Rooted

by Martie Faye Agravante (United States of America)

Making a local connection Philippines

The humidity hits you before anything. Just a step out of the airport and immediately sweat sticks to the back of your neck and you feel the sunburn forming, even under your clothes. This is how I remembered the Philippines. I have always been proud of my Filipino heritage; born in Naga City, raised in Manila, before being transplanted to suburban New England. As a child, my family and I were fortunate enough to travel back to visit family every other year. However, as I grew older and the economy faltered, it was harder to make these trips. So, my love of the Philippines was contained through a snapshot of memory, while the cities and towns I had once known continued to evolve. But in December 2016, we were pulled back to our homeland. My cousin was getting married. Two sleepless nights, five suitcases, and fifteen grueling hours of flight time later, we touched down at Ninoy Aquino International Airport. Out the airplane window sat Manila, her skyline blurred together with the night the same way my memory of it is blurred in my mind. It fascinated me, how a country I felt so connected to, whose blood is in my veins and whose flag I proudly wave, could leave me feeling well...like a foreigner. I grew up in these streets, so why did they look so unfamiliar to me? I craved that sense of familiarity, to tap back into the roots that had been covered by years and years of American culture. Soon enough, I would find that perhaps my rootedness ran as deep as an unwavering palm tree. Or, coconut tree for that matter. Due to a recent bagyo, or hurricane, the WiFi and electricty was down in Colacling. Thankfully, my grandmother’s house was a cool safe haven among the sticky heat. Aunties clamored about; there was still a wedding to prepare for. In the midst of the chaos, my cousin Ateh Grace, pulls me aside. “Come on Faye, do you want to come get some coconuts?” “At the market?” “No,” she laughs, “Like how we used to when we were kids.” I find myself in our uncle’s dusty blue Toyota, with Kuya Bong, Ateh’s brother, sitting shotgun and machete in hand. We snaked down mountain roads, veering past rice paddy fields, sari-sari stores, and bahay kubos. The cool breeze whipped in through the open windows; if the a/c was broken, we never missed it. Eventually we parked across a roadside restaurant. Local and family run of course. Confused, I asked in my broken tag-lish, “Bakit ng stop tayo dito? Akala ko, we’re picking coconuts?” Ateh Grace smiled in return and exited the car. “Tara na!,” she yelled back and motioned let’s go. We traipsed through uneven, muddy ground. I ran to catch up, careful not to break my sandals. Kuya Bong scoured among the roots and fallen palm leaves. All of a sudden, he climbs and climbs, machete looped into his belt. Then, one by one the coconuts come down. I picked up a misshapen, green orb waiting to be cracked open and its delicious secrets revealed. Fresh buko. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until the sweet water quenched a deep thirst and watered my roots. Half-way past Christmas and into the New Year, my entire family gathered in an old Naga City hotel ballroom. My mom and aunties squealed with joy as they pinned pesos on my cousin and his wife during their first dance. It strikes me how many more traditions I’ve yet to encounter. “Everyone’s getting married now, huh?” I laughed, to which Ateh Grace replies, “Everyone’s getting older, Faye.” And that’s the heart of the difference, isn’t it? We are continuously evolving. Like a seedling growing tall and strong, or a city sprouting high rises, the change we see is never in the midst but only an after effect. In the glint of morning sun reflecting off the skyscrapers, I could see Manila clearly from Ninoy. It might be a few more years before I see it again, but I knew this was the last time I’d see it quite like this. Next time, we’ll both have grown.