Life is what you make of it, or at least that’s what I’d like to believe. I care little for the notion that our paths were determined long before we stepped into this world; that feels too hindersome for the likes of me, someone who’d rather throw caution to the wind and live free from someone else’s master plan. My stars are far too scattered to have been aligned by someone greater than me.
If life is what we make of it, then so is everything else. The things we do, the people we meet, the moments we hold onto—through the choices we make each day, we define what everything in life means to us.
Photo credits: Christian Troi Diaz and Ian Panelo, Pexels
These days, as I slog through my days in the corporate world of Metro Manila, I find myself trying to figure out how I define Cebu for myself. Maybe it is my subconscious longing for something familiar when my life nowadays seems like nothing but the unknown. I write to you as I try to appreciate the idea of new faces, new names, new sounds, and new problems.
There are references that may be alien to Tagalog ears, that only Bisaya boys like me will know like the back of our hands. There are supposedly funny punchlines that everyone in a room except me will get and laugh at, while I stand in the corner of that room, faking my snickers and trying to translate their jokes in my head.
I know it’s not all intentional, but Imperial Manila can be cruel on my psyche. And to be frank, I don’t think I appreciate the idea of these new things.
Photo credits: Knot Wandering and Garfield Besa, Pexels
I do think choosing to move to Manila is the first step on a longer path toward what I want to be in life: a writer for some swanky publication. After all, our country has decided that most of Filipino power, culture, and fame should be concentrated in a single urban conclave. But for now, and for the foreseeable future, I don’t see it as home. Living in Manila has felt more like a test, sifting out what was in me that was for show and leaving behind who I really am.
Maybe it’s the nostalgia penning these words, but to be away from Cebu has made me feel how much I took for granted. To be amongst people who are like me, not only in land but of deep kin rooted in shared memories, hard-fought values, and deeply-held faith in each other—that’s some good stuff I have missed. What were once everyday norms of my life have become rarities. As the saying goes: you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.
Photo credits: Kimy Moto and Asan Jorjo, Pexels
Sure, I can explain to these Manila people what Cebu is like, but they’ll never get it. They’ll never understand that our cranky, harsh tone is just how we sound, even on a good day. They’ll never understand that it’s not just the Capital that has running water, the internet, and the printed word—despite what their ignorance might lead them to believe. They’ll never understand the loathing we feel when they look down on us for God knows what. They’ll never understand that when a Cebuano makes his promises, they’re never casual.
Unless fate chooses to pull my life under my feet, I’ve got a lot of time on my hands to find out if these self-made theories of Cebu and Manila’s place in my life make sense. And in a way, this period of finding out will be the key. My life’s identity and our sense of the world are mine to shape. Only when I finish Manila’s test will I know what matters—and where I belong.
Photo credits: Mar Dave Jimenez and Jeffrey Ligan, Pexels
