34 @ zipcode 1229

My annual birthday Substack, after Linda Gregg's "The Letter"

Time is very different here. It is very good
to be away from public ambition.
I sweep and wash, cook and shop.
Sometimes I go into town in the evening
and have pastry with custard. Sometimes I sit
at a table by the harbor and drink half a beer.

— an excerpt from The Letter, Linda Gregg

Kyoto, photo by Renzo

My first real memory of moving was when we arrived at a place called ‘Ivory Court’, which sounds fancier than it looked. Unlike my dad’s posh, Makati village bungalow, with a sprawling backyard and swimming pool, this townhouse had three floors. Which, for me, at the time, seemed like a tangible measure of success: The more stairs you had, the richer you were, the closer to god, etc. I was probably six or seven. Old enough to have preferences, but too young to recognize the tumultuous period of my parents’ marriage.

My mom, sisters, and I hauled ourselves into this new, vertical life. The walls inside were white, and the outside a kind of cream slash beige, or maybe it was ivory. On the third floor was our playroom, which was always at least several degrees hotter than the rest of the house. But that didn’t bother me. Even if the room was technically joint property between me and my sisters, the same way we co-owned the box of cereal downstairs, this room felt like mine. My own little patch of sun.

That didn’t last. We moved again and again. A condo in Makati. A duplex in Marikina. Another house in Quezon City behind my grandmother’s restaurant. The sequence itself is a bit hazy. We moved so often that I eventually stopped filling out the “permanent address” line on school forms. What was the point? I told my teacher to ask me again next quarter. Was any address considered permanent if we were only renting?

I don’t blame my parents. They were younger than I am now, 34, and they had to deal with each other, landlords, and three little children. So to my mom, who follows this newsletter: Good job, mom! You kept us alive, which is no small thing.

Now I’m back in Makati, though this time with my husband and little dog. I have, unfortunately, romanticized my life here a little bit. Who wouldn't? Our apartment building has a wide staircase that we use often. The fact that I call it an apartment instead of a condo says something. My friends live on the 5th and 3rd floors. I walk to the grocery store, the gym, and to work. You’d be surprised how your life changes when everything is 15 minutes away on foot. Some days, I run into someone I know on one of my walks. Makati is full of life and some petty crime, though not quite the Quezon City or City of Manila garden variety. I like imagining that I belong here. Everything within a 2km radius is part of my oyster. I’m Andy Sachs, and our barangay must surely be Brooklyn, even if I’ve never been to New York.

It’s a miracle to talk about it this way. When exactly one year ago, I felt like dying. The very idea of moving away was so overwhelming, swallowing me whole for days at a time. To leave the home we had stayed in the longest on record was like cutting flesh. I cried for days. If only grief alone could pay for our move. The younger versions of me bubbling back up to the surface. An ache more than 20 years in the making. It took months for me to recover, to unclench, to believe that all the time and resources were worth it. To slowly settle into this new life that brings me peace and even some joy.

At 34, I’ve realized that I’m a dramatic person and a touch too sentimental. I don’t always have things to say these days, because I believe that anyone with any measure of privilege should be listening instead of talking. But I hope you’ll allow me this once-a-year accounting. These days, I’m learning more about myself and my husband. I’ll have a coffee where the smiley barista remembers my order. I go for regular runs. I’m feeling a lot stronger, I am taking good care of myself. I’m trying to catch up on all the reading I’ve put off for years. I hang our wet laundry in a straight line in the sun. I’m not sure what I hope for. Maybe my happiness proves a weakness in my life. I’ll walk to my favorite bar and back again. I imagine the sidewalks are part of our rent.