Sa Aking Kanto Ng Mundo: Memories of My Motherland
Katrina Manalang
Muntinlupa, Philippines—a land foreign to my upbringing, yet heavy with my history. My tito, my father’s youngest brother, is the first sign of familiarity when we arrive.
We meticulously stack our luggage into the pockets of his car as he sets the address to their childhood home, a true testament to architectural resilience that has continued to house my tito, his wife, and my nanay.
The skyway is in a slumber, and the sun is shielding its radiance, yet my mind buzzes with curiosity. I muster enough adrenaline to counteract twenty hours of cramped legs and weighted eyelids. I nearly press my face against the car window, attempting to piece together any parallels between my fleeting observations of the city to my faded memories from almost a decade ago.
Our first order of business is to make a pit stop to Chowking, the only fast-food restaurant with an illuminated “open” sign at two in the morning, before arriving at our destination.
My nanay, bedhead and half-awake, ushers us in with a “pasok na kayo— come in— she said as she drops tsinelas pambahay so that our feet can avoid waging the war of red fire ants soldiering along the front door.
Her silhouette is softer than my memory has allowed me to sculpt, though one’s radar is never as sharp over annual birthday calls with spotty wifi.
I skim through the relics scattered around the house, serving as a bridge between the past and the present. Eventually, I fall asleep in a bed that belongs to my father’s youth, under a roof weathered down by its persistent residents.
My father’s home is an amalgamation of holy statues and figurines, decorations from Pasko accumulated within the past decade, and royal blue piggy banks with overenthusiastic expressions bought from the sari-sari store down the block.
A hodgepodge of furniture ranges from a 70s vintage floral sofa to egg yolk yellow curtains.
My father’s name tag from the first clinic he ever worked at became the staple decoration, welcoming you as you enter the living room.
Ovaltine containers scatter around the kitchen, some housing the signature malted milk powder and others with miscellaneous tidbits. They act as surprise blind boxes full of either delight or disappointment.
We bump shoulder to shoulder around the table and feast as one family.
This table harbors the memories of cheesy goodness and condensed milk melting in my mouth after eating a slice of Puto Biñan, cutting pieces of fresh guyabano with a juicy crunch, bought from a local vendor.
Our bellies were filled up with garlic rice and longsilog—a slight charred coating to top it off - straight from the frying pan.
One guarantee is that there will always be a plate ready for you at the table.
The next few weeks unravel untold stories as ulam is passed around the dinner table and I drink in nostalgia from freshly squeezed calamansi juice.
On the first official morning of our arrival, we are awakened by the crow of the neighborhood rooster. In every corner, banana leaves and coconut trees sprawl out and soar over rooftops. Motorsiklos and tricycles hum their usual rhythm and the echo is palpable.
My father guides us along the streets of his youth, eager to dust off a wooden stick to supplement his storytelling. His typically stoic demeanor erupted into playful banter and reawakened memories that were once out of commission. No matter how far away he has come from his origins, the land does not seem to forget the footsteps that once engraved it.
We are greeted by affectionate smiles from the left and right of our house. To me, it is a pleasure to meet them. To my father, it is a long-awaited reunion. There is companionship, filled with both a lot of surprise and a bit of disbelief that fueled their embraces and our mano po!
When the chatter subsided, he filters for the personal anecdotes that best reflect the conditions of his childhood. He points to a prison looming over the house, a narrow creek classifying the boundary line, and recounts escapees who once appeared at their front door looking for refuge.
On this same road, he once witnessed a man take his last breath after a merciless encounter. Without skipping a beat, he outstretched his stick to gesture us along further. No further questions can be asked, and his life before us still remains an enigma.
I am incidentally tasked with piecing together the puzzle of his life.
Though I do not have all the answers, each footstep marked a truth that led me to the intimate memories of my family.
My nanay’s multicolored shawl juxtaposes the casualness of her matching orange-creamsicle pajamas with “Be Happy” plastered across the chest.
In one hand is a berry lipstick; in the other is her pamaypay to swat the sticky Philippine heat away.
No one—not even the saint embedded on her fan—can be spared from the cheeky jabs of her “ang taba taba mo,” comments.
To ensure that I meet the familial duties of a diligent granddaughter, I naturally become my nanay’s panghawakan.
