sun. Many labanderas develop strong arms and calloused hands from years of vigorous washing and wringing.

*Puso – Rice wrapped and boiled in woven coconut leaves, commonly served as street food and paired with grilled meats in Cebu.

*Sari-sari – A small neighborhood convenience store selling everyday household items, snacks, and basic necessities.

*Stanby – Derived from the word “standby”, referring to young men who hang out in a particular place for hours, often without any specific purpose but to observe, socialize, and pass the time.

*Tuba – A fermented coconut wine made from the sap of coconut trees, traditionally harvested and enjoyed in rural areas.

*Ubos – A term meaning “lower” or “below”, often used to refer to the lower district of a town or community where people gather for social activities.

CHAPTER 5 | THE LAWS OF PHYSICS

One of my best friends growing up was someone I met after diving deeper into the Catholic sphere as an altar boy—a sacristan. At the time, Father Tecson was the parish priest, and he was very close to our family, often visiting our home, just as we frequently visited his. He had a retreat house in the Villa Roca section of Consolacion, just a few houses down from my Aunt Lily’s place.

My friend Jury was called Jury-Kulot simply because he had curly hair. If you were dark-skinned, you might get saddled with Blackie for life. Then there was Noel, nicknamed Tulis because of his habit of swiping things that weren’t his. Sometimes, Filipinos were completely oblivious to how harsh these names were—or maybe they just didn’t care.

Some nicknames were just ridiculous. I once had a classmate with the last name Tayaktac, and my schoolmates, being the little shits that they were, would say his name backward—Cat Kayat—which, in English, translates to Cat Fucker.

I had to hide my laughter, but deep down, I couldn’t deny—it was funny as hell.

Nicknames aside, Derril was a true friend—and one hell of a basketball player. He could dribble, shoot, pass, and read the game like a pro. But for all his skill on the court, he was just as much a hopeless romantic. He had it bad for Era, my second cousin once removed, who happened to be Kleeko and Lalay’s sister.

I was about eight years old, and Derril was eleven. We’d sit for hours, and he would go on and on about how much he loved her. I kept egging him on to ask her out, to just tell her, to make her his girlfriend already—but he was too timid, too shy. You could see it in his eyes, the agony of it. But dreamers often stay dreamers.

Like a true friend, though, he had my back, too. He’d encourage me to go all in on the girl I was head over heels for by this time. We’d lie on our backs on the bamboo benches next to Boteca Alfa, staring up at the stars as if they were projecting our own romantic imaginations between Orion and the Big Dipper.

The longing, the daydreams, the naive hope of young boys caught up in the delirium of first love. Derril was my sidekick, my confidant, as I navigated the struggles of unrequited love for the prettiest girl in town.

What made life interesting was that each kid had their own distinct role, their own story to tell. While Derril was the hopeless romantic, brothers Noel and Nolan were the hustlers—the so-called ‘entrepreneurs’. Then there was Bernardo, a fashion designer in the making, always ahead of his time.

Together, they were just some of the kids who sharpened my street smarts, a collective of personalities that shaped my education at what I liked to call Esquina University.

The revolving cast of characters at the esquina kept life anything but dull. Take Zapal, for example. He started out as a jeepney conductor, then later became a seaman, and at one point, he was even taken hostage by African pirates when his ship was raided off the coast of Madagascar. Despite all that, Zapal was always the guy who brought good vibes growing up. Wherever he is now, I wish him well—he sure as hell has earned it.

There was Jerry Bohol. His dad was briefly my karate instructor when he held Saturday morning classes in one of the high school classrooms. Jerry lived just a few houses behind mine, and it was at his house where I first killed a turkey.

He taught me that the cleanest way to do it was with a needle—right to the back of the head. Quick, precise, almost surgical. At the time, I just followed instructions, but later I learned that what I was really doing was piercing the cerebellum, shutting down its ability to breathe and giving it a swift, painless death. I had seen someone slit a turkey’s throat before, the way you’d kill a chicken, but that method was a bloodbath. Turkeys don’t go quietly. They thrash, they fight, they run around spraying blood across the yard like a crime scene from a bad action movie. Either way, though, if cooked right, none of it really mattered.

Jerry wasn’t just a turkey executioner—he was also our warrior in slingshot battles, our sentinel. When we had all-out wars with the Oriental boys behind the body shop in the upper district of Consolacion, Jerry had our backs. While the rest of us fired off pebbles from homemade slingshots, Jerry wielded a real sling, chucking fist-sized boulders with terrifying accuracy. He didn’t just shoot to scare—he shot to win.

But life has a way of unraveling people, no matter how sharp their aim once was. Trouble caught up with Jerry in the end. He died of a drug overdose.

Those slingshot battles were both insane and reckless. Looking back, we could have seriously gotten hurt—or worse. I don’t even remember how they started, only that we kept showing up behind the auto body shop, caught in the middle of it all. Our battlefield was a kasagbutan, a wild tangle of vegetation at the foothills leading to Tolotolo.

There were two hills. We, the Ubos boys, held one, while the Oriental boys from the other side of town took the other. Words were exchanged, insults flung across the distance—and then, chaos. Rocks filled the air. Some of the braver kids charged downhill, slingshots drawn, while others stayed put, blindly launching stones toward the enemy. I took cover behind rocks or crawled through the brush, playing soldier in some war that only existed in our heads.

