1. You are a poetry editor for HaluHalo Journal and a graduate of literature from the University of Santo Tomas. How has writing played a role in your life? What initially drew you to poetry? 
When I was an undergrad in literature, I came from a background primarily founded on fiction. Going into the academe, I had initially thought I would formulate my bachelor’s dissertation on fiction, too. It wasn’t until I met my friend Eli, who at the time empathized with my reservations with poetry and its many forms, introduced me to poetry written by Filipinos. They sent me a list of readings containing, mostly, a poem or two per writer. Because I loved Eli, I read all of them, and I encountered and experienced the poems the way one might peel open and eat fruit. It turns out I really loved poetry, and to echo something John Green said in the debut video of Ours Poetica, many of us have loved poetry for a long time, we just didn’t know it yet.

Poetry, fiction, and the literary essay all share the same literary tools, and the deeper you are in reading the more you realize the boundaries between them are thin. It was poetry that moved me the most because of the bizarre and sometimes obscure forms you find them in. My first encounter with poetry is through the form of exam sheets and prayers, poems with lines that reappear and disappear. I’m always excited about poetry because of how deeply it can be contained within itself: the pronouns shift metaphysically, you can put yourself in the footprint of the persona and the apostrophe, often the addressee or the “you”, can be anyone you want it to be.

2. How has your relationship with writing evolved over the years?
It was mostly a journey of scribbling prose on the back of notebooks and word files until I made a decision to take poetry seriously in university. I used to not make such a big deal of writing, and in most cases I think this relationship of neutrality with writing is echoed with everyone else. When I was in undergrad I realized how deeply underread I was, and in an attempt to remedy this I read insatiably. I wasn’t thinking about writing at all, but I kept bouncing between books and, later on, would start repeating phrases or sentences I made in my head. In a way I think this is also writing. So I was writing while washing dishes or cleaning or running. In front of the screen, that’s when I started laying out the words in my head. I think writing is a response to the different literatures you’ve encountered, and I think it’s healthy to read more than to write.

The blazing sun began its descent, casting a golden hue across the bustling city of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, painting the skies with a multitudeof reds and oranges. It was in this vibrant metropolis that my story unfolded—a tale of resilience, faith, and personal growth. At the tender age of fourteen, I found myself navigating the labyrinthine corridors of life, battling the shadows of racial remarks, judgment on my appearance, and the weight of academic stress. As a born-again Christian, my heart was steadfast in my faith, finding solace and strength in my relationship with Christ. However, the world around me seemed determined to challenge my resolve. The echoing hallways of my high school became breeding grounds for toxic friendships and unkind words, whispered and shouted in ignorance.

The day began like any other, with the cacophony of voices and the scent of freshly brewed tea filling our cosy home. My parents, hardworking individuals, had always instilled in me the importance of education and excellence. Their dreams for my future were etched deeply in their eyes, and I carried their aspirations upon my shoulders. But they soon morphed into burdens that plagued my heart. I slowly crumbled from academic stress that loomed over me like a relentless shadow. The expectations of my parents, who longed for me to excel in my studies, became an unbearable weight on my shoulders. Every grade I earned, and every test I took, was scrutinised with unwavering intensity. The fear of disappointing them, of falling short of their dreams, suffocated my spirit.

But amidst the pressure to excel academically, I found myself struggling with the weight of my own insecurities. Racial remarks whispered in my ear like venomous serpents, seeping into the crevices of my self-esteem. But the attacks didn't stop at my ethnicity. My weight became a target for cruel jabs, words that seeped into my thoughts like venom. I battled against the relentless pressures to conform to society's warped ideals of beauty, as whispers of "fat" and "ugly" echoed through my mind. I felt the harsh sting of judgment on my weight and the presence of arm and leg hair that defied societal beauty standards. My self-esteem withered like a fragile flower in a scorching desert, wilting under the weight of those hurtful words.

          I hate the sound “nga.” The most basic of principles within Tagalog, and I have never learned how to say it. Out of all of the twenty-six letters, the language rearranged them to this, creating my veritable hatred for it. The frustration of never connecting with your culture over a single sound. One of the first words you learn to pronounce as a child growing up in the Philippines. I did not get that. I never got it. Am I separated from my culture if I cannot even begin to say my real middle name? This spiraling of unknowing leaves me miles away. My identity is unfinished. I have been made unfinished. If I were a book and you were to open mine, you would see a myriad of blank pages. My alienation from my own culture leaves me with streaks of red. If an alien were ever to look upon the earth, they would want to participate with the other beings but feel left out. This situation was left to me, to wonder and dream about, but never complete.
          ​The constant reminders from family and friends of “Do you speak Tagalog? Can you understand it?” If someone were to ask me if I was bilingual, again, my answer would be unfinished. Sometimes I answer with “one and a half,” as understanding and being able to read a little bit is not equivalent to speaking and writing. Never complete. Daily reminders of me falling short of the expectation. I question if the people to blame are my parents for never fully teaching me, or myself. Why should I apologize for not understanding my cultural language? Nobody apologized for never teaching me. Instead of blaming the situation on the rain, it brings me comfort in tricking the brain that there is someone else at fault. I’ve been drowning in these foreign words, feeling lonely.
          As I got older I unconsciously distanced myself away from teleserye shows and cultural events, like debuts. Growing up I found these shows and movies brought me comfort and I wanted so badly to celebrate my eighteenth birthday with a debut and to visit the Philippines for the first time. I was done spending lost time wondering and focused more on distractions. I filled my schedule up with activities, where my days were filled to the brim with Taekwondo, Kumon, drums, guitar, and swimming, alongside schoolwork. I learned that piling on work was not healthy, but I still put a barrier up to wall the difficulties away. A reversed emotional education made me forget how to smile. No longer did I remember how other things can pull at the tendrils of my heartstrings. These distractions were perfect for someone who preferred having no free time, but although it seemed like it was a match made in heaven, I was chained down to earth.

