My family moved from Makati to Delta, British Columbia in 2023. Until then, I had been just another person in the crowd. Back home, I blended in – tall for some, I guess. I spoke a localized version of English without thinking, and ate my grandmother’s adobo recipe every week. I was Filipino — so was everyone else. I had never been an immigrant.
Since I arrived, being Filipino in Vancouver has meant being constantly reminded that I do not belong. My head turns sharply every time I hear Tagalog. I stare transfixed when I see people who look vaguely Filipino, and beg my parents to speak to me in Tagalog at home, to give me a break from the harsh yammering of English that I hear every day.
My parents left everything they’d ever known to start over. The foundation of my identity as a Filipino immigrant is rooted in survival instincts: in the way I attend a Filipino mass to remember the prayers my grandparents recited as I lay beside them, in the fake accent I use to blend in with my peers and in the food we cling to like our lives depend on remembering the taste of garlic. I didn’t have many friends when I moved to Vancouver, let alone friends who’d be willing to eat Filipino cuisine. So when Lapu Lapu Day, April 26, came around, I was elated to invite my friend to come with me to the block party in South Vancouver.
Lapu Lapu Day was a haven. The day set aside to celebrate the beloved Indigenous hero who fought Magellan is one of the few moments that the Filipino community of Vancouver comes together to celebrate our history and culture. It symbolizes the solidarity of cultures uniting in British Columbia and honours the heritage of Filipino-Canadians. It’s a special day that allows us to feel seen, to celebrate being Filipino together.
As I walked into 43rd Avenue, my neck relaxed. I was surrounded by the bustling noise reminiscent of home. In one corner, I heard the rapid calling of Bisaya. In another, it was the round diction of Tagalog. My tongue softened, and I could finally stand up straight. The unmistakable aroma of garlic spread across the palengke. This was the smell of my Momsy’s kitchen. I was fine.
Children clung onto their mothers’ skirts, trying their best not to get lost in the sea of black hair. By Plato Filipino’s booth, I spotted a stack of chicken skin for $8 and rushed over to buy a box. A true Filipino, I soaked each piece in vinegar before popping it in my mouth, indulging in the cholesterol my mother hated. My friend walked to the other side of the palengke to buy us jollof rice from a Ghanaian pop-up. It reminded me of my Tita Asia’s paella, with a hint of pineapple. Language upon language surrounded us, creating a new environment of multicultural celebration.
To me, Lapu Lapu Day, while beautiful, is another reminder that I don’t really belong here. It's like being in a liminal space. I can smell the food my grandma would cook for me when I was sick, but I also remember how hard I’ve had to search for any sense of community.
My friend and I arrived at Lapu Lapu Day at around 6 p.m. We missed the bus and ended up arriving later than we expected. We left at exactly 7:24 p.m. I told her we should leave so we wouldn’t be late for the club. I didn’t tell her it was because of a nagging feeling pulling at my stomach. My mother always told me to listen to my gut, so I trust myself in most of the decisions I’ve made. When I chose humanities as my senior high school strand, when I chose UBC and when I chose to summer in Vancouver instead of back home, I’d kept faith in my choices. And now something was telling me to leave. As the sun sank low, we took a few last pictures and headed to the R4.
My father began calling me at 9:28 p.m. I didn’t answer until two phone calls later, confused at why so many people were ringing my cell.
“Where are you?” he asked, angry at my late response.
“I’m on the bus, why?”
“Are you still at the Filipino event?”
“No, why?” I asked. He hung up.
A few minutes later, my father sent me a link. It was a video of ambulances and police officers on 43rd Avenue, the same street where we had taken pictures earlier. People huddled in small circles, loudly arguing in a variety of Filipino languages. The sound of the sirens from emergency vehicles drowned out the screams of people at the crime scene. I did not know what I was looking at. I thought it was a small car crash that knocked over a food truck or two. I didn’t realize the massacre that had just occurred.
A slow trickle of Instagram infographics followed the event. Plato Filipino, Fortune Sound Club and many other Filipino businesses closed for a few days afterward. St. Mary’s Parish, Bayan BC, UBC Sulong and UBC Kaba immediately released statements of solidarity. The community had taken a deep breath and was too fragile with grief to exhale. We were all trying to make sense of what had happened, to move with sensitivity and care.
What happened that night was devastating. Lives of loved ones were lost, families were torn apart, all because of one decision made that night. I cannot speak for them. I was not there when it happened. I can only speak about what it was like to be part of the crowd before the sirens – hearing the children laughing, families sitting by the curbs eating street food and what it means to carry the aftermath as a member of this community.
St. Mary’s held a prayer vigil on the 2nd of May. I attended with my mother and my grandmother, who held her rosary close to her chest and muttered ‘Hail Mary’ with a heavy heart. We prayed the five sorrowful mysteries, each ending with one ‘Our Father,’ ten ‘Hail Mary’s,’ one ‘Glory Be’ and ‘O My Jesus.’ This was Catholic-rooted resilience in our time of need.
My community was not supposed to grieve that night. We were supposed to dance, to eat until our mothers’ nagging of “high cholesterol” echoed in our minds. In the wake of Lapu-Lapu Day, we are left with questions, fear and an overwhelming love for our community. We deserve to come together without the threat of grief or danger.
The image of those children clinging to their mothers’ skirts plays over and over again in my mind. I hope they made it home okay. As I remember Lapu Lapu Day, I cannot help but wonder: is this what it means to be Filipino — to carry both loss and survival with us everywhere we go?
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