It was brutal. No goggles, no helmets, no protective gear - just raw chaos and unfiltered stupidity. We were actually trying to hurt each other, but somehow, nobody ever got more than a few bumps, bruises, and the occasional bleeding wound. The battle ended when the other side finally broke ranks and retreated. Sometimes, a kid would scream “Ayay!” as a rock found its mark, and every now and then, someone would burst into tears. It was horrifying and exhilarating, and even now, I can't believe we did it—and survived.

After the dust settled, I would march my wounded friends back to Aunt Veronica’s clinic like a proud field medic leading his injured troops to safety. I was Dr. Jonathan Letterman, the father of battlefield medicine, and this was my makeshift war hospital.

One by one, my friends sat in the clinic as I poured alcohol and Betadine onto their wounds, wielding cotton forceps like a true professional. I wrapped bandages around scraped arms and battered legs, securing them with the confidence of someone who had no actual medical training but all the enthusiasm in the world. Sometimes, I pressed too hard, earning a grunt and a wince, but I was too caught up in the role to care. This was the first time a career in medicine actually seemed possible to me.

Bringing my friends back to the clinic was always the best part—not because I got to play doctor, but because I got to burn through Aunt Veronica’s medical supplies with zero consequences. At night, I’d hear her complaining to the yayas, wondering why she was running out of alcohol and cotton so fast. And the best part? My yayas never ratted me out. They’d just shrug and say, “Wala mi kamatngun, Ma’am.” (We didn’t notice, Ma’am.)

Thanks to my friend June’s father, Noy Imbit, I had some of the finest tiradors in my day—crafted from the malleable yet indestructible guava wood. The process was simple: I’d scout for the perfect panga, a guava branch with a natural Y-shaped bifurcation, cut it, and bring it to Noy Imbit along with a leather saddle and a strip of rubber tubing, which I’d buy from the market.

June’s family lived just a few doors down, tucked beneath the shade of a sprawling guma tree. Most afternoons, you’d find Noy Imbit sitting peacefully under that tree, as if time itself slowed down around him. I’d walk up to him, tirador materials in hand, and ask him to make me one. He never refused. By the next day, without fail, he’d hand me back a perfectly carved slingshot, smooth in my grip and ready for battle.

Years later, June would also migrate to New Jersey, and we would often reminisce about the old town and the unforgettable characters of our youth.

There was Sherwin, known to everyone as Wing-Wing. He had been stricken with polio, one of the last few cases I personally knew of. His parents, Tatay Aldot and Nanay Ethel, were a constant presence in our lives. Tatay Aldot had been my grandfather’s trusted assistant manghihilot, a healer in his own right, and even long after my grandfather passed, he remained a fixture in our home. He wasn’t just a helper—he was family. And by extension, his wife, Nanay Ethel, and their children—Wing-Wing and Leo, the Flores boys—became family too.

They had a third son, Allan, but at the time, he was still a toddler, too young to join in the adventures that defined our childhood.

Tatay Aldot cooked for us, especially after our basketball games, helped around the house whenever he could, and sometimes looked after me when I roamed the kanipaan behind their home.

Wing Wing, despite his disability, never let it define him. He walked with a brace, always trying his best to keep up with the rest of us—whether it was basketball, Tsiatong, or whatever game we got ourselves into. His legs may have been weak, but his spirit never was. He never backed down from a fight, always standing his ground. But where he truly excelled was in strategy—he was the thinker, the planner, always one step ahead of the rest of us.

Between him and his brother Leo, I spent countless hours at their house, exploring the world the way kids did—building makeshift rafts to float in the kanipaan, crafting and flying kites, playing kasing, and, of course, indulging in the occasional childhood mischief, like perusing old dirty magazines of questionable origin.

Years later, I was unsettled to learn that Wing-Wing, along with another childhood friend, Abdon, had been captured and imprisoned. Apparently, Wing-Wing had become a local drug lord, and his downfall came when a two police officers working undercover in his gang was discovered and executed under his command. In retaliation, authorities launched a massive crackdown, rounding up his entire group—wives included. After months on the run, Wing-Wing was finally caught.

What shocked me even more was when, a few years into his sentence, he messaged me out of nowhere—reaching out through Facebook Messenger from inside jail. He admitted everything, detailing his life exactly as I had heard. But what struck me most was his desperation —“no one visits us anymore”, he said.

He told me that he would likely rot in prison for the rest of his life, abandoned by the world he once belonged to.

It was another tragic ending to a childhood dream, an end to the boy I once knew. For all his struggles, defiance, and resilience, everything had led to this. Eventually, Wing-Wing was released from prison, but freedom was fleeting. He passed away from multi-organ failure not long after.

Of all my memories with the Flores boys, one stands out the most. We were playing marbles one afternoon when a neighbor’s grand daughter walked by, smiled, and waved at us. That simple moment, for some reason, stayed with me. Maybe it was the innocence of it, the fleeting charm of childhood, or just the way everything felt simpler back then.

She was slender, with fair skin and shoulder length charcoal-black hair, wearing a crisp white Penshoppe t-shirt and a flowing red skirt that brushed her ankles as she walked.

She moved with an unintentional grace, unaware of the quiet spell she cast.

