“Ka-babae mong tao, ang gulo ng kwarto mo!” (You’re a womanly person and yet, your room is a mess!) I hear my mother shout in fury from the other room— my younger sister’s room. Her distinct and strong voice was one I could recognize from miles away, from years ago. It was the voice I have listened to my entire life, the voice that taught me how to speak, the voice that forced me to listen. It was the voice that often partnered the sentence she just exclaimed and has been said my entire life.
My sister’s room is speckled with dust, dirty clothes hanging around and stationary scattered everywhere. But often and when I look for her, I find her in solitude— in that space, one that she proudly calls her own. I’ve offered to clean it for her numerous times as I find cleaning to be a stress reliever, but she always refuses, rarely letting anyone into her bedroom. I’ve long wondered how she could handle staying in that bedroom as long as she can, how she can endure hearing the same exact sentence said to her in anger so many times. “Ka-babae mong tao, ang gulo ng kwarto mo”, I’ve soon realized is a sentence that is layered with thoughts of what it means to be a woman, to be a human, and to be a Filipino. It imposes standards specific to being a woman— the need to appear clean and put-together. Parallel to the need of a personal space meant only for themselves being clean and curated to be perceived by others, women feel the need to look the way they are meant to be perceived— even their inner thoughts, their choices and personal lives. It imposes standards specific to being human— the word ‘babae’ (woman), attached to the word ‘tao’ (human), in the sentence alludes to the idea that if you have failed to conform to the idea of being a woman, you have failed at being human. It imposes standards specific to being a Filipino— being hospitable and taking others in, even if it compromises your own space or life. Looking back at all the times she has silently taken in my mother’s voice, I could only come up with one logical— or one could say— illogical, conclusion as to why she has done so. It is something that being a woman, being human, being Filipino all have in common— exactly why my sister could do it so effortlessly. Love. However, as I have also learned, how you must love as these three different entities are different from each other.
My sister’s room, as ironic as it seems, does not have a mirror in sight. Yet, it is a reflection of all she has loved— as a human, a woman and a Filipino. On her shelves lay books that are stained with highlights, a snake plant in the corner, a rosary hanging on the handle of her door, letters that are crumpled and wrinkled— things that sustain life and nurture it, those that teach compassion and store memories, things that make her human. Piles of clothes passed down from me lay on the floor, a pink ceramic jewelry box adorned with jewelry from when she was 7 and the ones she got online last Christmas, cut up pictures of her and her friends, fluffy plushies and decorated bed sheets— things that identify her as much as it categorizes her, that force her to conform as much as she willingly embraces, things that make her a woman. A walis tambo (soft broom) paired with a dustpan roams her room, often lingering longer than they should be as they collect dust that only leaves once she has the will to bring it outside. A pair of tsinelas (slippers) exclusively worn only once you enter the room in order to keep the outside dust away, sits beside her bedroom door. These items are often unremarkable, yet remain a necessity. Often loved but forgotten, only embraced when utilized— things that make her Filipino.
My sister’s room is a mess, but it is kept with truth and beauty. It is chaos unique to her and stores things that can only be found once one chooses to scavenge for it. It is a collection of not only the different things she loves, but the different ways she loves. Leaving her room untouched allows her to reconcile the different sides of her, allows her to love with compromise. The way she loves is a trainwreck that breaks the boundaries of what is meant to be— breaks the standards of compassion as a human, conformity as a woman or accommodation as a Filipino. As she steps outside of her room untouched, she lets the people worthy of her love— those who do not ridicule the mess she keeps— into her room and they discover the warm hidden nest she has made for herself and are able to sleep as they would in other rooms. It is as decorated as she is, as inspired.
Beyond the surface-level mess they find themselves in, they find the room lit in warm, yellow lighting, soft bed sheets and blankets, scented candles and a chess board she plays only with her valued companions. Beyond the love she gives, one finds that there is more to her than love. There is more to being a human, a woman, and a Filipino than love. There is creativity, there is courage and there is identity. No matter how hard I scrub against the tiled floor, or sweep the webs off the walls, my room can never be as clean as hers.
As a sixteen year old student writer born and raised in the Philippines, Audrey De Leon is fond of Filipino
media and culture. With Filipino as her mother tongue and English as her second language, she is
interested in learning how to write in different writing styles and genres using both languages. Gaining
interest in writing from her previous academic writing assignments, she began taking it as a hobby
through joining her school’s publication. During her junior high school years, she worked as a Research
section writer, Filipino section writer, and eventually, an editor. After entering a new school for senior
high school, she began and is currently working as a Promenade section writer. She hopes to continue her
pursuit of writing and introduce Filipino media and culture to people from different parts of the world.
Photo provided by author.
