I was looking at my old entries especially those that were written before my undergrad thesis days. I noticed how much more beautifully I wrote back then. Each sentence was meticulously written where each word meant something, and when you tied them all together it would create a colourful painting.
Ever since I took poetry class, I integrated my lessons into how I would translate imagery into text. I wanted to paint a picture through senses and emotions. It felt close and personal, and almost voyeuristic.
I think that was my main focus on writing–to provide a direct connection from senses, emotions, and experiences to text. But as I got more and more into research, my writing style started to change.
I was more focused at building a narrative, a coherent story, a journey that would take the reader from point A to point B. Think of it this way: my poetry writing style focused on illustrating a snapshot in time while my narrative writing has a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Finally knowing the difference between the two, I have to find a way to join the best of both worlds while making the least compromise.
I have never openly called myself a Filipino because I am the least Filipino person I know. My ideals, culture, and even language exudes globalisation. Yet each time I find myself exhibiting unique characteristics, like eating rice, I don’t tell my friends, “I like rice because I’m Filipino.”
I would say, “I like rice because I’m Asian.”
In fact, when people are surprised by my age, I tell them, “It’s Asian genes.”
Maybe I’m more comfortable being Asian than being Filipino since this is what I really am. I’m Asian. Well, I’m an Asian influenced by globalisation.
Does this mean that I should correct people who call me Filipino? Well, no. Technically they’re not wrong. I’m definitely Asian. Hell, I’d take a bowl of noodles any day.
I do have friends who tell me I’m a white man born in an Austronesian body. Maybe I’m that? Who knows?