Her bony frame said everything—she was eleven years old, and my seven-year-old self couldn’t pull my eyes away.

Love at first sight—at least for me.

She had a quiet kind of beauty, the kind that didn’t demand attention but effortlessly commanded it. At eleven years old, she was already growing into her features, carrying herself with the natural grace of someone who had no idea just how stunning she was.

For a moment, time itself seemed to pause. The birds in the kanipaan hushed their chatter, as if struck by the same awe that held me still. The bamboo trees, usually swaying in rhythm with the wind, stood eerily still, their leaves barely rustling. Even Manding Gorot’s dogs, who never failed to bark at passing strangers, seemed to forget their duty. And from a distance, the tolling of the church bell—a familiar marker of the day’s passing—faded into silence, as if the entire town had taken a breath to witness her passing by.

Her eyes were what truly set her apart—deep brown, like the rich color of freshly brewed coffee. They had a way of holding you in place, as if she saw right through you, even when she wasn’t trying.

When she laughed, which she often did, her eyes would crease slightly at the corners, making it impossible not to smile along with her.

Her lips were naturally pink, curved into a smile that was neither shy nor bold—just effortlessly warm and inviting. There was a softness to her face, yet something confident about her expression, like she belonged anywhere she walked. She never wore makeup—then or now—yet somehow, she never needed it.

She was no stranger to attention. Everyone in town talked about how pretty the girl from Tacloban was. The word was that she spent the school year in Leyte and her summers in Consolacion, visiting her Lola Bascion and Papa Noling. She had a brother, Stephen, sisters, Daphny, and at the time, her youngest sibling, Norsan, was still just a tiny pea.

The first time I actually spoke to her, I remember thinking that she had probably spent the previous night singing along to Menudo, because her voice was hoarse, as if she had belted out “Hold Me” until she lost her breath.

Every time I saw her, all I could manage was a weak hello, only to immediately drown in her eyes and her smile. I was drawn to her like opposing sides of a magnet—inevitable, undeniable. It was the law of physics, and neither my heart nor my wide-eyed wonder was strong enough to defy it.

The girl who spent her summers next door to the Flores boys became the center of everything beautiful about my childhood—and, after many years apart, she would become the most beautiful part of my life. She was the reason I was always in church during Flores de Mayo, the reason I wore my best shirts in the summer when I hung out at her cousin Alan’s house. She was why I’d race to Tatay Aldot’s house the moment Nanay Ethel whispered she was back in town, and why I spent countless afternoons on Village Road, hanging out like a seasoned stanby, just to catch a glimpse of her walking to her cousin Hazel’s house after her afternoon nap.

She had many suitors—twins, jocks, asshole 1, asshole 2—you name it. They would line up at her Lola’s house, armed with flowers, gifts, and grand gestures, all vying for just a moment of her time. My friends and I sat on Village Road, watching the parade of hopefuls. Inside, my blood boiled with envy, and with every new suitor, my little heart cracked a little more.

But I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. When my mother sent a Balikbayan box from the U.S., I made sure she included chocolates and a can or two of Orange Crush—not just any drink, but Crush, because I wanted to be sly and give it to my ultimate crush.

One summer afternoon, I finally gathered enough courage to walk to her house and knock on the door. Her mother, Susan, greeted me with a warm smile. She wore a light floral duster, the kind that swayed gently as she moved, with several gold necklaces resting just above her collarbone and gold chains adorning her wrists. She was fond of jewelry, always wearing something that shimmered under the sunlight. Her short black hair framed her face, neatly styled, a simple yet elegant contrast to her everyday wear.

“Hello, Yan. Kumusta na ka, dong?” (Hello, Christian. How are you?)

Nervously, clutching the Orange Crush and a bag of chocolates, I stammered, “Nah, is Lala nang?” (Is Lala here?)

Her mother, already knowing exactly why I was there—just like the rest of her suitors—smiled knowingly. She opened the door wider, told me to wait, and then did something unexpected. She grabbed a chair from inside the house, brought it to the front landing, and eagerly set it down for me—a clear invitation for me to sit and wait.

This was it. We would fall in love Alfresco style—like a scene from a grand romance, under the open sky, serenaded by the resounding beating of my own chest, louder than the afternoon jeepneys rattling down the street.

As she turned to go inside, I stepped back to give her space—but in doing so, I tripped on a loose brick. And that was it. The beginning of my downfall—literally.

Lala emerged from the door just in time to witness the full disaster unfold.

My arms flailed wildly, trying to save myself from eternal embarrassment. In my panic, I dropped the chocolates and the soda can. The can exploded on impact, spraying Orange Crush all over the yard, splattering the bushes, the walls—and, worst of all, my swanky new “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Crabby” shirt that my mother had proudly bought for me on a recent trip to the Inner Harbor.

Time stood still. Everything was in slow motion. I plunged into the depths of humiliation, drenched in sticky orange soda and silent regret

Lala, being the kind soul she was, asked if I was okay.

I wiped myself off, muttered something incoherent, and walked off in shame. I had missed my chance to make an impression. It was an absolute disaster. Something straight out of a movie—except this was real life, and it happened to me. I had blown it.