          On my desk, there are two things: my report card still lodged inside of its envelope, its unwelcoming nature making me nervous, and my phone open to a group chat with my friends, all of them panicking about that one science teacher’s grades. I pick up the letter and each slight tear into that deep, yellow-colored paper I do sends me forward to a moment in time in which I am hovering over a patient, their stomach cut open and a scalpel in my right hand. I place the letter down, I turn off my phone, and I reach for my laptop. My fingers click on the keyboard in rapid succession as my vision begins to blur with both fear and anger fighting for their own prominence in my mind. “How do I not disappoint my parents?” I worriedly press the enter key as I tremble.
          I am a doctor. I have been one since my birth. An obtrusive ‘P.H.D.’ acronym is etched into my birth certificate. I will pursue pulmonology, as it has been the field that has interested me for years. But I will help society not through my prescriptions or my surgeries. My words, my ability to piece words together as a doctor clumps a patient’s symptoms together, is the ability of mine that will help others. I value a pen more than a stethoscope. I am a writer for both the benefit of myself and the ability to connect people with each other and start discussions.
          I am so adamant of becoming a doctor; nay, the fact that I am a doctor, because I know that I must become one to become something in this world. To be cared about. Because people refuse to care for artists. We live in a world that discounts artists and refuses to understand their inherent cultural value. Artists are all around us, yet when do we take time to appreciate what they do for us: expand our ability to think and understand critically and help us truly see the beauty of life? I would spend my nights as a middle schooler researching what medical professions would get me the most money because that is what my worth is as a person under a society that values both capitalism and nuclear families: money. A world that values how much money you make, where the common response to being told someone is an artist is not ‘What does their art look like?’ but ‘How much money do they make?’ Where my ability to be a surviving parent is more important than my ability to be a survivor. I am a doctor because the fight against my worth being quantified instead of qualified is a slippery slope downwards, and I am a short-haired Filipino warrior not strong enough to fight it.
          I will sit in my science classes, research at night for jobs that would make my family believe I am not a failure, that I was worth betting on, and I will be a writer after the day ends. I must be a doctor. That is not a discussion anyone who has put in the time to fight for me to live in this world has, or will, ever want to have with me. But I know that my writing, my words, and my emotions are all so much more important than that job. I will know deep down in the pumping parts of the arteries in my circulatory system that words flow through my body, not radiation from a CT scan and not sleepless nights from treating patients, but words. I know that I will have the moniker ‘Doctor’ to the left of my name whenever I am referred to, but to the right of my name will be the word ‘poet.’

​Aldrin Badiola is a poet and prosaist in the Eastern United States who loves to write about his attachment to the Philippines, identity, and the social issues that come from both topics. When he's not writing, he's listening to 80's Filipino disco or playing the piano. His Twitter can be found @cyvilizations.

        One unique thing about me is that I relate every body part to a food item. Or at least, almost every body part. Though I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I realized this “talent,” I do recall a very early example of this phenomenon. In 3rd grade, I vividly remember a friend asking me what I would do on a deserted island; naturally, we discussed climbing coconut trees, building sand castles, and cooking fish. The conversation took a turn, however, when I mentioned that the thumb looked edible. I reasoned that the flesh underneath the thumb, combined with the thumb itself, resembled a chicken drumstick. She was astonished. I have since learned that not everyone sees a chicken drumstick when they imagine their thumb.

​        The thumb is not the only body part that has fallen victim to my food-ingrained mind. Celery reminds me of my arm bones, a large sweet potato looks like my stomach, and coconuts strangely remind me of my brain. My most recent discovery actually had to do with the texture of arteries. I was at Weill Cornell Hospital for a Heart/Anatomy Lab, and my mentor had allowed us students to touch the heart, carry the lungs, and feel the arteries and veins. The second I touched the artery, I felt it. The phenomenon had occurred. Loudly, I exclaimed, “THE ARTERY HAS THE SAME TEXTURE AS AL DENTE PASTA.”

