Maybe It's Not Just Luck
It's human being, not doing – unless you're a Filipino gay man with an impostor syndrome
A few weeks ago, I traveled for the first time to Kenya. I left the flat the day before my birthday, taking the 6 a.m. flight from Montpellier to Paris. An hour and a half later, I landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, where I’d be stuck waiting for my flight past noon to Nairobi.
I spent about an hour at Pret À Manger, where I tried to add more words to my then-unfinished column (it just came out recently, by the way). But not even the most potent iced oat milk latte could ward off the sleepiness that was sitting heavily on me, like a one-hundred-pound barbell plate I was trying to balance with my head. Frustrated, I packed my laptop back in my bag and walked around the airport, where there was nothing much to do but pace around.
The flight from Paris to Nairobi was delayed and also very long. About ten hours later, I finally landed at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, where I would face my final challenge for the day: a massive queue at passport control. It annoyed me that the immigration officer was chatting with every tourist passing through her, a feeling that swelled the closer I got to her window and would finally overhear her conversations with people. There were three people before my turn, and I could hear her ask the American guy wearing a brown cowboy hat where he was staying, where he was from, what was on his itinerary, whether he was married, what was fun to do in his state, does he like giraffes – all the random, pointless questions that stood in the way of me making it to my hotel. Sure, I could imagine how tedious her job might be, and that was her way of entertaining herself late in the night. But with the other queues moving faster than ours, all the explanations I made on her behalf were not warding off my irritation.
I finally arrived at Ole Sereni twenty minutes past midnight, exhausted but unexplainably energized. I realized it was my birthday, and I was alone in a hotel room, in a new city and country. There was a bittersweetness to that feeling.
Birthdays have always made me feel a bit sad and happy at the same time, so I wouldn’t say it was exactly new. There’s an expectation that one should be happy for one’s birthday, and the actual event always falls flat. Maybe it’s because I expect birthdays to be this grand revelation, like a magical experience that ushers you into something life-changing. But the clocks strike midnight, and it’s just, well, all the same. No fireworks, just the silence of things.
A part of me is annoyed at myself for feeling this way. Should I even acknowledge this feeling? I started tearing apart this ennui, trying to rationalize the situation in the hope that by delving deeper into it, I could either ideally reverse the despair, or distract myself by getting lost in a trail of other thoughts.
I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and lay on the bed, noting how comfortable it was. I fell asleep in a few minutes, then woke up around 8 in the morning, heading to the hotel restaurant to have breakfast. After finding out I was vegan, one of the staff prepared me a meal of baked beans, chapati, and stir-fried vegetables. As I was eating my food, Mela called me quickly to greet me a happy birthday from her Grab ride on the way to an event.
After the call, I continued eating alone, meditating on my annoyance and frustration from last night. A part of me understands that even to be here is a privilege – being able to travel is a privilege. I recognize that. I remember wanting to take our nanny Ate Belle on a trip to Singapore, and she was so excited with the idea that she would get to travel outside of the country. That was one promise I never made true: she died of breast cancer in 2016.
To be able to experience other cultures, to have the money to go on trips, to have the time to take long vacations, to have a comfortable place to return to after each vacation, to have a job that affords me all of these – I’m barely scratching the surface of the privileges I have. (If I were religious, I’d say these are blessings, but I’m not, and I find it ludicrous that people even believe a supernatural force grants favors only to a select few.) Being part of a historically oppressed and disprivileged minority makes members of the minority feel like impostors whenever they “win” in life. I’m no exception. As a queer Filipino from a middle-class background, how could I even explain why I am where I am if not for luck? I always think that my intelligence can’t fully account for my successes, considering that countless others are like me who are more intelligent, more confident, and less anxious.
But: it is very exhausting to apologize for oneself constantly, and I felt like I’ve been apologizing for my life ever since – from childhood until now. I was ashamed of being fat when I was in high school, then I was ashamed of being queer. I got thinner later because of hyperthyroidism, but I also didn’t like myself for being too thin. I hated the clothes I wore. I loathed my crooked teeth. I was awkward and wanted to crawl into a hole. I never truly belonged anywhere because I was ugly and different. There was always something to fix: the sound of my voice, the way I dressed, a mannerism, or a pop culture reference that was a dead giveaway to my queerness and socioeconomic background.
My distress over the successes I’ve gained in my life, and how I often consider luck as having played a huge role in where I’m now, dampen every win to the point that I preoccupy myself with everything that went and could go wrong. And to what end? There seems to be no clear end to this race, and I can only do so much to optimize each aspect of my life until I drop dead.