It would take another 25 years before I’d get the chance to redeem myself…

Chapter 5 | Glossary:

*Balikbayan Box – A large cardboard box filled with goods, gifts, and essentials, sent by overseas Filipino workers (OFWs) to their families in the Philippines. These boxes often contain clothes, chocolates, canned goods, and other imported items.

*Duster – A loose, lightweight housedress commonly worn by Filipino women, especially in hot climates. Often made of cotton, it is comfortable, breathable, and a staple for home wear.

*Flores de Mayo – A traditional Catholic festival in the Philippines held every May in honor of the Virgin Mary. It is marked by daily floral offerings, prayers, and processions, culminating in the Santacruzan, a grand parade featuring young women dressed as biblical and historical figures. The festival is deeply rooted in Filipino culture, bringing communities together in celebration, faith, and pageantry.

*Kaningaan – Swampy or muddy areas near bodies of water, often associated with fishing or farming communities.

*Kasing – A spinning top game played by Filipino children, where players try to knock each other’s tops out of a marked circle using skill and precision.

*Kulot – A Filipino nickname given to someone with naturally curly hair.

*Menudo – A Puerto Rican boy band, famous in the 1980s and early 1990s, known for launching the career of Ricky Martin. Their songs were incredibly popular among Filipino youth, with hits like "Hold Me", "If You're Not Here", and "Claridad".

*Okoy – A Filipino shrimp fritter, deep-fried to crispy perfection, usually eaten as a snack or side dish. It is also sometimes used as a playful nickname.

*Panga – In the context of making a slingshot (tirador), panga refers to the Y-shaped branch of a guava tree, prized for its durability and flexibility. Guava wood is known for being strong yet slightly malleable, making it the ideal material for crafting a sturdy and reliable slingshot frame.

*Penshoppe – A popular Filipino clothing brand, known for its casual wear and trendy fashion, widely worn by teenagers and young adults.

*Tsiatong – A Filipino street game where players use a short stick to strike a smaller, tapered wooden piece (the “tsiato”), flipping it into the air before hitting it as far as possible.

CHAPTER 6 | THE TURNING POINT

By the time I was eleven, life had settled into a steady rhythm—school, barkadas, laag, and just enough mischief to keep things interesting. There was no set curfew, no strict rules, as long as I was with a yaya or an ‘adult.’ Some nights, I came home past midnight, sneaking in with my youngest yaya, Helena, or with Manoy Boy. If the front door was locked, Manoy Boy would scale the second-floor veranda and slip inside to open it from within. Other nights, we’d creep around the back and knock softly on Uncle Bebe’s window, waiting for him to let us in. It was routine. It was freedom. It was home.

We had our reasons—sometimes, it was a baile in Danlag or Cansaga. Other nights, I was coming back from an away basketball game in Nangka or Casili, still buzzing from the adrenaline. Some of those games were more than just competition. Winning in Nangka meant dodging rocks on the way home—“Gi bato mi.” They didn’t just hate losing. They took it personally.

Life in Consolacion was everything I needed. School at San Carlos? That was just an obligation. My friendships there were surface-level, my presence barely acknowledged. I showed up, sat through classes, took my tests, and left. School felt like work—a solitary routine I endured because I had to. But I didn’t mind, because outside of it, Consolacion was waiting. There, I belonged. There, I felt like a king. In San Carlos, I was invisible. Maybe academics just got in the way, or maybe those kids never really saw me.

I used to hate leaving Consolacion in the summer because my heart was always there. But every now and then, I’d be dragged to Bato, Toledo—my father’s hometown—for the fiesta, spending a couple of weeks there.

Toledo City sat on the other side of the island, about 80 kilometers away, which meant crossing the mountains inland through a maze of jeepney transfers, cramped bus rides, and winding roads. It wasn’t just a trip—it was an endurance test. What should have been a few hours felt like an entire day, swallowed by the slow crawl of provincial travel.

By then, I was a seasoned commuter, making the long journey on my own. I didn’t love the grueling ride, but part of me enjoyed the adventure—the solitude of traveling across Cebu. I’d hop from jeepney to jeepney, making my way to Pardo, where I’d board a bus that would take me through Manipis Road—a treacherous stretch of zigzagging cliffs, crumbling pavement, and no guardrails to save you if the driver miscalculated a turn.

The Atlas Mining Company was always a welcome sight. It meant I was close.

By the time I arrived in Toledo, I was either drenched in sweat, dizzy from the ride, or completely drained. But I wasn’t done yet. One last leg—a tricycle ride—before I finally reached Bato.

I usually stayed at my Aunt Welthea’s house—my father’s younger sister—along with her two boys, Ryan and Ralph, my usual playmates. Across the street, my Lola Pacing ran a small sari-sari store, its wooden shelves stacked with everything from canned goods to colorful packets of junk food. Next door, in a modest house, was where my father stayed whenever he was in town.

One afternoon, as I arrived, the door opened, and I was greeted by a young blonde woman holding an infant. She had her hair in a loose bun, strands escaping around her face, a mix of exhaustion and excitement in her expression as she gently rocked the baby in her arms. She tilted her head and smiled.

“Do you want to see the baby?” she asked, her voice light but familiar.

I just nodded, standing frozen in the doorway. My eyes flicked from the baby to her, then back again, as if my brain couldn’t decide which one to focus on. The tug-of-war between recognition and disbelief kept me silent.