          Since the dawn of time, animals have been forced to adhere to the cruel ways of the jungle. It has always been “Kill or be killed” and “Eat or be eaten” where the dominant species stand above while preys are forced to hide and cower in fear. Schools are no different, they’re a breeding ground for competition and a catalyst for stress. But there’s no mountain we can’t climb, no river we can’t cross and no challenge we can’t overcome. Here are some ways for you to survive from the jungle’s harsh clutches.

          Firstly, STOP (Stop, Think, Observe, Plan). To avoid the stress and tangles of an academic jungle, it’s important to gauge the danger levels. Assessing what you should and shouldn’t do is a crucial step in survival that most people disregard. Curiosity and imagination are powerful assets. Having a clear set of goals, planning your schedule and managing your time well are key variables in maintaining the motivation to survive and move forward. Whenever you lose your will to try, it’s important to STOP, think about your goals and reflect about why you’re doing what you do.

          Secondly, select your weapon of choice. Would you choose to wield a pen that inspires, a sword that defends, or a shield that protects? Choosing the appropriate weapon that compliments you and highlights your skills is a decisive factor in one’s survival. Survival of the fittest means learning to maximize the strengths that you have to excel in the field of your choice. Cheetahs have their speed, lions have their teeth, elephants have their size and giraffes have their height. What do you have that sets you apart from the crowd? The sooner you find and hone your edge the more chance you have at survival.

          Lastly, it’s always important to know your worth. “You can’t judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree.” A jungle is filled to the brim with animals of all shapes and sizes, each one unlike the other. Likewise, there are many talented individuals in a classroom that excel in different fields, may it be academically, musically, athletically, or artistically. Each student is different in their own way, you don’t need to be the apex predator to flourish. It’s easy to feel “ordinary” in a room filled with “extraordinary” people, but just because you’re not like them, doesn’t mean you’re lesser than them.

          The secret to surviving in a jungle is not putting on a mask trying to be someone you're not. Because no matter how hard you try you can never teach a fish how to fly. We are all built uniquely different and hard-wired with different skill sets. Instead of focusing on what you’re not, take your time to hone your skills and be the best at what you can be. To survive in a harsh environment where it's “Eat or be eaten," it's important to know your worth and maximize your strengths.

         If you think traveling back in time is impossible, then you evidently haven’t traveled to the heritage city of Vigan just yet. A world-renowned wonder, Vigan City is, but what makes it different to our country’s most popular tourist destinations like Boracay, Palawan, and Bohol, is the exhibit of stories and proof of our long history showcased in the cobblestone streets, monuments, churches, and even delicacies.

         It seemed like it was just yesterday, though it had been three years since my last visit, that I stepped out of the tricycle in front of the Ilocos Sur Provincial Capitol, and across the street was the giant “Ilocos Sur” signage beside the statue of Elpidio Quirino, the sixth President of the Philippines and a proud Bigueño. There it was, the dancing fountain, the old churches and buildings, the sound of townspeople chattering and charming tourists, and the smell of home. Truth be told, I’ve only gone to this beautiful place four times, the first time when I was only a year old so I don’t remember it, once for a two-day vacation during Christmastime, and twice over short Holy Week breaks, which are also appropriately the reunion of our relatives in our hometown, Bantay, the town just a tricycle’s ride north of Vigan. This was the place where I first witnessed the wondrous dramatic performances of the Panunuluyan, Senakulo, and my personal favorite, the Salubong.

         Before my last visit, which was way back in 2019, if you asked me what comes to my mind at the mention of Vigan, my answer would only be the dozen bazaars lining up the streets during Semana Santa, the dancing fountain at night in Plaza Salcedo, aunts, uncles, and distant relatives doting on me and my cousins, and angels floating in mid-air when my parents brought five-year-old me to watch the Salubong for the first time. Since that day, naïve little me believed that angels existed, and I started associating Vigan with the concept of my personal heaven on Earth. However, on April 2019, this magical correlation changed. I saw Vigan City as the place that it truly was, not heaven on Earth, but the gist of the history of my country presented in front of me to remember, to appreciate, and to preserve. Somehow, that notion was far better and comforting than heaven.

         Vigan began as a trading center and was popular among Chinese settlers, whom referred to the area as “bee gan” which directly translates to “beautiful shores” as the city is surrounded by bodies of water, such the Mestizo, Abra, and Govantes rivers, and most prominently, the South China Sea. The waterways provided the earlier settlers with food, trades, and even protection from territory invaders. This is the reason why there are a number of Chinese-descendant or Filipino-Chinese families in the city even to this day. The influence of the history of the maritime tradeswork can also be seen in the arts and crafts in the city, such as the presence of burnay jars that are sought-after by foreign and local visitors alike, and abel weaving. Of course, the one of the more nationally familiar Filipino culture is the abundance of souvenirs and “pasalubong” delicacies. The famous Calle Crisologo and the two grand plazas that are the center of Bigueño life would attest to how the city is still known as a thriving trading center.