That extraordinary everyday thing
Part II of my Valentine's series
There was no reason for Michael and I to have met. We went to different schools, lived in different cities, shared no common friends, moved within circles that didn’t really intersect. Our worlds only brushed because of a summer writing workshop I randomly found on Facebook to compensate for my high school’s lack of a writing program, and even then we never spoke. I liked him then the way a timid young girl liked the popular young boy, which was with averted gazes and always from a distance, so even after two consecutive summers we never engaged in conversation. Several years and relationships later, I find myself a little braver and surer of my footing, so when we didn’t match on Bumble (he had been inactive) I took fate into my own hands and wrote him a message on Facebook (again) from out of nowhere—hi!
From there, it was quick. At our first date, we found common ground in the most unexpected things, laughed too well over afternoon coffee, kissed while waiting for green at a traffic light on the corner of my street. I knew then it was different, the way things about us fell into place. An electric ease, like seeing the same world with new, eager eyes. It was dizzying and terrifying and wonderful and, embarrassingly, the gushiest I had ever been in my entire life.
From there, we would spend many months of our relationship in long distance thanks to work, academic conferences, and travel. Him in Batangas, Texas, or Amsterdam; myself in Quezon City, Palawan, Yogyakarta, or California. The months we had together we spent inseparably. We’d stay over at each other’s places, wherever that may be at the time, and accompany each other to family functions, barkada reunions, errand runs. We followed our own timeline, and without really thinking about it, that gave us countless opportunities early on to test each other in revelatory situations—how we behave within each other’s social circles; deal with housework; handle inconvenience, conflict, failure, or illness; manage finances; express intimacy in person and at a distance; celebrate milestones, big and small. The intertwining of our lives grew steady roots, and from it, a true partnership.
We make choices every day. We make them with limited visibility—a few steps ahead and not much more—and so they lead us to unexpected places. I just wanted to write one summer. In another, much later, I broke off a relationship of over two years. Now I wake up next to Michael every morning, inside a tiny home we call ours.
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I had him reread “Another Lip Rehearsal”, and as always, asked:
What do you think? It’s not too romantic, right?
—It’s…pretty sweet.
Yeah, but not that sweet. Like, it’s dessert but—
—It’s not a sugar bomb, yeah.
That I am a woman writer means I am, as a matter of being “taken seriously”, conscious about the topics I choose to publicly write about. Male artists with their muses are considered great and noble, but women who write of love are still largely dismissed as frivolous and shallow. That’s hardly surprising, but it really is odd considering that the pursuit of love, in all its forms, romantic and otherwise, is arguably what our whole lives revolve around. What liar will claim they do not want to love or be loved?
Still, I struggle with writing anything saccharine, but this isn’t because I think little of romance. There are just things that I don’t believe I can sufficiently put into words (I do love my clichés); not yet at least. When the day is beautiful, I’d rather sit in the sun with my coffee than write about the blueness of the sky. So much about my life with Michael is truly, truly lovely, but I don’t know yet how to speak about them in a way that goes beyond recollection. About the pancakes he makes some mornings, or the way he challenges my ideas with ferocity and compassion, or that time we hiked Vintgar Gorge in the rain. With more time I am sure I will find my words.
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I left my entire world in Manila to move abroad for a man. I know.
Anyone who has migrated understands that it takes a powerful force to uproot yourself from the place you call home. There are the forces that coerce migration—economic hardship, political instability, environmental disasters. It takes that much because home is home, so for others like myself who are fortunate enough to move voluntarily, the motivation behind such a decision must be one that is impossible to ignore. The risks and challenges—discrimination, alienation, legal and financial hurdles—are too high for it to be made lightly.
When I decided to stay in the United States, I felt very strongly about two things. One, I wanted to close the distance between me and Michael. The prospect of settling for yearly visits for the indefinite future was unacceptable to me at that point. We wanted to be with each other, so a decision had to be made. Two, I was eager to gain a sense of agency. The combination of the strict lockdown measures and being in my comfort zone at home had made me become passive. I did what was expected and available; followed the stay-at-home rules, worked all day in my bedroom, watched a lot of TV, started new hobbies I didn’t sustain. I wasn’t in a bad situation at all, but I wasn’t thriving either (who was?). I knew that if I wanted to make a difference in my community—and I do, in whatever way I can—I cannot do so as a passive agent.
At the same time, I watched from afar how Michael grew into himself. The situation in Texas was famously very different from Manila’s. For better or worse, mobility wasn’t significantly hampered, and businesses, like the place he worked at, continued to operate with minimal limitations. He worked long days, lived in employee housing with two other roommates, and spent most of his free time with family or on video calls with me. The newness of that life and its demands served as fertile ground for growth and aspirations previously unimagined. I saw it in his face when I visited; I saw in it mine, too, those first few weeks I was here. The novelty of being in a strange, new place renewed my sense of wonder and belief in the possibilities I could reach out with my hands. I saw it in my face, next to the tender sadness of realizing that meant leaving everything I know behind.
Yes, I left my entire world in Manila to move abroad for a man—one who inspired me to expand my concept of what my world can be. I started a new chapter. I changed the trajectory of my life, which had started to stagnate in those years. I unlearned my acquired passivity. This required a faith and bravery I didn’t always have, which, I suppose, is the point of love. To transform, make anew, light a fire in us that brings us to move, fight, persist, survive, create, thrive. That millions of people are, like me, driven by love remind me how everyday this gesture is, and yet absolutely extraordinary. As if it’s never been done before. But it has, over and over, and will continue infinitely, as long as we exist. I find comfort and beauty in this; and much hope. It is an immense privilege to be moved by love as I have been.
Photos by Julia Bonugli.
Written over this past week, this essay is the second of two Valentine’s posts I’m sending out this weekend. Here is the first.
This is such a wonderful Valentine's Day piece Lian. Thank you for sharing this shade of love on this day.
"Michael, masculine proper name, also the name of an archangel, from Late Latin Michael, the French Michel, Spanish Miguel, from Greek Mikhael, from Hebrew Mikha-el, or 'Who is like God?' The modern form of the name was a learned form in Middle English, and instead of the big deity, I move now through the city with this name dancing on my lips like the afterglow of a kiss, with this person invisibly tethered, always, to me in promise, regardless of distance." Bravo. Keep writing, Lian. The magic is to remain smitten long after the first bite, and thus always to write young, torrid, never torpid and tired and old.