Forgetting is a disease of the memory.
Von, a good friend of mine, shared a photo on Facebook. It was a picture of Jollibee kissing a nun’s hand. I do not have a proper translation to “mano.”
“Oh yeah, that’s a thing we do.” It was when I realise that I have not mano’d anyone in the past two years.
I felt a pang of longing. This was a practice we Filipinos do with elders. Not having done this means I do not have a close tito or tita, lolo or lola that I can mano. Or even if I had one here, I have not seen them in a while to remember that our culture does this.
I seem to be forgetting some things that make me Filipino. Is this what it’s like being away from home too long?
A few days ago, I also forgot how to spell Jollibee – I forgot it had two L’s, as in Jolly. Most days I also forget my language.
I miss being able to fluently think in Bisaya. No matter how hard I wish that I can write these rants in my tongue, the skill now seem to elude me. Sure, if you ask me to translate a survey instrument to Bisaya, I probably can (ask Jassy, a friend of mine who is finishing her master’s thesis, or was it doctorate?) I am still able to speak Bisaya well, although someone commented once that my Bisaya sounds different (“Naa nay accent imong Bisaya, besh”). When I start getting serious, I dip into speaking English to convey my full emotions.
Bisaya is barely spoken in my daily life now. I live with (and sometimes surrounded) by Ilonggos and Tagalogs. What this means is I have to speak Tagalog or the very little Hiligaynon I know. To their credit though, we do have little exchanges of regional cultures. Just a few weeks ago, I learned that Ilonggos also say “buyag” to ward off spirits. They are also surprised at how quickly I am able to learn their language and even their tone. If you were to converse with me in Tagalog, you might mistake me for an Ilonggo. Or at least that one tita thought I was.
Working in a team of all English-speaking New Zealand residents also meant that I am not able to flex my mother tongue as much as I want to. It also doesn’t help that my English sounds ambiguously American (I got Canadian at one point too). I caught myself pronouncing certain words the Kiwi way multiple times too. Example, I would normally say Art as “aurt,” but these days I choose to say “aht” to accommodate monolingual people (haha).
I used to dream of writing a little anthology of anecdotes about my immigrant experience here. It would be a graphic novel – and the language starts as purely Bisaya. Eventually, there will be little changes in the narrator’s speech – like maybe they will slip a few “sweet as!” or “chur!” to show how they are adapting to Aotearoa culture. Or maybe even some sprinkling of “Ay abaw!” and “yudiiii” to show that they have been around Hiligaynon-speakers.
It is a sad reality, however, that in the years I have been in New Zealand, all I thought was work and keeping my place here. I found myself constantly adapting to the culture here. The moments of reflection are just delegated to special moments like my birthday and the new years. The hustle meant I have less time to write and think. I barely remember the things I did when I was younger; the fiestas, the Sunday masses, the bureaucracy of government processes, what it feels like to have my family around me. It is an odd thing to realise. And when I do remember, I end up talking about it for ages to also remind myself of how I was back then. Were the memory gaps intentional?
Of course, I should not equate my forgetfulness to my diaspora. I have only been here for under five years, but my life in the Philippines has slowly blurred away. There is no time to remember. My friends would talk about funny moments that happened when we were in high school, and I honestly do not remember them happening. “Oh, maybe I wasn’t there?” and they would retaliate saying I was. (Side note, I was quite sad when I was in high school so who knows where my mind went those days). A young aunty of mine, Ate Lynlyn, who I was quite fond of (she was a karaoke icon among us) passed away a year ago, and I think she visited me in a dream recently. I was crying in the dream. It seems like I have not fully processed my grief around her death. Admittely, I am not sure if there are deaths among my circles that I have forgotten. At times, everyone there feels like fictional characters. So far away from me, like they are in a different reality. I found myself asking if I actually had a relationship with them, if they were really a part of my life once upon a Filipino time. I barely remember them these days. Who knows if they remember me too?
Am I really a caring person? Do I still love being Filipino?
I think I still do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing about it. Otherwise it wouldn’t weigh on me like this, or compel me to write it in this almost-forgotten blog.
But I am stumped. There is no resolution to this blog post, to be honest. It’s not like I can just flip myself around and be “more Filipino.” I am just me, a Filipino immigrant in New Zealand with a different narrative, different voice, a slightly weirder accent. My love for being a Filipino comes from accepting both the lovable and the ugly side of it all. I don’t want to forget the taste of Jollibee, the feel of Bantayan’s seashore on my feet, or how my Lola’s knucles feel against my forehead, the view dark colored waterways littered with trash, the smell of Carbon market. That much I could remember and hope to hold close to memory, until at least until I get to relive them when I go home.
I hope everything will feel real again. I hope I remember again.
Ink-onstipated 