Galing Sa Bayan Ko

I may not look brown, but my blood runs dark.

There is something about the jungle that never lets go. It travels through lineage. Through instinct. Through the simple words and gestures.

When my brother and I were little our mother would take us in her arms and stand in the shower. Heartbeat to heartbeat, days when she held and protected – but things pass.

Still, humidity cannot help but bring a sense of belonging.

Cold water grounds you.

Short soft round sounds lull you.

The tradition, the music, the cooking, the culture. Beneath the keep-face city-living, only the heart of survival and family and faith can be found.

Broken shadows of maternal lineage broken bridges disconnecting from the past only whispers of yesterday last an old language rising and falling half wind half rain brown hands that match the earth.

Twig broom tied with straw stir up the smells of the sun and steaming rice lying under banana leaves as caribou bake in dirt and sun. Tilapia and lechon spread out on card tables.

They squat on the ground by the cinders, heady smell of coconut milk, and chinelas padding down the dirt road.

Short sounds of Tagalog roll like marbles out of the mouth. Their smiles and laughs and big curious eyes, which inquisitively - stare politely asking, watching the sky and water for forbidden return to the jungle.

The cousins and the chismis. And the chalk-cō-lāte. Telling the stories of the fairies, dwarves, and the white lady.

Sinigang, lumpia, champarado.

Tagaytay and Borakay.

10 miles to the city of cardboard and tires. Watusi and dirty ice cream vendors.

Men with Orangutans in Luneta Park.

Ice skating at Mega Mall, and french fry stands.

Maids working in 10 foot walled fortresses, with broken glass rubber cemented to the top of those walls.

Rich kids mothered by babysitters, as the family tries to become American.

Leaving escaping this rich country that is mine still.

Galing sa bayan ko.