In Manila, home was a two-bedroom apartment that was situated alongside the slums. It was cramped and humble. But my mother always loved to decorate the windows with bright, floral curtains, as if they stood any chance against the dust and pollution. Home was a place where love and laughter resided, but it was no safe haven. I remember a time when it was a place to hide. A dangerous stranger with bloodshot eyes barged through the doors, dismantling three heavy-duty locks in one instant. He was being chased down with a knife by his drinking buddies after a fight over drugs and money. The panicked call from my pregnant mother was one that made me realize how fast I could run home to her.
Although it was a rough neighbourhood that taught me to be distrustful and cautious, I still loved where I lived because I belonged to that city as much as it belonged to me. In the mornings, I navigated the way to the cheapest and the best breakfast spots. Every day after school, I played with the street children in the park that also doubled as a prison enclosure for juvies. If I was ever in a fight with my parents, my grandparents and various family members were only a two-minute walk away. When I wanted to sneak out and buy candy, I knew how to avoid getting caught by the local patrol after the 10:00 p.m. curfew sirens.
Over a decade ago, my father announced that we were moving to Canada. He promised snow angels, ballet lessons, and our own bedrooms. He told us that it was the land of opportunities. It was the first time in my life that I pictured a life beyond the small world that I inhabited, to expand my horizons and seek out adventures beyond books. Every night after dinner, we gathered around a small laptop, typing in Regina, Saskatchewan on YouTube just to get a glimpse of what our new life will be like. Thus, at the age of nine, I became so irrevocably in love with a city that I had yet to step my foot on. All I could think of was how I would get to escape heavy rainfalls and trade them for gradual snowfalls.
On October 29, 2009, we arrived in our new home. This home was a two-bedroom apartment that we would share with another family of six. I slept in the living room in a pullout couch next to my sister, while across from us was another pullout couch with another pair of siblings. Since we were all close in age, we would have our own slumber parties every night. In this new city, there was always a surplus of toys and candies. Some days the kids next door would invite us over for a game of street hockey. Other neighbours, like the elderly lady with a golden retriever, would come by to bring us homemade cookies or show us how to make the best hot chocolate. Kids in school were even more welcoming. They talked really fast and always asked if I wanted to play grounders during recess.
After I made countless snowmen and grew bored of the new toys, the novelty of this home soon wore off. I looked around, and I missed my concrete jungle, where the leaves of the mango trees sheltered you from the radiating heat of asphalt coupled with the bare rays of the sun. And no matter how much I wanted the Dutch elm trees to shelter me from the biting cold of harsh Saskatchewan winters, they could not, because even the trees themselves embraced the cold.
The death of my grandmother was not unexpected. We knew that her kidneys were failing. Her chosen healing methods, as far as we knew, were dialysis and divine intervention. Suddenly, life started to change. Both of my parents had to take on multiple jobs to send money back for her medical fees. There were no more family dinners. And it was always “Sorry, anak, wala akong time” or “pagod na ako.” My older sister and I were tasked with taking care of our little brothers, making sure that they were fed and that they slept on time. We would be left alone in that house for hours with the TV volume lowered, hoping nobody asks questions.
My parents became tired, and their limited minutes did not account for snow angels nor ballet lessons. My grandmother passed within our first year in Canada. Our last hurried exchange of I love yous over the phone served as a final goodbye. Travelling home was impossible since we lacked the money. It was a miserable time, and I wished so badly to go back.
Over time, I became distant and uprooted from my first home. This new land, however, gave me the chance to see it beyond the failed promises of the ideal life my father initially painted. Canada may not be the place where I was originally planted, but it is now my chosen home that has nourished my growth and allowed me to root and bloom.
On August 25, 2015, when I swore an oath of citizenship to this land, my love and gratitude for this community strengthened. I love how Claude Monet’s en plein air paintings are nothing compared to the open Saskatchewan skies. I use terms like double-double and surprise myself with the numerous ways I can discuss the weather. I know how passionately Canadians take football and hockey games, but I have yet to find my way around them.
Now, I find myself navigating through the world split between two identities with two homes and being okay with that because there’s no need to choose. I know now that home is not a location you type into a GPS. In many ways, finding home is like the mango or the Dutch elm trees planted around us, they did not choose to be rooted to their land, yet they flourished, adapted to the weather, and continued to grow. And so, I shall too.