Buoyancy Along the Currents of My Blood
Lineage and Memory Within the Banks of My Veins
I am the son of a schoolteacher and an architect. Before that, in the Philippines, my grandmother on my mom’s side was also a schoolteacher. My grandfather, who was married to her for almost 70 years, had a small business as the town tailor while also managing a rice farm that he owned. On my father’s side, both grandparents were farmers.
Beyond this small amount of information, I do not know much.
There is this burgeoning notion that, in our blood, we carry the trauma our ancestors internalized, in addition to all the genetic information that colors our eyes, hair, and skin and shapes our entire bodies. If this is true, then can we also carry their most meaningful joys, wisdom, and love?
I do not know. Perhaps I never will, but asking the question is worthwhile.
But I have so many questions.
Near the end of WWII, Japan attacked and occupied the Philippines. It was during this time that my grandfather on my mom’s side, whose name was Rafael, dug a hole in the family living room in case rounds of ammunition were shot into the houses of their village.
Indeed, that hole in the ground wound up saving their lives.
My grandmother, a lifelong schoolteacher, stubbornly turned down multiple promotions to teach older students and take on leadership positions in school administration. She taught second grade for her entire lifelong career, and to this day, I wonder about the wisdom behind that resolute decision.
My mom grew up in a small town called Zaragoza in a massive region of rice farms, and my father was raised in a city called Cabanatuan just a half hour north from there.
Are there memories flowing in my blood of sunsets stretching across endless rice fields?
Of early mornings entering a school building carrying a stack of books, the smell of chalk settled in each room . . .
Of fabric being cut and trimmed for the inevitable sewing . . .
Of long days harvesting rice and tending to minor aches and pains . . .
Of the laughter and chatter of schoolchildren . . .
Of the shattering force of bullets from a gun . . .
Of the smell of chicken adobo wafting from a kitchen . . .
Of the tactile feel of wrapping lumpia with your bare hands . . .
What if, in some cumulative way, I carry everything?
What if I carried every decision, heartbreak, triumph, and loss that came before me?
Would this be a burden or a gift?
All I know is that everything I do, the sum of all my parts, seems to have started long before I ever came around.
I do not know why I can play music so naturally.
Or why I am the only left-handed person in my immediate family across two generations.
Or why I am prone toward solitary wandering.
When I was young back on the island, I would sit at the edge of a beach and stare out into the ocean for hours. I was alone with my thoughts but not alone.
I am told that I have a very loud sneeze. It sounds like an echo and a calling from somewhere far away.
Most of all, I wonder if my blood carries the intentions of my forebears—the motivations, hopes, fears, and obsessions that called them into action. Have I become who I am now because of their collective longings? Have I been held by all their hands this whole time?
I have a large birthmark on my left leg. Maybe it is a message from an ancestor many moons removed from my birth. Ink blotted and smeared across time. Perhaps it should serve as a reminder of how far I have traveled on a path paved with love long ago.
I wish I could hold my grandmother’s hand and get a sewing lesson from my grandfather. I wish I could taste the rice my ancestors harvested to make a living.
If I am resilient now or have even an ounce of courage, maybe it is because I do not stand alone.
UPCOMING SHOWS FOR FALL 2024:
RNBW Collective at Lipstick Lounge
September 17, 2024
Nashville, TN
BoroPride (Mainstage)
October 12, 2024
Murfreesboro, TN
The French House
December 1, 2024
Nashville, TN
Last week, I attended an artist talk at a gallery in Nashville called Begonia Labs. The artists were showing works that reflected feelings about Palestine and the injustices being carried out in Gaza and the West Bank. Heartfelt thoughts were articulated, and the art on display was powerful and rich.
Art can be a mechanism for activism in ways that are emotive and unambiguous, but nonconfrontational. It can inhabit this middle ground in which we are not forced to think a certain way but gently invited to see a different perspective.
There were some beautiful pieces that were so inspiring.
Beautiful sharing, thank you.