Leaving home

On my first day of nursery school I clung to mama and wouldn't let go. What if she doesn't fetch me, I thought. I didn't want to be left in my new school all alone! When dismissal time finally came and my mom wouldn't be in my first line of sight at the gate, I would collapse and cry myself to relief, as if wailing would magically summon her. Of course I was five years old at the time.

This afternoon I clung to mama again and wouldn't let go. And before that to my papa. And before that to my nephew. And before that, my sisters. And before that, my boyfriend. I clung to them tightly, as if doing so would make leaving easier. Of course it only made leaving all the more painful.

Today was different. Now a man of 26, I was not afraid for myself: I was afraid for them. Who's going to stop papa from eating that last morsel of chicharon? Who's going to listen to my mama when she needs to de-stress? I feel like my sisters would be losing their older brother, their protection and anytime go-to guy. Javi would be losing his doting uncle. As for Karlo, as I've said one time too many, who's going to take care of the little things when I'll be halfway across the world?

Throughout my final weeks at home, I avoided administering any final instructions (huling habilin). Doing so would only heighten the farewell-ness of the occasion. And ever the post-modern stoic, I had programmed myself to remain sober during the airport send-off. Crying was for the OFW movie, I convinced myself. Yet in the throes of several last embraces, my defenses fell: I was sobbing outside the airport like a girl. On impulse I whispered my final requests: to my eldest sister, take care of Javi; to my middle sister, take care of Karlo; to my mom, take care of Papa and Karlo; and to Karlo, take care of my family. I think I was confusing my leaving with death!

I was lucky the ground crew didn't charge fees for my excess baggage: responsibility. I felt that I had to take care of these people, and that if anything were to happen while I was away, I'd be the one to blame. To stave off my guilt, I wanted to make sure--ever the obsessive-compulsive anal queen--that I'd be leaving each of them in capable hands.

But now, as I muffle sobs 30,000 feet in the air, I realize: maybe I was confusing responsibility with conceit. Like the world couldn't turn without me. Like I was the glue keeping my family together. Like Karlo couldn't manage without my domestic services. Perhaps I also have to accept that they could all manage without me.

Perhaps I should also leave my conceit at home, that I could fill out the void it leaves with more faith in the people I love. More trust. And in the wellspring of faith and trust that my letting go would open, maybe I could also fetch a bucket for myself.

Not quite Superman

He called to tell me that he has an office function--that he'll be off work past 9pm and not at 7pm as agreed.  At first I wanted to grumble and whine. "Had I known earlier, then I wouldn't have parked my ass in Starbucks and sat through 3 kill-time hours!" But I bit my tongue, even though he trailed off into boisterous laughter on the other end of the phone.

"It's ok," I mumbled, dreading the thought of having dinner alone and spending a few more hours with only my online tutorials to keep me company, trying to forget that I could have curled up with my nephew at home rather than loiter in a coffee shop with strangers.

And that's when it hit me: what right have I to complain when what he did to me tonight was what I'll be doing to him for two years? Cue the tears.

Finding my as-yet response-less tweet an inadequate catharsis, I sent an SMS message to two very close friends. They both reassured me that my boyfriend would eventually get used to the distance, cope, and grow in ways he wouldn't have had I not left. That he is, in fact, proud of what I'll be doing, and perfectly understands that our sacrifice is not for naught.

I suppose he will, and I suppose he does. But I asserted that for as long as we reside in the transition, I can feel only guilt: I still can't bear the thought of him eating canned food for dinner and waking up in the morning with no one to hug except his fat sexless roommate. If a single ditched night took this much understanding on my part, how deep a well of understanding does he need to start digging?

Cue more tears. And not just for those canned meals and sexless hugs. I think I was also crying about myself.

Perhaps, I told my friend, I'm having trouble admitting to myself that I'm still that sentimentality junkie from 70 more lbs ago. Maybe I feel pressured to sustain this "I'm post-modern about relationships" narrative because I could not concede to the prevailing discourse of romance and dependency that so-called lesser mortals are wont. Maybe, I thought, I'm too caught up in a highly calculated self-portrayal that realizing I have this kind of feelings for a person expresses itself like an allergy.

I suppose that much to my dismay, I was reduced to being vulnerable. And with less than 2 weeks from my plane ride to Boston, I could afford none of it.

Please no despedidas.

A week prior my last day at work, one of my officemates asked if I was having a despedida (going-away) party. Asked if I should, she explained that it was a good way of celebrating a successful transitioning. I just shrugged and said that if I would be having one, I certainly did not want to organize it for myself.

In a month I'll be making the big move: a 19-hour flight to Boston where I will school in the so-called hallowed halls of Harvard Business School.  It's the first time anyone from my family is moving away from home.  I'll be leaving behind a three-year-old nephew who is only beginning to form complete sentences and a relationship 8 months his senior.  By leave I mean physically; no more.

In a poignant scene from last night's Toy Story 3, Andy's mother breaks into tears as she lays sight on Andy's room being empty for the first time. Andy, now 17 and going to college, has wiped his room clean of any memory of his living there--clothes, toys, photos, and all.  I couldn't help but ruminate on my own departure, and on the tears I'm likely to encounter.

I'm not so sure if my mom would have enough emotional space to cry, what with all her last-minute reminders and "did you remember to bring your so-and-so"s. My eldest sister, whose autism bestowed on her psychic sensitivity, will surely shed a tear or two. My middle sister will probably remain composed, too busy restraining her toddler who, in an uncanny manner, manages to comprehend the gravitas of a departure when he sees one. But among my family, it's my father, the closet emotional, whom I expect to be a wreck. Not only am I fulfilling my dreams; I am fulfilling his. Of course, he may merely be lamenting the loss of his everyday computer technician.

What I am not ready for is my boyfriend's weeping. He who expresses his love with gentle kisses and loving caresses, and who expects love to be reciprocated likewise. Oh, will he weep. I am confident that he could already look past the geographical distance and focus on the prize; he understands that being apart now is a small sacrifice in relation to whatever gains await us. What he cannot get over--and only recently even I cannot, for the love of God--is the everyday: the morning rides, the home-cooked dinners, the goodnight hugs, the weekend sleep-ins and the anytime embraces. I suppose it's hard for any couple to stay apart for this long. But considering he's lived in 7 houses for the past 28 years, it's a newfound stability that my leaving will deny him. And for which I bear the utmost guilt.

Which is why I am opposed to the idea of a despedida. All a despedida does is draw attention to my leaving--place three exclamation points where I deem a humble semi-colon is more appropriate. And though I speak of this "big move" with such enthusiasm, I've always regarded it as an inevitable.  Hence,  nothing is to be celebrated; let's save the time and effort for my homecoming when we could toast to an accomplished accomplishment.

Without being too presumptive, I ask for no going away parties where my boyfriend, among all, will only start feeling lonely when he shouldn't yet feel so.  I ask for for no reminders that my life with my family--the way we've known it--is about to end.

I only ask that we share a meal and act as if nothing will ever change between us.