the barefoot child

“mommy, why aren’t they wearing shoes?” the little girl asked.

that was me— an american child visiting the philippines, asking my mom why the other kids walking to school had no footwear. we were in eastern samar, one of the poorest provinces in the country. a place where my parents grew up. a place where i was born.

and yet, it felt unfamiliar. hot, humid, distant. i hated it. to me, it was just the place where people walked barefoot and i was irresistible to mosquitoes.

every other year, we would visit, and every other year, questions like this would come up. i started seeing the disparities more clearly as the years passed. between my life in america and the lives of my relatives across the ocean. between comfort and struggle. between access and absence.

i began to understand just how much privilege i carried— in food, in education, in opportunity. not to mention, i have great internet access. things i once took for granted became reminders of how different my experience was from others’.

i’ve always wondered how my interests and career trajectory would have changed if i stayed in the philippines. would i work in healthcare, just like the rest of my family? would i work hard to move to america? to go to an american university? would i still find solace in design and technology? would i even be introduced to any of this?

but what stuck with me even more than the questions was something quieter: resilience.

the kids without shoes still walked to school. they still studied, played, dreamed.
they didn’t need comfort to care.

and in contrast, i spent so much of my childhood trying not to look filipino. i didn’t want to be “pangit” nor did i want my nose to be “pango”. i wanted my skin to be “puti”. i avoided the sun. i used whitening soap. i tried so hard to erase where i came from.

it took years (and so so so many balikbayan boxes) to unlearn that. balikbayan boxes are care packages full of essentials that filipinos send back to their relatives in the philippines.

now, when we pack those boxes full of clothes and supplies, i always make sure to add slippers. it’s not everything. but it’s something. fewer kids should have to walk barefoot just to get to class.

identity doesn’t come from a single place.
it comes from what we carry — and what we choose to give back.

i’m still figuring out who i am, between these two worlds.
but now, i carry both of them with pride.