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I am 51 years old and I am curled in a ball at the foot of my parents’ bed at The Oaks. My father, who has a reflux cough, is mostly sleeping but sometimes swearing about his god-damned cough. My mother is sleeping too, in four-minute stretches. She spends her fifth minutes anxious, often asking for me. I am here, I say, patting her. Right here on the bed. The dog is here too, snoring and not offering me any of his considerable real estate.

Thanks to @breakwaterrev for publishing my memoir-essay "The Plus." You can read the whole thing at the link in the comments.
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Here is a snippet from my #poem “Sound Bites from the Language of Silence,” finalist for the 2025 @breakwaterrev Peseroff #Poetry Prize and now published in Breakwater Review’s Issue 38! Much gratitude to Breakwater for choosing this poem as a finalist and publishing it online, and congrats to @poet_michelle_noel_alexander for winning the prize! And shout out to my workshop peers in my Spring 2025 Poetry Workshop at Emerson College for being the earliest readers of this piece and providing feedback that guided the poem to the version it is today! 

(Link to the full poem in my bio! And make sure to read it on a computer because of its experimental formatting!)

“Sound Bites from the Language of Silence” considers silence as another #language and, ultimately, as another legacy of colonialism. It explores the tongue as a battlefield of languages. It explores the intricacies of English being the dominant language for belonging and assimilation in America—how there is a violence that is possible even as early as when speech and language are being learned.

This poem for me was a reflection on my speech living in this contested liminal space when interacting with family members back in the Philippines—this amalgamation of knowing only the basics of Tagalog and my over-reliance on English sticking out like a sore thumb. This resulted in my often retreating into silence in these conversations because I didn’t know what to say, because I would be afraid of messing up, sounding/looking dumb in front of those fluent in Tagalog.

This tension culminated when my grandfather on my father’s side died a few years ago. I realized I never really had a full conversation with him due to my limited Tagalog, even in that final FaceTime when I knew he didn’t have much longer to live. I am still haunted by this fact—one that is the reason why I am striving to be more fluent in Tagalog little by little.

The video is from the last time I visited Batangas back in Jan. 2023, my father’s hometown and where my grandfather lived. There was something haunting too about how, in that moment, I felt I could speak more to the wind and the water than to the people around me.
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