17WE CAME BACK to the Philippines soon after, a few months before senior year was over. Recoiling. Isn’t that the gut reaction when you encounter extremes? Too hot or cold.
Too ugly or beautiful. We were ants scattered under bullet raindrops, looking for cracks to disappear into. It was futile, because more than wanting to leave places or people behind, what I really
wanted was to be able to leave my very self, strip out my skin, douse it with acid, hang it under the sun to dry.
Manila looked like any other city from the airplane window. I looked at the small buildings and houses below as the airplane approached. When we got through the airport, I felt oddly alone when
no porter came to manhandle my bags. Dad and I quietly wheeled our strollers to the taxi stand.
Outside, the billboar
