Well hello you playful, dangerous, soul,
I hope you’re relaxed reading this while snuggling up against your car door. I have to head to a shoot in about 45 minutes so beware of typos and grammatical errors.
Today is Sunday and I just feel like writing: writing to you always feels so safe.
The Moth
The Moth is a monthly event where people come together to compete with other storytellers in the area. Your name gets randomly selected, you tell a five minute true story based on the topic of the night, and then three judges rank you from a scale of 1 - 10.
I've gone three times, was selected once, and on the day I got picked, I ended up in third place. I’m not going to lie, I was a bit frustrated with my score: after the show I ended up talking to several of the judges to figure out how I could improve.
“There was not enough emotion”
“It was too much of a “frat boy story” too many laughs, but not enough heart”
Since then my goal has been to craft better stories and hopefully, win. So, I crafted a story and went again to another moth event. Unfortunately my name was not picked. Therefore, I want to share the story I crafted with you now.
The Prompt:
HOME: Prepare a five-minute story about where the heart is. Where you're from... your humble abode, your roots, your heritage or where your mama lives. Your comfort, refuge, or domestic bliss! Or perhaps a dysfunctional swamp with no lifeboat in sight. Your zip code, your people, your culture, your pajamas. There's no place like it!
The Story:
I’m 21. I’m sweating because it’s summertime… and I’m in the Philippines.
See, three months ago my father emailed me saying, and I’m paraphrasing here, “Hey son, I know it’s been over 4 years since we’ve seen each other. But, I would love to restart our relationship together. Please come back home to the Philippines.”
So here I am.
On this island.
I can smell the mangoes, am surrounded by the noise of Titas and Titos, I can see the balikbayan boxes, and of course the sight of a full roasted pig in the distance. It’s all familiar and… delicious.
Yet, even though I’ve arrived, my father is not here in the waiting area where we agreed to meet. I’m stuck with my luggages in hand recalling memories of how he was alway late picking me up.
This time he’s more than late.
It’s been four hours and not even a ping.
He’s definitely not showing up.
I take out my phone and I scroll through the emails looking for clues… when finally I see that at the end of a few of the emails is a signature at bottom, which is an address to a cyber-cafe that he usually writes his messages from.
I take out $20 from my wallet, which is like a million dollars in the Philippines, and I scream out “who is down to take me to this address?”
Two hours later, I’m somewhere in Quezon City, in a strange cyber cafe. I’m filled with adrenaline as I begin asking the patrons, staff, and lastly the owner…
“Have you seen… Luisito?”
“Have you seen Luisito?”
“Excuse me, do you know a man named Luisito?”
Over and over again I was told, “I don’t know him,” “I’m sorry, he’s not here” until a man in his late sixties says, “I think he lives in that apartment complex around the corner”.
It’s 8pm.
I’m tired.
I’m exhausted.
I’m distraught.
I walk around the corner to that apartment complex… and basically collapse on the stairs… a few moments go by, when suddenly I hear a voice.
“Excuse me, are you Jonathan?… are you Luisito’s son?”
I look up and I see this freshly faced 19 year old girl.
I’m like “who the hell are you?”
And she says, “I’m your father’s girlfriend”
I know it’s weird.
It’s a little gross to comprehend.
But I break through all of that, because I have no choice, I say “take me to him”.
We head to the Apartment Complex.
We get on the 8th floor.
I’m led into room 812…
And I see it -
Right in the middle of the living room is a carpet that has a lion’s head on the edge, a statue of the Santo Nino, which is Jesus Christ but Filipino style, on a religious alter, and pictures of myself, my mother, and my siblings everywhere.
Then the 19 year old screams.
“Babe, your son is here!”
…
A 55 year old version of myself walks out, gray hair and all, but still soft-smooth-skin. It was at this moment that I wanted to choke him, like how he choked me when I was seven years old for accidentally spilling milk.
It was at this moment that I wanted to punch him, like how he punched me and slammed my face into a drawer full of keys… when I was ten all because I stressed him out that day.
But even through all of it, I couldn't give him a black eye or a broken nose as he did to me. All I could do was say, 'Hey dad, I'm back home.'"
He hugged me for a second and said, “I was looking for you everywhere, but I knew you would figure it out to find me.” Then there were some apologies—always apologies—and then he said, “I want to show you something.”
He led me through the hallway and into another room.
In the corner of the room was a playpen.
I looked inside and I saw a tiny 7 month-year-old baby sound asleep.
He takes his hand on my shoulder and says…
“I want you to meet your new baby sister”
It was right then and there that my heart sank.
I wanted to puke.
Nothing felt familiar anymore.
This didn’t feel like home anymore.
I was officially a foreigner in the Philippines.
Worst, a tourist.
It felt dark.
I picked up my bags and ran out of there.
I called a relative and booked a ticket straight back to California.
And while in the airplane, I took out my journal and made a promise…
That when it comes to my friends, my current family, and especially when I become a husband and father, that the people around me will always feel warm, safe, and have a sense of familiarity in the spaces when we are together.
This is why every so often, you will find me dicing up mangoes, making guacamole, and grilling delicious Filipino meats in the kitchens of my friends' homes… bringing a taste of my home to theirs.
Thank you for listening
My office - North Hollywood, CA
8:34am