When I was a child with hardly any capacity for memories, I had to move to America for my father’s work. I suppose, when I left, I was quite distressed at having to leave my beloved family. Ten years later, coming back to the Philippines for a vacation, I knew that at some point in my life I had loved every member of my family with all my heart and that this was the opportunity to love them as much as I loved them 10 years ago.
Arriving at the airport was such a surreal experience, with two Revos full of beautiful strangers, all of them with arms spread, ready for an embrace. I hugged people I didn’t even know were related to me. But it was okay, because I knew that they loved me and missed me, and that I myself was excited to be able to love them and miss them, too.
For years I wanted to be this girl that found infinite happiness in everything. I wanted to be this girl that could find beauty from common things. I wanted to have this glowing ball of joy in my heart wherever I happened to travel.
When I first arrived in the Philippines, I complained about ordinary things, like the tedious traffic jams or the poorly maintained buildings. But being in the country allowed me to practice who I wanted to be. It wasn’t a tedious traffic jam anymore; it was a time for bonding with the family. It wasn’t a poorly maintained building anymore; it was a structure that told some sort of fantastic story.
For my grade-school graduation in America, I had to write a speech about my positive experience in my school and advice I wanted to give my peers for the following school year. I wrote about how we must find beauty in every moment we are given, because there is an inevitable end to all things. By reminding myself this every day, I was able to find beauty in even the modest things.
I think of where my parents grew up and met, and of the schoolchildren running around, laughing at a joke I couldn’t hear. I think of ethereal motorcycle rides with my cousins under the periwinkle evening sky. I think of humble flowers you can transform into lively jewelry. I think of the local gift shop where my uncle bought me a coin purse and my cousin struggled to find his girlfriend a present. I’ve learned to take the time to press “pause” and notice the tiny details, because I know I’ll feel more content and satisfied with what is given.
As time ticked by, bits of my family left for their previous lives in which I wasn’t included. Only, it wasn’t bits that they took with them, like they were supposed to, like I had expected them to. With each empty seat there was an ample void in my heart. I found myself tearing up from missing the little things, like the way someone laughed or how someone never spoke. I miss the contagious joy everyone seemed to harbor. I miss late-night karaoke on the terrace, when the adults reminisced about their childhood. I miss huddling around the TV set, not paying attention to what’s on but simply enjoying the company. I miss everything.
These people, who hadn’t seen me or spoken to me for much of my life, have affected me so greatly and positively, I wonder how I managed to survive without them. Of course, there are family members that I’d bleed for and family members that give me multiple hemorrhages. However, I know that my time spent in the country has led me to become a better person. They’ve helped me discover my past, present and future. I may not understand exactly who I am or who I want to be, but I’m definitely glad that they were here to support me in whatever shape or form.
“There are no strangers here, only friends you haven’t yet met,” or so it’s said. I must say it’s been a true pleasure and privilege to get to know those two Revos worth of beautiful friends. I very much hope to see them all again soon.
Cassiel Arcilla, 13, was born in Manila and lives in Maryland in the United States. She enters Howard High School this month. Her go-to karaoke song is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.’”