On loving a city
We are not required to love our home immediately. Sometimes, it takes years.
High school graduation feels distant — nearly two years ago I had stepped out of my alma mater with a renewal, a motivation to go into college to pursue my hobbies, interests, and studies. My motivation was not a linear trajectory; parents and friends warned me that the path was not smooth, that from there on out the roads will just get narrower and steeper. I was a boy of stubbornness. My old habits of being carefree lingered, as I’d thought the scenery would just be the same. Minimal effort, cramming, easygoing socials, the entire platter.
When I’d moved into a new city — my new home for the next few years — I realized life will never be as it was.
At first, I was relaxed. I was picking up my pace in studying, and I still had time for a lot of extra-curriculars. I’d dare to say that I was performing well. And I was, for the most part. But something kept tugging at the back of my mind, a fleeting thought of not being enough. This lack of fulfillment was etched into my subconscious despite the loud laughter I’d always exuded in class. Am I studying enough? Why don’t I look forward to going home every day? What happened to my social life?
What is my purpose?
I’d have big doubts about pursuing Medicine in such a noxious state, and frankly, my confusion on how to adapt turned me into a suit of skin alien to my own identity. I ignored the hands asking for spare change, the whispers seeking directions, the eyes hopeful for attention. It was as if kindness was in a different language I refused to learn.
Maybe it was because of my new environment. I was a freshman at a good university, top of the field, actually, but the surroundings were not necessarily conducive for learning. Manila is a city of smoke forcing its way into the crevices of everyone’s daily grind. It was hell for me at first, its gates causing turmoil in my gut. It was a city rooted in overwork, of brisk walking through seas of people whose names one will never be able to learn. I had trouble facing the social realities everyone there struggles with everyday: the tiredness, the hunger, the poverty, the longing for a better future. I was living alone in this ocean of reality, overwhelmed with the amount of catching up I had to do with the real world. There were nights when I’d simply breakdown because of this alienation; feeling like dust in a city of soot and broken heritage was like forgetting my own name. And my family, despite being just a city away, felt distant. It came to a point of thinking that they were a nuisance to my mode of catching up with the wires of Manila, and I’d felt shame in that. Everything was new and I was ignorant, like in 7th grade, yearning for the familiar to come back.
Compounded to this unfamiliarity was the struggle with the fast pace. The comfort I once had, sticking to my own little routine was probably an insult to my new city, which favored the busyness of feet, the movement of vehicles, and the roar of horns. I found myself unable to stop, and my thoughts were always drowned out by the repetitive screams of varying tones. One day it was an infant shrieking. The next, it was a witch hunt of thieves along Padre Faura Street. The loudness of this concrete jungle was simply deafening.
These were my tipping points: the environment, pace, and academics were all aspects of the epiphany to get it together. I was clueless at first, but then I started noticing details, big and small.
The thought that all of those busy feet, whose bodies bumped into me haphazardly, were headed towards their loved ones. That the lights we’d seen on buildings and cars were representative of the people who breathed in this city. That the loud sirens which had wailed were of vehicles en route to save hundreds of lives. That the vendors — and everyone else — were looking for ways to scrape by. That the rallies we’d heard as we walked to our classes were voiced by people concerned for our rights. These truths, which seemed like vague backgrounds in my first semester, blurred visions of identity, now prove to be the reasons why I fell in love with my city. It was a realization that I had a role in this, to fix the system, perhaps, and to recognize the humanity within these roads, as broken and as filled with rubble as they may be. Part of me thought that the universe had a role in this as well. And part of me thinks that all of these are lessons to be learned for the long-haul.
I found that learning compassion and empathy was possible within the four walls of a classroom. But applying these values in the real world can never be just theoretical; they manifest with the usual conversations we have along sidewalks, simple gestures also manifesting as irreplaceable learning.
I remember meeting a lola on my way out of the hospital. She’d asked for directions to the ER and spare change, both of which my colleague and I gave earnestly after hearing her story and condition. It was only after an hour later when we’d realized that she may have been up for a procedure which may alter her lifestyle forever, due to a simple injury to the foot. At that point, I was hurt the same way I’d been when I started this journey, but not because I was frustrated at my environment, but because I knew I could’ve — and should’ve — done more to help her get to that ER. When we realize our acts can have great impacts to others, no matter how small such acts may be, we start striving to become more diligent, compassionate, and empathetic to the needs of those we want to help. This is the role I discovered for myself.
By then, my tears were not caused by the discomfort I’d felt for my city anymore. Instead, I was crying because of the newfound hope I have to be better. Now, my pursuit of Medicine is a pursuit of reducing the suffering I’d blatantly ignored at the start of the road. Always some spare change for the hands of the mother wanting to buy milk. Always clear directions for the whispers of the feeble man who wants to reunite with his grandson. Always the smile, the “Good morning!” to the people I pass by along the hallways of the Emergency Room. Little by little, I picked up pieces of myself, slowly but surely removing the inadequacies from the start.
My city is making me whole again.
It is not easy to learn that the world is not going to be kind to us, though. It took me tearful nights and vulnerable afternoons just to come to terms with being thrown off the deep end. But applying what we learn, despite the hurt, gets us by. Adjusting to our own concrete jungles is a constant process we must undertake to find our lost fragments. If our experiences are tied to the place we move in, we might as well try to make sense out of it. Retain our grounding. Bring our people with us. Attempt making peace with the forest of wires.
It was not easy for me. I even hated this city for a while. But now, I owe my purpose to its beautiful — albeit imperfect — reality.