And then it hit me.

I had heard this voice before—the same one that used to call our house in Consolacion, always asking for my father. She would compliment my English, her tone warm and friendly, then try to make small talk, asking what I liked to do, what I was interested in. At the time, it felt casual, almost routine.

I had heard this voice before—the same one that used to call our house in Consolacion, always asking for my father.

"Hello, is your dad home?"

A familiar greeting, spoken in a soft, almost melodic tone.

"He's not here," I would say, already knowing how the next part of the conversation would go.

"Oh, that’s okay! You have such good English," she would say, her voice brightening. "Do you practice a lot? What do you like to do for fun?"

At first, I kept my answers short. I didn’t know who she was, just that she was a voice—a pleasant, curious voice that lingered a little too long on the other end of the line.

"I play basketball," I’d say flatly, eager to end the call.

"Oh! You must be really good, huh?" she’d tease. "Maybe one day you’ll be in the NBA!"

I rolled my eyes at that. She didn’t even know me. But over time, the small talk became routine. She always asked the same questions, always sounded so genuinely interested.

"Do you like music? What kind of songs do you listen to?"

"The Beatles."

"The Beatles! Oh, I love them. Which song?"

I hesitated. Did I even have a favorite? I didn’t know why I was even answering her.

"Hey Jude," I finally said.

"Oh, that’s a good one," she said with a little laugh.

I never asked for the next call, but somehow, they always came. At the time, it felt casual, almost routine. I never thought much of it—just another woman on the phone, another fleeting conversation.

I had no idea I was talking to her.

The woman I would eventually meet in Bato. The woman holding my father’s child.

Marlena—a 21-year-old exchange student from Hawaii who had somehow found herself entwined in my father’s ever-winding path. She was half his age, a world away from where she started, yet here she was, standing in front of me, holding the proof of their life together.

No wonder I had started seeing less and less of him. His visits to Consolacion had shrunk to just a few days a month, his presence fading like an old song I had once known by heart.

Even now, I still can’t wrap my head around how my father navigated the whole situation.

He was still married to my mother—divorce wasn’t even legal in the Philippines, and their marriage had never been annulled. And yet, somehow, he stood before a court and declared, without hesitation, that he had never been married at all. That I was his illegitimate son.

As if erasing the truth could make it disappear.

He did it so he could live the life he wanted, the life he thought was best for him.

I wonder what ran through his mind before he made that decision. Did he wrestle with guilt? Did he weigh the morality of it, even for a second? Or was it as simple as a shrug, a fleeting thought—Let’s just see how this goes. Bahala na. Whatever happens, happens.

Eventually, my father and Marlena would have four children together, though one— the baby I had met—would tragically pass away from dengue. When she fell ill, my father took her to the hospital where my cousin Rey was working as a doctor. Trying to keep up appearances, he introduced the child as his niece. But the moment the doctors approached her, she reached for him and called out—“Daddy.”

While my father was building a new life in Bato, my connection to the town always felt temporary—like a place I visited but never truly belonged to. Bato, Toledo, had a different energy from Consolacion. It was a sleepy beachside town, more rural and slow-paced. Dirt roads were lined with copras left out to dry in the sun. The people were warm and welcoming, and family always looked after me, but I never spent enough time there to form real connections—except with my cousin Arlene. She was like a big sister to me, one of the few people I could talk to for hours without feeling the weight of time.

Years later, when we reunited as adults in Montreal, she was excited about having recently closed on her flat in Chelsea, London—a milestone she had worked so hard for. Not long after, she was diagnosed with cancer. We talked regularly on the phone after our reunion, sometimes for over four hours, making plans for me to visit her. It felt like we had all the time in the world.

And then, the phone calls stopped.

That’s when I learned she was terminally ill. I never got to say goodbye.

Her absence left a quiet ache, a reminder of how fleeting connections could be—how easily people, even those we once felt closest to, could slip away. It made me think about the nature of belonging, about the difference between the places I passed through—Toledo—and the one that truly claimed me—Consolacion.

In Toledo, I typically stayed for about two weeks, always planning my visit around May to catch the barrio fiesta and a baile or two before enduring the long, exhausting journey back to Consolacion.

Strangely, despite all my trips to Toledo, I can only recall my father taking me a couple of times. Every other time, it was someone else—until I was old enough to travel on my own. He would just meet me at the bus drop-off, as if that was his role—never the journey, just the destination.

One ride home stands out vividly in my memory. I had taken the 5 AM bus, packed with passengers and Atlas Mining workers. The erratic sway of the bus, the smell of gasoline, and the damp morning heat all conspired against me. The winding roads of Manipis did the rest. My stomach churned, and before I could stop it, the inevitable happened.

I stuck my head out the window and let it all go—everything I had eaten that morning, mostly pandesal and sikwate, now making its way through the air. The morning wind worked its aerodynamic magic, and unfortunately for the workers hanging onto the bus, my stomach’s contents found their way to them.

A chorus of disgusted yells followed.

"Pisti ka!" one man shouted, his voice laced with rage. Son of a bitch!

"Hala uy! Kinsa man ni'ng bata-a?" another groaned, furiously wiping his face with his forearm. What the hell! Who's kid is this?

