I’m always compelled to tell the same narrative of how I got here (California). It’s been 8 years since I left Manila and the memory is still fresh and blurry and exhausting. I’m not good at remembering, not like how most people are. Documenting my life was never my priority, not in these circumstances. I couldn’t just latch on to some white guy for housing or brown-girl-self-validation. Although, even if I wanted to, I was more into the idea that I could be with someone female and finally experience the world an “out” lesbian.
Last night, I had a dream where I had a conversation with my high school self. It was hazy and full of anger because there was no banana ketchup for the chicken lollipop at the stand where I used to buy this from. The night before that I had a dream where I was in a mall in Makati, making fun of the upper middle class girls that were all over western men.
I’m always compelled to tell the same story of how I will never visit Manila. There’s no one to come back to [except for my immediate family]. I’m not saying I don’t have friends. I’m saying I don’t have friends. And like most love stories, the heart begins to lose interest in things that aren’t really there anymore.
Ghost stories are exhilarating in small bursts. Perhaps, when I visit, my haunting would be a spectacular one.