Lingering in Doorways

LAX is massive. And a little scary. Especially when you’re traveling alone for the first time. I get lost almost immediately after passing through TSA — sidetracked by the stack of glossy hard-bounds fronting Booksoup — and have to make an embarrassing pivot after 10 minutes of wandering through the wrong gates. As a general rule, I try not believe in bad omens. But I am also squinting at my iPhone’s yellow bar, and feeling last night’s satay and spicy vodka pasta sloshing around in my stomach, while the arrival time board tells me that our plane is still over an hour and a half delayed. As much as I would love for this trip to go smoothly, it’s exactly like me to be incapable of resisting a few minor hitches. I pass the time by buying an overpriced Naked smoothie from the gift shop and a fistful of Hollywood keychains that I will eventually forget to hand out.

This is not only my first solo flight back to Manila but my first solo flight ever, and though I’ve been looking forward to this day for months and months, the idea of enduring this first part alone wracks my nerves. I’m no stranger to these long-haul, fourteen-hour trips. I’ve been traveling back and forth between my two countries my whole life. But the string of inconveniences that have led up to this moment (wrong departure times, etc) may be yet another sign that this is singular — that it might not just be another flight but some kind of initiation rite into the world of traveling grown-ups. I purchased, with real pride and eagerness, my ticket with my own money. I arranged the cogs of my work and school life to fit neatly around my plans. And still, I am scared that I will mess this up somehow. That something will go horribly wrong, and that if making through 11k kilometers across the Pacific Ocean is some indicator of proven independence, I will undoubtedly fail.

But this is the anxiety talking. I clock it as soon as I’ve made it to my gate (all the way across the longest terminal, by the way), boarded my plane, and settled into a cushy middle seat between two strangers. Once the headphones are snapped on, and the seatbelt is fastened, and the plane lifts off the tarmac. The dissipating nervousness, replaced by a firm, rapidly settling knowledge: This is real. I am going home. And this is where the fun begins.

Let me talk a little about my life in California, which is far from miserable, despite my previous sentiments suggesting otherwise. I have a great life. I love my family. I love my routines and freedom, and the weird dichotomy of being both somewhere new and familiar, since this is the place where I grew up. But the Philippines will forever and always be home. It’s so strange — I feel like I spent so many of my formative years wanting to be American. I was desperate to move, especially when life came to a standstill during the pandemic. But the moment that wish was answered I dreaded leaving, and I spent a majority of my first few months away clinging to any reminder of home. I snatched every opportunity to speak Tagalog to Filipinos I met at work. I moped and called Roy every time our time zones matched up. I cried over pictures, and wished my friends happy birthday over text, and swore to my mom I’d be there for the summer even when I didn’t have the funds to back it up. It always just felt like my heart was always somewhere else, and I daydreamed about finally being able to remedy that.

And now here we’ve arrived, ten long months later, to the land of near-constant humidity and snarling traffic, the home of most of my precious teenage memories. I truly believe there is nothing quite like the growing lights of the Manila skyline. I felt it as soon as I stepped off the plane — the heat, yes, but also a sense of instant familiarity. Like I was sliding back into my body after years of being away. This was a world I was comfortable navigating, where I didn’t feel like I had to code-switch and perform, where the people I missed were just a Grab ride away. Every sound and smell that reminded me that this was reality was exciting. Once the baggage had been picked up, and I crushed Mom into a bear hug at the gate, I took the few moments of silence I had to revel in my change of environment. Everything was so different from a mere fifteen hours ago. The scenes outside my car window were different. The people were, too. And I loved it, down to the electricity wires and questionable puddles on the street. My friends think I’m crazy when I recount this. Two years ago I probably would’ve thought so too.

There’s a quote by Ali Smith that I’ve been carrying around with me for the past two months and a half. It goes: “Look at me walking down a road in summer thinking about the transience of summer. Even while I’m right at the heart of it I just can’t get to the heart of it.” I hold this close to my heart; I don’t think I can ever put my emotions into words as true and succinct as these. Despite my awareness of where I am, living core memories in real time, I can’t keep a firm enough grasp for the moment to stick. I am always grieving because of it. I could be having the time of my life with the person I love and still have my mind in overdrive, because I know that what we have is temporary, and I am powerless to change it. Time is my biggest enemy. I just never seem to have enough. But I make do with what little of it I have — I meet with my people and we have a blast. From coffee shops and restaurants to clubs and amusement parks, going out most days and making a second home for myself in Taguig, I try not to waste a single day sitting idly. I surprise my college friends at my old school and attend grad parties. I drop by malls and other people’s houses. I visit my grandparents across the metro every few weeks, and my mom in Cavite even more often, which is when I gorge on all the treats she whips up in her café. I’ve been to the beach twice, on different islands — soaking up the Southeast Asian sun. I tick activities off my list, do the occasional shopping here and there. But above all things I just craved the company, and I let myself indulge in the simple pleasures of people. I love being around the people I love. We could spend a week curled up watching movies while it rained and I’d think, yes, this is perfect, this is everything I needed and more. I feel like myself again.

When I read Giovanni’s Room the year I turned twenty, I found a line I’ve always liked and found increasingly relevant as I grew older: “You don’t have a home until you leave it, and then, when you have left it, you can never go back.” It struck a chord with me, though I imagine it was a different home I yearned for then. Soon after my return to Manila, it became clearer to me that this home James Baldwin referred to was not a place exactly but some kind of irrevocable condition. Because yes the city is exactly as I remember it. So are my friends. So is my mom. But there are aspects of my previous life that are forever lost to me now, revealed only because I went away: my routine, my daily habits and comforts, my things and their permanent positions. The age I was and the naïveté I had when I left, and the place I kept in the lives of the people around me. I’m not just a granddaughter, I’m my grandma’s bakasyonista granddaughter. My friend introduced me to other friends as her friend from America. And when I’m met with piqued interest, and asked where I’m from, I say, “California,” (with a smile because people always have something to say about California) even though it feels wrong coming out of my mouth — the suggestion that I could be from anywhere else but right here.

But this is all okay, because while I’ve accepted that I can never really go back to the Juela I was pre-green card, I know that my home is where the people are. And maybe that means home doesn’t necessarily have to be in one place, or with one person. Maybe it could be with my dad in Anaheim, or my mom in Cavite, or my grandparents in Parañaque and Quezon City. And for that reason, I think I am safe with the knowledge that home will always be somewhere (and someone) I can return to, just as much as home can be wherever I already am, or somewhere I am yet to go. This is what soothes the restlessness I’ve been feeling: knowing that the trip can always be made, the flights planned and booked. I will always be able to come back.

Thank you to everyone who made this dream of a summer possible. The café catch-ups, Elyu, Boracay, EK trip, house visits, mini reunions, movie marathons, painting sessions, dinner parties, and everything in between are memories I will treasure forever. I appreciate your time and company so much, and I love you so dearly. To the people I wasn’t able to see, or see as much, I’m looking forward to the next time we get to catch up in person. Until then, I’m always just a message away.