Growing Up Halo-Halo

I haven’t been writing as often as I like, which is obvious based on when I post. This week has been really tough, and for no apparent reason. I have felt so mentally unwell since Monday and I've only started to feel some sort of relief today.  I have been going home after work and sleeping for the majority of the night.  I haven’t eaten a proper meal all week. I’m more irritable/anti social, and today I cried for most of the morning. Very depressed-adjacent (I say this because I am not diagnosed). I even experienced a flare up in anxiety - the kind where you walk through a hallway of people laughing, and think they're all laughing at you, and you hold your breath all the way back to your car, and don't fully inhale-exhale until you get in. I dreaded today, because I knew I couldn’t go home and cover myself in blankets in the dark.  I had an appointment after work, that I knew would be unpleasant. I always commit to going to Zumba, even if I don’t feel like going, probabl...

Halo Halo - Mix Mix One of my favorite desserts and beloved among Filipinos. I have known and eaten halo halo since childhood.  I would watch my Titas make it from scratch with a plastic crank ice machine and all the ingredients laid out on the table. I would always eat the ice cream and leche flan first - because I didn't like the beans inside (and still kinda don't).  I would watch how happy it made my mom while she ate it (even though her favorite dessert is, in fact, cassava cake). It would be so refreshing on those hot, humid Philippine days. Sobrang iinit.  And yet, never saw it as a metaphor to how I grew up. I am just now coming to this seemingly obvious realization that I was Halo Halo - a mix mix kid.  A lot of experiences and moving parts that shape this person who is now Kika.  It faintly came over me while reading Justine Ramos' collection of poetry by the same name, but I didn't have this concrete revelation until more recently. I really love how i...

The title is inspired by one of my favorite memoirs, Crying in H-Mart by Michelle Zauner. I find myself crying in places I least expect. Like in the middle of the garden centre. If I have to come to terms with anything in the last 30 years, one of them would be that time can be cruel. It does not wait for anything or anyone, and it certainly does not wait for you.  This past weekend was Mother's Day, and I particularly miss mine when I don't spend it with her. This year probably more than normal. We share the love of flowers. She called me weeping over the card I sent her, that I had filled with some heartfelt words. I kept it together for the whole 2 minute call, and as soon as we hung up, I also cried (whilst in Golden Acre garden centre). How humbling.  On the flip, Father's Day is approaching too, and I will be pushing it fiercely away. It's funny, lately when people ask me about my parents, my more common response is "we don't talk about him". I truly...

I picked up this book as a way to hopefully bridge my understanding of  my mom’s Filipino upbringing and my relationship with Japanese culture.  I knew my mother always had mixed feelings about Japan. She would tell me about her friend who lives there, but then mention how she didn’t feel safe going there and wouldn’t go past the airport. She would listen to me talk about wanting to travel there, learning the language, how I love the food - and then also have disinterested, pensive responses.  After reading this book, I asked her about it.  She recalled stories from my own Lola, that have very much impacted her opinions as an adult.  Her mother (my Lola) and grandmother (my great grandmother) had locked themselves away for 3 days while the Japanese raided their home. Her mother was kept in a small cabinet in hopes to save her from the rape and torture that many families succumbed to. Thankfully they were left unfound, and the Japanese soldiers continued on - but...

I (finally) submitted my name change a few weeks ago. What I thought would be monumental, a sigh a relief, Instead came anger.  I walked back to my car, closed the door,  And lamented about how much I had spent.  In time, in effort, How much it took,  The paperwork, the organizing. How much it cost.  I felt  angry about the money. For the record, if you ever think about going through the legal name change process, it’s more money than you think. The notary, the fingerprints, the criminal record check, the government fee, the registry fee. It’s so much. Above that, I felt that my father had put me in the position, like I had to do it, then pay the price for it all. I don’t like the feeling of anger. “I sat with my anger long enough that it told me it’s real name was grief”. Grief over my father and the situation before me. Grief and anger holding hands, melding together and festering. Confused and angry over why I was even angry and grieving.  This was ...

I hope you don’t see me, And see my father. I know you won’t see him in my eyes, But you might see him in my hair, or maybe even in the way I talk sometimes. I hope you don’t see me as a byproduct, Of a mistake you might have  made, of a life far gone. I hope you don’t see me and see resentment, A painful reminder. I hope when you see me,  You see yourself.  I hope you see all the good parts of you, That have made me better.  That have shaped  me. I hope when you see me,  You love all the things we share Like our olive skin and big brown eyes. Like the way we laugh and maybe even how hard headed we can be.  I hope when you see me,  You don’t see the other half that made me. I hope with time, That part can fall away  And all we see is you and me.

  This year has started off very strong, and I have felt overwhelmingly blessed by all the people in my life - all the friends I have and the people I have met.  This weekend gave me an opportunity to be around so many individuals both new and long standing. I had many wonderful, deep conversations, and this is when I feel the most fulfilled.  I am so grateful and overflowing with love.  These deep conversations are what I think about now in bed, 48 hours later. Topics spanning from race and immigration, to trauma, to family, and things in between.  Incidentally, I started reading Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. I reached page 47, and read:  “As the poet Prageeta Sharma said, Americans have an expiration date on race the way they do grief.”  This sentence rolled around in my head, trying to untangle itself amongst the rest of my thoughts.  I think I have felt, this almost exhaustion, about these types of conversations.  Trying to explain r...