Going back home takes on epic angst for those who left their motherland for greener, or just less fraught, pastures. A classic immigrant dilemma has always been, and will continue to be, the feeling of living between two worlds -- never quite belonging in either. As Roxas says in her preface, they are “the migrant souls suspended in worlds ‘between and betwixt.’” So what happens when you try to go back to where you came from? Is it truly a homecoming, or are you a stranger in a world that’s changed in your absence?
In Hangang sa Muli, editor Reni R. Roxas compiles memoirs, poetry, short stories and essays about transplanted Filipinos (or their children) returning home. The stories and narratives bounce between expressing intense nostalgia, alienation, enlightenment, and an almost oppressive homesickness in their return to home. While some of the pieces run together in a sort of familiar, and not wholly original, immigrant woes song and dance, the collection is eventually balanced out by a few standouts that offer an original voice and perspective on the immigrant experience of returning home.
The collection opens with “Ghost Town,” a memoir by Jessica Hagedorn, and it arguably sets the tone for the entire collection. Hagedorn and fellow expat Filipino pals throw nostalgic get-togethers -- eating Filipino dishes and watching movies that remind them of home. This nostalgic self-indulgence about the home left behind (Hagedorn herself a teenager at the time of her exodus) stubbornly pierces through the rest of this collection. Hagedorn wryly observes that “[the real Philippines] is a nostalgic cliché, romantic bullshit, I know -- yet I surrender to its spell.”
This bold admission in its sharp self-awareness is what’s missing in many of the stories that follow. In James Constantino Bautista’s “A Cherished Haunting,” the author as a teenager visits his parents’ home in the Philippines, meeting family members for the first time. In his short visit, he feels that he has known his cousins “his entire life” and compares his return home to “a death.” Unlike Hagedorn, Bautista doesn’t observe this instant nostalgia with any self-awareness, and it comes off just a tad overdramatic. The teenage angst loses weight in a story that doesn’t offer much meat beyond missing relatives back in the Philippines. Just when the homesickness for these second generation Americans begins to feel heavy-handed, Toni M. Bajado’s poem “First Visit to Balogo: Ancestral Philippine Farmland” breathes some fresh air into the collection. The narrator sits on a truck headed to her family’s hometown, luxuriating in the textures of a place she has never been, and she beautifully describes her journey as:
I have been sleepwalking
for miles, across continents,
to return to the beginning.
Often paired with this longing for home is guilt-laden regret for having left in the first place. Marivi Solen Blanco returns back home to attend her father’s funeral in “Mourning Flight,” and the unrelenting burden of knowing “I was not home” haunts her the entire flight. Forging a new life so far away has its consequences. One misses births, graduations, weddings, and then ultimately, they miss the opportunity for final farewells. Aimee Suzara’s poem “this house” takes the narrator back to her grandparents’ house after their death, and she is assaulted by memories buried in the ailments that plagued her grandparents at the end of their lives. Her absence during their sickness is merely hinted at, but Suzara spells out her regret and pain in dense but lovely, choking prose. It is one of the few moments in this collection that feels visceral and raw, revealing a relatable vulnerability.
Carlos Bulosan’s “The Laughter of My Father” and “America is in the Heart” open the short story section. With trademark elegance, Bulosan offers a different perspective on the homecoming narrative; one character looks back on a very specific coming-of-age memory in the Philippines, and another runs from his demons to find his brother, and what he hopes is home, in prohibition-era California. These characters attempt to return home through memories and the people who share them in a time while struggling in an unforgiving foreign land.
The pervasive theme of immigrant alienation takes root in this section. In one of the strongest stories of the collection, “The Axolotl Colony,” alienation comes in the form of a bewildered Filipino graduate student blindsided by the unthinkable -- his wife leaving him for an American. When he finally sees the fruits of his wife’s academic labor, experimenting on mutilated salamanders for her zoology doctorate, he feels a sickening empathy with the pathetic creatures: “He thought of the drugged apparitions in fishbowls, living on an over-rich diet of chicken liver. In the forest and warm lakes of Mexico, in their element, they could have been the fierce golden creatures they were.” And so the divorcé misguidedly thinks of his marriage as well, that it would have lasted if they had only stayed in the Philippines.
This distorted idealization of life in the Philippines is exhausted in several of the stories and essays in the second half of this collection. “Filipinos in America” follows the obsessive longings of a woman whose friends have left for the U.S. She cannot reconcile the idea that they may have found better lives with her own feeling that no one would ever want to leave their home country. And in “Sleepwalking Through Korea, Awake in Manila” the narrator’s mulish refusal to enjoy even a moment of a temporary stay in Seoul is so unsympathetic that it’s almost a caricature of homesickness. More than a few pieces beat this dead horse, and it’s the biggest weakness in the collection.
Luckily, the collection ends with a sober but descriptive account by Jeff Rice in a piece called “Sambayan.” Rice, as a young Filipino American, visits the Philippines after joining a Filipino political organization in the U.S. There he witnesses the Philippines in all its grit, political turmoil, and industrialization. His love for the people of the Philippines isn’t driven by a hazy nostalgia for something that may not exist. Instead he believes the people’s spirit and passion can form the roots for change and progress. This progression forward is the most appealing voice in the collection. For when Bulosan’s character cries “Please, God, don’t change me in America!” it is a futile plea that hangs onto the past. Because change doesn’t necessarily obliterate your history. You can return home, but not in the form of a fixed memory -- it will always evolve to fit into the many different steps in an immigrant’s journey.
When she's not road raging through her hometown of Los Angeles, Maurene Goo spends her days writing and designing.