Balikbayan Part Two: New Year’s Kiss? More Like New Year’s Kiss My Ass
“New Year’s Kiss? More Like New Year’s Kiss My Ass” was originally part of the Balikbayan series, a collection of short stories from my childhood, which eventually inspired the full-length play of the same title. Self-published in 2017 after a trip to the Philippines, I refrained from editing this piece because I wanted to keep the thoughts and feelings I had as a 23-year old to remain as they were— without judgement and censure from the person I am today. I wanted to share these stories again, because as I was re-reading them, they felt like prologues to the inevitable journey I find myself in now.
Paputok [pa-pu-tok]
noun
Fireworks
10....9....8....7...6...5...4..3..2..1.
And before you know it, you can hear the sound of couples sucking on each other's tongues and choking in their own spit ringing in your ear. And that heavy feeling of misery— that's your only company as you ring in the new year. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. Every accomplishment. Every single lesson you learned. Suddenly, none of that matters anymore just because you're not biting on a stranger's bottom lip while trying to hold down that last shot of tequila you thought you needed to drink to either pluck up enough courage to make out with said stranger or to deal with the realization that you spent yet another year alone and are about to embark on another one. For years, my New Year's Eve have been plagued by a feeling of disappointment, a feeling at the pit of my stomach that drops just in time with the ball. But it didn't used to be like that.
When I was little, New Year's Eve was a big family celebration. My entire extended family would gather in one place and celebrate together. We'd circle around a large table of food where the lechon, a full roasted pig, would sit at the center before we played games (which always included money to symbolize prosperity in the upcoming year). Then, my uncles would set off firecrackers in the middle of the road while my cousins and I ran around waving sparkers in the dark sky. And when the clock struck midnight, we kids were told to jump as high as we could to help us grow taller.
It all changed when my family moved to the U.S. Despite it only being the four of us in our first New Year's away from home, we still tried to uphold as much of the traditions as we could like preparing way too much food for four people, but it was hard not to notice that it was quieter than previous celebrations. We watched the countdown on T.V. before heading off to bed. In high school, before I made friends with anyone in Baltimore and after my brother went off to college, New Year's was an even smaller affair. While my mom and sister would put my nieces to bed, I would ring in the new year on the couch with my boyfriend, Anderson Cooper.
I'm not sure if it was the cultural difference or if it was because of puberty, but in the later years of high school when friends started inviting me to their parties, that's when my eyes started to eagerly wander around the room as the year winded down to mere seconds and my hands would clam up with panic. Years of pop culture consumption told me that the whole evening was supposed to end with a perfect kiss, but my life wasn’t a John Hughes film or a Gary Marshall film. This coming-of-age trope never showed up in the movie of my life. I didn't have much luck in college either. My friends and I would dress to the nines and venture to another city, but still no New Year's kiss (except that one time I shared a little-more-than-a-kiss involving a bottle of Garnier Fructis conditioner with someone in the bathroom of my best friend's apartment, but that’s a story for another time). At some point, it occurred to me that the notion of the New Year's kiss was ridiculous— most likely because I got tired of expecting anything. New Year's should be about self-reflection; to look back on everything you went through and be grateful that you got through another year.
My first New Year's after college reminded me of that. After many years, most of my relatives from other parts of the world were also able to come home for the holidays. And just like when I was little, we all brought in 2017 together.
We had lechon. We played games. But more, importantly, we were all together.
There wasn't a grey cloud looming over my head for once. I was too preoccupied with enjoying everyone's company. After leaving 2016 with so much uncertainty, it was nice to surround myself with family, because despite not having spent much time with them in years, it felt exactly like it used to be (except I can drink with my aunts and uncles now, which made it more fun). I found myself smiling and shrugging when I started thinking about what 2017 would entail. Normally, I would make some half-worded resolution about trying to enjoy the moment, something I constantly struggle with as a Virgo. But for the first time in a long time, I was living in the moment. My eyes started to water trying to memorize the picture in front of me: my family, gathered together, smiling, dancing, laughing, drinking. Yes, we could all feel the vacant spots when we took our family picture, the spots usually reserved for my grandparents who have passed away and our relatives who couldn't make it home, but we cherished the night anyway. And I realized that no matter what the next year brings, even if I fall and fail, there's always a place for me to go back to. I can always go home. I can always go back to these people, these people who will always wish the best for me regardless of how much time we've spent apart. And this year, we were so caught up with setting off firecrackers that we missed the official countdown.
"Let's just do our own thing and start counting," my cousin Erica suggested.
So, we started our own countdown.
10....9....8....7...6...5...4..3..2..1.