This responsibility extends past substituting a cane for the crook of my arm; it is bestowing upon her the most paramount, indispensable gift that an apo can offer a grandparent—my time.
I observed that the wide curvature of my nanay’s nose mirrors mine. My nanay looks undisputedly, wonderfully beautiful.
I am a mosaic of generations before me, and for that I should hold my head high.
Before returning to the States, we conclude our stay with an overnight trip to Alfonso, Cavite, where the sun is ever so slightly more gracious and the breeze blissfully strokes my cheeks.
Geckos imprint the walls and dragonflies litter the floor after a dance with the rain.
Family friends who were strangers to us yesterday become our next-door kapit-bahay overnight; friendly fire over a heated Bato Bato Pick round sheds our superficial demeanors.
Nanay secures five hundred pesos and waves it with pride before swiftly resigning to bed.
Kopiko coffee bags act as a monetary motif amongst our rotation of Spoons, Pekwa, 1-2-3 Pass, and other derivatives of common card games.
In between trash talk and playground insults, curiosity consumed us as we spat out our burning questions.
As the sun descends through the palm trees, the children huddle closer around the table. Meanwhile, the older adults slip into their pajamas to disperse into their individual nightly routines before settling into bed.
Our features and expressions resemble one another, but we sleuth around until we discover where our inherent differences lie.
Our intrigue extinguishes in a rapid-fire discourse ranging from internet slang and sorority culture to career aspirations and belief systems.
We unabashedly kilig over their courting stories that flourished into long-term, successful relationships with optimistic hopes of marriage.
I learn of their favorite interests and dormant past identities and they unearth mine. Unexpectedly, we find ourselves sharing common ground.
This moment ran deeper than an ordinary conversation; a cultural transaction was brewing amongst us.
I peek through the curtains of this life purely by investigation as our worlds momentarily converge under the ascending moonlight.
I relish in the newfound camaraderie, in a home away from home, collecting trinkets of information to store in my personal inventory—oblivious to the inevitability that the sun will rise once again.
I prepare to bid my father’s childhood home farewell, taking in mental snapshots with uncertainty of when my next return will be.
Vignettes of my father’s past provided me glimpses of an incomplete story, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I desperately attempt to stitch together fragments of this world to carry into my life back in the States. I reminisce about the calamansi juice, the “Be Happy” stitched across my nanay’s chest, and the Kopiko bags that marked my victory.
These trivial moments lead me back to my roots, planting the seeds that define what home truly means.
A change has manifested within me—not as a grand metamorphosis, but as a quiet revelation that home can exist in more than one place.
At the intersection between Hyacinth and Everlasting Circle Street in Muntinlupa, Philippines, lies my corner of the world.
When I return, I hope to feel the blazing sun on my skin and know that I have come back home.
Notes
“Sa Aking Kanto Ng Mundo” is a Tagalog phrase for “In My Corner of the World”.
Pasok Na Kayo is the Tagalog phrase for “come in”.
Tito is the Tagalog word for “uncle”.
Nanay is the Tagalog word for “grandmother”.
Tsinelas Pambahay is the Tagalog phrase for “house shoes”.
Pasko is the Tagalog word for “Christmas”.
Sari Sari Store is the Tagalog phrase for a Filipino convenience store.
Puto Biñan is a Filipino steamed rice cake from Biñan, Laguna.
Guyabano is the Filipino word for “soursop”.
Longsilog is a traditional Filipino breakfast of longganisa (a sweet pork sausage), sinangag (garlic fried rice) and itlog (fried egg).
Ulam is the Tagalog word for the main dish served with rice.
Calamansi is a small, round, orange fruit that has a citrus taste.
Motorsiklo is the Tagalog word for “motorcycle”.
Mano po is a traditional Filipino gesture of respect that means “your hand, please”.
Pamaypay is a traditional Filipino fan.
Ang taba taba mo is the Tagalog phrase for “You are so fat.”
Panghawakan is the Tagalog word for “to hold”.
Apo is the Tagalog word for “grandchild”.
Kapit-bahay is the Tagalog word for “neighbor”.
Bato bato pick is the Filipino version of the game Rock, Paper, Scissors.
Pekwa is a Filipino card game also known as Fan Tan, Sevens, or Card Dominoes.
Kilig is a Tagalog word that describes a feeling of exhilaration or elation.