My roommate just asked me to close the windows and shut the blinds because “it’s so hot outside.” Mind you, it’s only 36 degrees (or around 97 degrees in Freedom units).
I say only 36 because dude, that’s everyday temperature in the Philippines. The heat could even soar to over 40 degrees and man, we Filipinos deal with it like badass mofos. We go to malls, we amped up the electric fans and exercise our biceps with the pamaypay — as always, we just make do. Every now and then you’d hear people complaining how it’s so Majinit Jackson but Metro Manila is already Hell and we’re all lovely spawns of Satan anyway.
Even the people at work were ranting against the heat yesterday but boy I was wearing a jacket. “Why the fuck?” they asked and I’m almost tempted to answer, “I’m Filipino, bitchez, and this is our sweater weather.”
Ah, this is one of those times when I just know I won’t ever fully belong to this country. A friend just recently implored me to finally switch citizenship but I told him I don’t think I’m ready. Swearing allegiance to another country is something I don’t feel like doing yet. Maybe never, maybe soon, but definitely not now. He jokingly mocked me for romanticizing nationalism, for being so sentimental. Indeed I am.
I am Filipino, born and raised — and no, this blistering Canadian summer ain’t got nothing on my flat, flip ass.