My Journey "Home"

By Meggy Grosfeld

Collage by me

A nervous homecoming.

This winter break, my family and I will be spending Christmas and the New Year in the Philippines with my grandma. We haven’t been back there since right before the pandemic hit, which is crazy to me. I was born in the Philippines and I’ve spent my whole life going back and forth to my grandma’s house in Bacolod City. I miss the sound the screen door makes when you enter the side of the house, catching frogs near the pool my grandma filled with gravel to make a garden, the rusty swings my mom used to play on when she was little, and of course, the home-cooked traditional Filipino meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The last time we were all there was Christmas of 2019 and we left in early 2020 before COVID happened. Who would’ve known that was going to be the last time we were all together for a while? Back then, I was a completely different person than I am now, and going back home, if I can even call it that, seems daunting.

So close, yet so far.

Whenever I’m there, I stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone looks at me when I’m walking in the mall or waiting in line at Jollibee. I hate it. Because I’m fairer skinned than everyone else, the locals, my mother, my brother, my grandma, everyone looks at me funny. I used to love it when I was younger because people would mistake me for an “artista” (a famous person in the Philippines). All the famous Filipino celebrities in soap operas, movies, and even on billboards are mixed-race Filipinos. Half of the contestants that win Miss Universe and represent the Philippines are a combination of German, Australian, and Filipino. I used to think “Wow! That could be me” as if that was some kind of representation, and it is, but something feels wrong about it.

Imposter Syndrome is hard to crack. Image by me

Of course, it’s amazing seeing all these biracial Filipino women succeed in mainstream media, but all of the darker-skinned Filipinos, all the Filipino women I grew up with and learned from, have no representation of their own. With skin whitening products being sold as much as roadside Banana-Q, a Eurocentric beauty standard is being shoved in the faces of millions of Filipinos. It feels as if I’m contributing to a problem by existing. I’m walking around in a place that feels so distant, yet so close to me.

The pressure cooker.

It’s interesting how when I go back to the Philippines, I feel the pressure to prove how Filipino I really am, and not to my family, but to myself. I want to try all the food, no matter how stinky the fruit is or what organ of the cow I’m eating, I have to do it. I need to understand the language even if that means slowly reading the lips of my grandma or delaying my responses to catch up, I need to understand. When I’m in the US, I feel the desire to prove it to others and myself because I’m not constantly surrounded by my culture. The other day I found an Asian grocery store here in Boston that sold my favorite Pancit Canton packets and tocino-seasoned spam to cook at my apartment. I told all my friends and bragged about it out of pure happiness that I found something that reminded me of home.

"My definition of home is my Filipino culture as it is for my mother. It is something that isn’t tangible, but rather a feeling of completeness and warmth."

Generations. My mom (Left), Me (Middle), and my Grandma (Right). Image by me.

Filipino is home.

In times like these, I think about my mother and how she must’ve felt picking up and leaving everything she’s ever known behind. It must feel good to finally return when we touch down at Silay Airport and hurt so much when we fly into JFK. Imagine departing from a place you called home your whole life to move across the world to live out what you thought was the dream. She isn’t able to see her mother every day or immerse herself in the culture she once knew very well. Instead, she gives my brother and me a taste of what’s left on her palette to make sure we know where we came from. My journey through identity is very complicated, but I know deep down that the constant reassurance and approval of being Filipino must come from myself. My definition of home is my Filipino culture as it is for my mother. It is something that isn’t tangible, but rather a feeling of completeness and warmth. It’s easier said than done, but through writing this blog, I’ve learned that continuous communication, introspection, and just going easy on myself are more than enough to achieve this someday.