little manila is the smell of smoke
clouds crafted by working hands that billow
with traces of lechon and isaw
is the sound of cackling titas
carrying rustling no frills bags
while waiting for the bus
the same bus that brought me home
from that mostly white, all-girls catholic school
that I commuted to for an hour each day for a better education
the same bus where my classmate turned to me saying
“this is where all the nannies get off”
the same bus where I learned
that another word for kadiri is nanny
is mother
is ate
is lola
here, debt is another word for living
is the way she tries to shove more gulay into my bag
when I tell her to keep the change on the sidewalk
little manila is the sound of an empty tip jar
because a tip is an impossibility
and a missing paycheque is just a thursday
but I’ve learned that a missing paycheque is also a promise
is tinola from your neighbour when the bills are too tight
is a protest at the bathurst-wilson parkette
is the feeling of makibaka in the air
is knowing that you are always beholden
that another word for beholden is ingat
ingat is the last word you say to each other
before leaving little manila