One of them, barely clinging to the railing with one hand, wiped his face with the other, his expression shifting from confusion to sheer horror. He glanced at his now-smeared palm, then at his backpack, streaked with my breakfast.

"Puta, naunsa man ni?" he spat, shaking his head. Shit, what is this?

I shrank into my seat, heart pounding. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, I would disappear. Maybe they wouldn’t know it was me.

But then—

"Hoy, bata!" one of them called out, scanning the windows. Hey, kid! "Ikaw ni, no?" This was you, wasn’t it?

I felt every muscle in my body lock up.

"Dili, uy," I mumbled weakly, pretending to look out the opposite window. No, it wasn’t me.

The bus driver chuckled from the front. The other passengers stifled their laughter, but the men weren’t amused.

I wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

By the time I finally made it back to Consolacion, the memory of my disastrous bus ride had already started to fade, swallowed up by the familiar rhythm of home. There, I could breathe again—no angry workers, no stomach-churning bus rides, just the steady pull of routine and the comfort of familiar faces.

One of my favorite times was when my friends and I pooled our money to buy spices, Red Horse, and fresh fish to make kinilaw while we swam in the murky waters of Villa Roca. We would take turns as our friend and resident barber, Imong, gave us all haircuts, right there by the water. We were young, reckless, and free, with the whole world ahead of us.

It was a different kind of communion—the feel of murky, muddy water against our skin, the sting of vinegar on fresh fish, and the laughter of friends who swore we’d never grow up.

And yet, just hours later, I could be found standing solemnly in church, dressed in an altar boy’s robe, pretending to be holier than I was. My hands still smelled of vinegar and freshly caught fish as I clasped them together in prayer, a silent reminder of the world I had just left behind.

It wasn’t just about serving at Mass—it was also a way to earn some pocket money. Father Tecson, always generous in his own way, would hand us a few bills after church service, usually from the comfort of his chair at the mahjong table.

He was always kind to me, even when I overslept in one of the convent rooms and missed a service or two. I often used my altar boy duties as an excuse to stay there overnight, a convenient way to avoid going home—especially during Semana Santa. Holy Week always meant a crowded house. Our family was the guardian of Santa Veronica for the annual procession of saints.

Santa Veronica, draped in flowing purple, carried the handkerchief imprinted with the bloodied face of Christ. The preparations for the carroza took over the house. Flowers were arranged meticulously, anchored onto sliced banana trunks, their fibrous cores pierced with sticks to hold each bloom in place—calachuchi, rosas, everlasting flowers, their scents mixing with the humid air. The women worked tirelessly, securing each detail, ensuring that Santa Veronica was worthy of the grand procession.

For me, it was the perfect excuse to slip away, trading the chaos at home for the quiet halls of the convent—at least until morning Mass came calling.

Life revolved around the Catholic Church in those days. You sinned, you confessed. You wanted something badly, you prayed until your tears turned to blood. Faith was woven into everything—novenas, rosarios, processions. But for me, it was more of a family tradition than a personal conviction.

Despite growing up immersed in Catholic traditions, I never quite developed a deep faith. What I did learn, however, was that some of the women from the Catholic Women's League (CCW) were vicious champions of chismis, their tongues sharper than any sermon. Their words could cut deeper than sin, and their mouths were filthier than an arenola. Some of the town’s most devout figures were also its most devoted gamblers, and a few of the loudest voices in prayer were the same ones staggering out of a carinderia, reeking of tuba. I may not remember their names, but their faces—those, I will never forget.

I knew how much it meant to my family, so I played the part. But by Monday, I could barely recall a word of the priest’s homily. Even as an altar boy, I missed my cues—staring off into space when I should have been ringing the bell, snapping back to reality only when the priest shot me a glare.

Still, no amount of missed prayers or absentminded altar boy duties could have prepared me for the biggest change of all.

I was about 12 years old when the reality of moving to the United States finally started to sink in. Word traveled fast in town—friends would come up to me with playful jabs and half-serious requests: "You’ll be an Americano soon!" "Don’t forget me!" "All I want is a Nike!”

Apparently, news had spread that my mother was coming to pick me up within the year. No one had to tell me that my father wouldn’t be coming with us. After what I had seen in Toledo—and his many other exploits—it was an unspoken understanding—he had chosen a different path. Strangely, my father and I never talked about it. There was no big conversation, no heart to heart, no farewell speech—just a quiet, mutual acceptance of what was happening.

All I knew was that we had to start gathering documents, securing school transcripts, and preparing for the inevitable. My life in Consolacion, the only world I had ever known, was about to change forever.

I was leaving behind my friends—the ones I had played, fought, and grown up with. I was leaving my family, the people who had raised me, scolded me, and shaped me into whoever I was becoming. I was walking away from the comfort of familiar streets and familiar faces.

I was leaving behind my first crush, my foolish, secret hopes for love —the unspoken what-ifs of childhood romance. I was leaving behind the reckless adventures, the battles fought with slingshots and bare fists, the joys of spending endless hours talking with friends, where time didn’t matter and freedom felt infinite.

And yet, the greatest thing I was leaving behind was me—or at least, the version of me that only existed in Consolacion.

Chapter 6 | Glossary:

*Arenola – A chamber pot, commonly used in Filipino households, especially in the past, as a bedside toilet for convenience at night. Often made of porcelain or plastic.

