Musings from a fake Ilonggo

What happens when you grow up and out of your hometown?

MANILA, Philippines — When people find out that I’m “from Bacolod,” I always tell them that I’m “fake Ilonggo.” I always say, “I was born there but I grew up in Manila.”

I think it’s important to immediately make the distinction. There’s an expectation that comes with being Bacolodnon, one of them being that we’re wild partiers and a carefree bunch. I get drunk on one beer. There is a clannish-ness to them, and they’ll always ask if you know so-and-so, who happens to be from Bacolod as well. And that’s not annoying because it’s true. Bacolod can seem like a small town where everyone knows everybody else. (So there’s a high probability that I do not know your friend from Bacolod.) I don’t speak Hiligaynon, but I can understand it. And while I’m a generally happy and fun-loving person, it’s not because I’m Ilonggo.

Bacolod is my hometown because I was born there and my family is from there, but it isn’t home to me. Growing up, we would spend summers there, and while it was fun to hang out with my cousins, I always felt like an outsider. I was the “city boy,” and my cousins and siblings wouldn’t let me explore the farm with them because I might slow them down or get into an accident. All my siblings grew up there before my family moved to Manila. I was two years old when this happened, so there’s no real connection.

I just felt like an outsider all the time. I’m from Bacolod but I could never speak the language — everyone there does. There’s a languid pace and you could get anywhere in less than half an hour, even if you were going to the next town, and I couldn’t take living at that speed. As a Manila boy, you get ready two hours before you have to be somewhere and then give an hour to get to your destination. In Bacolod, you start dressing up 20 minutes before you have to be somewhere and you’ll still get there early. That would drive me insane.

It wasn’t until 2010 that I had to actually live in Bacolod for two and a half years. I almost died from meningitis; I lost 20 kilos, almost lost my vision, and was vomiting twice a day. I had to recover and my parents, who were living in my hometown, brought me with them to get better.

I still hated the pace of it all but there was nothing more relaxing and soothing than living in Bacolod. There’s no pressure there. I could do all my errands on a Monday morning, which would usually take me five days in Manila. The food is amazing. I quickly gained weight eating chicken inasal, kansi (bone marrow broth), and all the other great food the city is known for. It would be silent at night with the occasional songs of night birds. When it would rain, you could hear the sound of crickets piercing the evening quiet. In the morning, you’d hear Sunbirds and Fantails playing and cooing in the garden.

There was no better place for me to get better, really, because the people are so warm and friendly.

There’s a reason that Bacolod, or the whole province of Negros Occidental, has constantly been among the top five best retirement destinations in the country. When I got sick again in 2015, I returned to Bacolod for a year and two months to get better.

Bacolod is my hometown. My family is there. When I visit, I don’t do anything but eat and sleep. But I’m always going to be a city boy, so I can never stay for longer than a week. The very thought of it scares me. But when I’m there, I feel rested and relaxed and without pressure or stress.

I supposed that’s what one wants from a home. Maybe I’m just too much of a “city boy” with impossibly big dreams to appreciate that just yet. Maybe I need to grow older to truly appreciate Bacolod for exactly what it is. Just not yet.