Hey, What's Up?
Of late: I finished a book, moved to Rome, started a new job, and watched the rain fall as I was stuck inside the gym
I recently read Alexander Leon’s post “Incoherence,” and I was inspired (or rather, found permission) to write my thoughts without getting bogged down by overthinking whether they’re good enough to be unleashed on an unforgiving public (I kid, I think my Substack friends are nice).
I know everyone’s life is moving very quickly, and I can no longer use that excuse to not write. Also, I know I don’t have to write. It’s a luxury I enjoy; I don’t have to worry about writing here for a living. But I feel guilty just the same. It feels so performative to say that – navel-gazing at my petty woes when children in Gaza are dying. In the grand scheme of things, what I have to say is an infinitesimal distraction from the more important events happening in the world.
If you have more pressing matters to focus on, I suggest you skip this post entirely. Close this tab and step out into the world. But if you have a few minutes, huddle close to the campfire. I promise you this story goes nowhere but I’ll try to give you a decent distraction.
Thoughts on “In Defense of Barbarism”
There's the taste of blood in my mouth, the flavor of rust that mixes with spit swirling around my tongue, as I finish Louisa Yousfi's "In Defence of Barbarism: Non-Whites Against the Empire".
Yousfi is a journalist and literary critic of Algerian origin — an identity she fiercely defends as she navigates her life in France. She resists integration, believing that being a barbarian is the better aspiration for those facing the force of assimilation by the Empire. Empire — being her singular definition of colonial powers. It is different from being a savage, Yousfi says: a savage can be civilized, a barbarian cannot.
There's an anarchical sense to how she defines the word barbarian, a particular resistance to being subjugated and subsumed into the hegemonic system, which barbarians have mastered but have rejected. She mentions rap as a tool of resistance, a way of subverting norms (the strict language rules of polite society?) to summon their vision of a world entirely their own.
And yet at the end of the book, she sighs at her failure to remain barbaric.
"We women from an immigrant background have been, and are being, hijacked – not by the state but by business," she muses. "How can we fail to notice the way the entertainment industry is glamourizing us and promoting us as ambassadors for urban culture because we seem open and attractive, and therefore easier for the general public to identify with?
"And all that despite the fact that we’re being authentic. The problem is that you can’t sell your own culture with impunity. This is not a case of cultural appropriation but of cultural exploitation: we expend crazy amounts of energy raising our profile and trying to blend into the universal. And the universal then feasts on us and spits us straight back out. You get the impression that the more ubiquitous we become, the more we’re associated with Nike, Lacoste, and Versace, the better the likes of Zemmour do in the polls. All that energy wasted.
"The tragedy is that all this hard work gets drowned out. We have nothing to show for it (except a few fat salaries for the luckiest ones). The non-white female writer cannot prevent herself from being absorbed. The progressive media put together a panel of women from an immigrant background like they would a bouquet of flowers. We see them posing, proud and dignified, on the front cover. They’re powerful, and they’re shaking the foundations of the Establishment, we’re told.
Yeah, right."
Success in a broken system stirs a sense of guilt. Survivor's guilt, as you might call it — the feeling that your achievement is validation of the system itself, which puts a wet blanket on whatever accomplishment you've managed. As an immigrant living a fairly comfortable life, I recognize the rules I had to abide by to get to where I am. I grit my teeth and smile at the microaggressions I encounter so I can continue to exist where I am. I am not painting myself as a victim here, nor am I confessing this publicly to absolve myself. I am sitting down with my guilt, or rather standing on it, attempting to change whatever I can. But I’m wondering whether the system is forcing my hand to succumb to it, rather than truly transforming the system itself radically.
Goodbye, Montpellier
Over two weeks ago, I packed my bags and left Montpellier for Rome.
Whenever I try to concretize this recent experience in my head, a French word comes to mind: arracher. It translates to uprooting, taking by force.
To clarify, there’s nothing tangibly violent about this move. Unlike the relocation from London when we had to drag large bags from St. Pancras station to Gare du Nord in Paris, it was less stressful this time around. Since we took the plane, we only had to deal with the pieces of luggage until check-in and during baggage collection. We’ve also been to Rome a couple of times, so we were arguably more prepared than for the move to Montpellier.
I’ve grown to become fond of Montpellier, though. It’s not exactly home the way I feel about Makati, but in some way, I have to admit it has become one. At the start, I didn’t know whether I could fully root myself (what with the possibility of moving only questions of time and opportunity). Still, little by little, I had grounded myself: the work at La Cagette, the language classes with my teacher-turned-friend Karen, the movie nights with Maeve and Olga, the coffee runs with Angie and David, the yoga classes and picnics with Blanche, the lunches we’ve hosted at our place, the late summer afternoons by the beach: the reasons go on. True, it wasn’t the same community I left in the Philippines in terms of scale, but the friendships I’ve formed there are enriching and profound.
B says I will get used to this life. He has traveled and lived in many places, inevitably leaving friends and making new friends in the cities he has lived in. He says it’s the trade-off we exchange for our chosen life.
I am excited to be in a new city and the possibility of new experiences. I am trying my best not to be sad. I have a new job (the reason for the move), and I should look at what’s ahead instead of ruminating over what I have decided to leave behind.
Caught in the rain
I went to the gym a few days ago when the rain poured heavily as I was about to leave after my workout. A small river formed outside the door, and I had been absorbed staring at the leaves and detritus floating on the rainwater. Something was enchanting about watching the moment happen.
As a teenage boy, I used to watch the ants in the plant pots we had on the terrace in our home in Las Piñas. I would spend hours looking at the creatures scavenging for food to eat, sometimes fighting other ants and severing their enemies’ heads. It all seems silly now, but I looked forward to it every time I’d come home from school.
The one thing I don’t enjoy about growing up is that every minute spent has to be in the service of something meaningful. Looking for the sake of it feels like mere voyeurism. Experiencing something without trying to process it into a teachable moment can feel like a perverse pleasure, like what that girl in the short story felt after seeing the wrong man in the workers’ paradise.