Speak freely
When I mispronounced a word or made the wrong sound because of these similar articulations, I was met with laughter and pushed to repeat what I had said before getting support on correcting myself.
When I mispronounced a word or made the wrong sound because of these similar articulations, I was met with laughter and pushed to repeat what I had said before getting support on correcting myself.
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.
Being a fan of anything isn’t about being rational. It’s knowing that your passion might not be rational, and caring anyway.
In my first year of college, I decided to go to a drag show for the first time.
For as long as I can remember, the idea of ‘family’ has been an entanglement of comfort and tension — years of feeling torn between what I thought a family should be and what it actually felt like.
I was a smart kid. I read above grade level and teachers called me a pleasure to have in class. But as the lady flipped through pages and talked about body parts in a cheery voice, my forehead furrowed deeper and deeper.
Forget about the exact time of day — I don’t even remember the month or year of my initiation into the world of sensuality.
As a child, there was nothing more sacred than my uninterrupted, unsupervised computer time.
Every Value Village has the same smell. If you know it, you know it. If you don’t, it can be best described as dust, cigarette smoke, peculiar perfumes and other mysterious odours all mixed together. I also happen to know what it smells like if you take that smell and set it on fire.
I have a tradition I keep for myself: catching flights between two lives.
School was out but winter break never felt lonely because we had each other: two peas in a pod, built-in best friends.
There is a language only women speak — heard in the clatter of pots at dawn and in the simmering broth that carries the memory of old kitchens across oceans and years.
This might shock people — especially those from the west of the globe — but Halloween is a foreign concept to most international students.
The first half of my undergraduate studies took place in Normandy, France. For two years, the perpetually rainy city of Le Havre hosted me, my awkward French and my growing assortment of rain gear.
The day doesn’t feel like it’s really started. My alarm flashes 08:00, but there’s no light leaking through the slats of the blinds.