*Baile – A town dance or fiesta gathering, usually held in an open area where locals come together to celebrate with music, dancing, and socializing.

*Barkada – A close-knit group of friends, often considered an extended family, bound by shared experiences and loyalty.

*Bato – A coastal barangay in Toledo, Cebu, known for its rural charm, beachside scenery, and laid-back provincial life.

*Cansaga – A barangay in Consolacion, Cebu, known for its bridge, which serves as a gateway between Consolacion and Liloan.

*Carroza – A grand, often ornate, float or carriage used in religious processions, particularly during

*Chismis – Gossip or rumors, often spread within tight-knit communities. Filipinos are notorious for their love of chismis, which can range from harmless storytelling to serious character assassination.

*Danlag – A small community or sitio in Consolacion, Cebu, where social events like bailes and local gatherings take place.

*Kinilaw – A traditional Filipino dish similar to ceviche, made with raw fish marinated in vinegar, calamansi, ginger, onions, and chili.

*Laag – A Cebuano term meaning to roam, wander, or hang out with friends, often implying casual adventures or spontaneous trips.

*Manipis – A scenic, winding mountain road connecting Cebu City to the western part of the island, known for its steep cliffs, lush greenery, and breathtaking views.

*Nangka – A barangay in Consolacion, Cebu, known for its community basketball courts and lively neighborhood rivalries.

*Pardo – A district in Cebu City that serves as a transit hub for travelers heading south, where passengers transfer between jeepneys, buses, and other modes of transport.

*Pulutan – Filipino finger food or appetizers traditionally served alongside alcoholic drinks, often consisting of grilled meat, seafood, or fried delicacies.

*Semana Santa – Holy Week, the annual Christian observance of the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. In the Philippines, Semana Santa is marked by religious processions, street performances of the Passion of Christ, and solemn traditions, including fasting and visiting multiple churches (Visita Iglesia).

*Sikwate – A thick, rich Filipino hot chocolate made from tablea (cacao tablets), commonly enjoyed for breakfast or merienda, often paired with pandesal or suman.

*Toledo – A city on the western coast of Cebu, known for its port, Atlas mining operations, and coastal barangays, including Bato.

CHAPTER 7 | A FLOATING HOUSE

MANILA: Years later, I would write an entire album under the moniker The West Fjords, at a time in my life when I felt adrift, unseen, lost. The album was a collection of songs about disconnection, about being caught between two worlds. One of those songs was about my mother.

I called it A Floating House, based on a childhood daydream—our home lifting off the ground, flying across the ocean from Cebu to New Jersey, so I could finally meet her.

Walking up empty stairs, sitting on empty chairs
Looking down empty roads, feeling your heart explode
Shuttle me up somewhere, I know that you’ll be there
Making it up somehow, when even you don’t know how
Find me some launching air, shuttle me up somewhere
Shuttle me up somehow, I know that you’ll be there
— A Floating House

The song was an homage to my mother, Ana, whom I hadn’t truly known until I was thirteen. For years, she had existed only in fragments—written words, and crackling voices over long-distance calls.

Growing up, she sent me letters, birthday cards, and balikbayan boxes filled with clothes, canned goods, toys and shoes. Sometimes, it wasn’t a box at all—just a small package or a gift tucked into a friend’s luggage, passed along when someone visited the Philippines.

Occasionally, we spoke on the phone, but long-distance calls were expensive. Unlike today, there was no Facebook Messenger, no WhatsApp—just silence stretched across miles, no FaceTime. Distance wasn’t just a feeling; it was an unspoken reality.

And then, suddenly, she wasn’t a voice on the line or a signature at the bottom of a letter—she was real, standing right in front of me. When I finally hugged her for the first time in memory, I just stood there, stiff, unsure of how to react.

It was about a month after Christmas in 1989, when my mother finally returned in the Philippines. This time, she came with a mission—to finally bring me to the United States.

By then, I hadn’t seen my father in nearly six months. The last time was right after he flipped his classic Benz into a ditch overnight, just down the hill from the old Cebu Leper Colony on the Consolacion-Mandaue City border. Word was, he had a "Japanese tourist" from his colorum operation in the passenger seat when it happened.

I still remember that morning. I was hanging onto the back of a jeepney when I saw the car—his unmistakable beige Benz—lying deep in a ditch, wedged into the earth like it belonged there. But I wasn’t alarmed. Minutes before, I had seen him at the house, all smiles, as if nothing had happened. No panic, no concern—just my father, moving through life as if he were untouchable.

It would be almost 30 years before I would see him again.

But there was no time to dwell on that. My life was shifting, fast and without warning, pulling me toward an entirely different future.

Suddenly, everything was moving at double speed. One moment, I was a kid running through the streets of Consolacion, and the next, I was boarding a flight to Manila with Aunt Veronica. My first time on a plane. My first time leaving Cebu. So many firsts, all happening at once. The world blurred around me, as if time itself had decided to speed up—unwilling to let me process what was happening.

And then there she was—my mother, standing among the crowd at Ninoy Aquino Airport.

I spotted her before she saw me. Her hair, styled in a sharp semi-mullet, spiked just enough to defy gravity, held stiff with the magic of Vidal Sassoon. The rest of her jet-black strands fell smoothly just above her shoulders. Red lipstick, red nails, light skin, and a sporty outfit—she was exactly as I had imagined, yet somehow, entirely different.

She wasn’t alone. Standing alongside her were her closest friends—Auntie Diding, Tita Ann Luna, and Tita Ann’s husband, Tito Edel. But the moment she spotted me, everything else blurred into the background.

She ran toward me, arms outstretched, and pulled me in so tightly my head vanished into her chest. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t breathe for a moment, swallowed by the sheer weight of it all—the years of distance collapsing into physical closeness. I could hear her sobs, feel her body tremble against mine—disoriented by the moment, by the noise of the crowded airport.

She held me for a long time before I finally looked up. And yet, even with her standing right in front of me, the emotional distance between us didn’t shrink—not even an inch. I don’t remember crying. Instead, there was a strange mix of excitement and hesitation, a quiet unease I couldn’t quite name. I studied her face, trying to match it with the black-and-white nursing school graduation photo that had hung in my room for as long as I could remember.

What struck me immediately about her was her energy. She had a presence that filled the room—loud, gregarious, completely in control of any conversation. Her laughter came easily, her voice carried over everyone else’s, and yet, when she spoke, people listened. She seemed fun, even charismatic. But then there were her sharp eyes, her even sharper eyebrows—a foreshadowing of everything I had been warned about.

People had told me she was strict. Unapologetic. Fearless. Strong-willed. And I could already see it. Despite her warmth, there was an edge to her, an authority that didn’t need to be announced. I made sure to keep my guard up.

I wasn’t going to let this woman control me, or so I thought.

And then, as if the moment hadn’t just rewritten the last thirteen years of my life, we piled onto the back of a truck and made our way to Manila Hotel—another first for me.

After 12 years of relentless work, long shifts, and strategic maneuvering, my mother finally secured her long-coveted green card. Her journey wasn’t without obstacles—at one point, a shady Filipino attorney ran off with her money, along with funds from several other nurses, leaving her status in limbo. For months, she was undocumented, caught in a bureaucratic nightmare.

But she didn’t stop. She fought, recalibrated, and clawed her way back on track. And after all the years, all the setbacks, all the sacrifices, she finally returned to the Philippines—a long-awaited homecoming after more than a decade away.

After a week of back-and-forth trips to the Philippine Embassy, touring the Rizal Park area, and experiencing McDonald’s for the first time—since there were none back home—we flew back to Cebu to finalize my move. That week passed in a blur.

And then, just like that—

The ground shook.

Flames rose.

An earthquake rocked the house while a fire broke out across the street.

In the chaos, I remember watching one of our neighbors across the street, Nonoy Ompad hoist an entire fridge onto his back, hauling it to safety like it weighed nothing. I ran to open the front gate, eager to get closer to the action, only to hear my mother’s sharp voice cut through the noise, ordering me back inside.

I had spent entire afternoons in Danlag and Poog searching for spiders, navigated the streets of Cebu alone, taken jeepneys without a second thought. And now, she wouldn’t even let me step past the gate?

An earthquake, a fire, and a tongue-lashing—all in the same day. If I believed in signs, this one couldn’t have been clearer.

But maybe it wasn’t a bad omen. Maybe it was just the universe reminding me—my world was no longer mine to control.

Deep down, I already knew. My fears weren’t just creeping in—they were unfolding. Everything was about to change.

And in truth, it already had. It started a week ago.

We had one last party at the house—a final gathering of friends and cousins before my send-off. The air buzzed with laughter, stories, and the bittersweet weight of goodbyes. I didn’t know it then, but for some, it would be the last time I’d ever see them.

Auntie Veronica, whom everyone called Mommy Oning, would pass away just four years later from breast cancer. Others, who had once been permanent fixtures of my childhood, slowly faded into memory—faces I had known so well, now only recalled in fragments.

Yet in my heart, they remain, untouched by time.

And so did she. The woman who had just stepped back into my life, the woman I had spent years longing for—and yet, a woman I still didn’t fully know.

Chapter 7 | Glossary:

*Cebu Leper Colony – A former leprosarium located on the Consolacion-Mandaue City border, originally established to house and treat individuals with leprosy. It later became Eversley Childs Sanitarium, which now serves as a general hospital.

*Colorum – A term in the Philippines referring to unregistered or unauthorized transportation services, such as illegal taxis, vans, or buses operating without proper permits.

*Danlag – A rural area in Consolacion, Cebu, known for its farms and open landscapes. It was a popular spot for childhood adventures, especially for searching for spiders used in local spider fights.

*Mandaue City – A highly urbanized city in Cebu, known as a major industrial and commercial hub. Located just north of Cebu City, it serves as a gateway to the province and is home to many factories, businesses, and historical sites.

*Poog – A barangay in Consolacion, Cebu, known for its rugged terrain and rural charm. It was a common destination for childhood explorations, especially for activities like spider hunting.

CHAPTER 8 | UP IN THE AIR

NEW JERSEY: Turns out, I didn’t need a floating house to reach New Jersey. A one-hour Philippine Airlines flight from Cebu to Manila, a five-hour hop on United Airlines to Tokyo, and a grueling 13-hour haul to Newark did the trick.

Chapter 8 | Glossary: