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.

        I’ve always been afraid of things I can’t control. Afraid of not knowing what will happen. Afraid of taking a leap of faith and trusting that it will all be okay. I rarely appreciate the good things because there’s always a voice in the back of my mind saying that it’s all temporary. A voice that’s saying something bad’s going to happen when something good does.
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        And maybe that really is how life works. Maybe sometimes, there are uncertainties in life and you lose every good thing you know. Maybe sometimes, you lose your way and you lose yourself. And maybe sometimes, it’ll just suck. It’s hard to let go of the fact that I don’t know how things will go. It’s hard to accept that everything could be alright and in just a moment’s time, I lose what I love. But maybe that’s what makes everything worthwhile. It makes you cherish the things you have right now because you never know what tomorrow holds. It makes you live a life without regrets.
         
        This isn’t me telling you to hope that everything will be okay. Sometimes, hope isn’t what we need. Sometimes what we need is acceptance. It’s peace in knowing that not everything will be ok. Peace in knowing that sometimes, there’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent it.

        Regardless of how things are, I made it to a new year. We all did. Despite the uncertainties and adversities, we made it. And I know there will be a lot of ups and downs this year. A lot of sleepless nights watching Brooklyn 99 while crying and eating ice cream. That’s a certainty. But maybe we’ll be okay. Maybe we’ll still be able to meet the next year. And the years after that. I know things will suck, but I also know we’re not alone.
       
        I’m really glad you’re here. Thank you for living.

        "They started beating with him a stick. My brother died on the spot. We could not retrieve a body. The military burned down my house." (Arnold)

       Despite its appearance, this quote reflects more than one account of the Rohingya refugee crisis. It demonstrates the decades-long, brutal repression that continues to shape the reality of countless Rohingya. Persecution by Myanmar’s militaristic regime and chauvinist citizens has led to the displacement of over 1.7 million Rohingya refugees into camps in neighboring Bangladesh (OCHA). Thousands more have been forcibly relocated into camps throughout South Asia. The COVID-19 pandemic has only exacerbated these issues in the long-term. 

       To say Rohingya camps were merely "poor" before the pandemic is wildly inaccurate. They lacked privacy and secure shelter, offered a scarce variety of foods (Hussam, 10:15), and unjustly denied basic human rights. And yet, as drastic as these issues were, they have been magnified a thousand fold as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic. Where there was formerly a lack of privacy, there is now invasive overcrowding. Where there was formerly a lack of comfort, there is now acute destitution. And most importantly, where there were formerly three meals a day, there is now a struggle for two.

       Studies from the GAGE program report that inadequate food intake affects two out of three Rohingya households, and 40% of Rohingya adolescents are in need of food in comparison to 20% of Burmese adolescents. This is especially significant because malnutrition during such a key era has been shown to have long-term effects on not only growth and development, but also physical and mental health.

          So, what can we do to help?

       In a speech given this year, Harvard professor Reshmaan Hussam asked  Rohingya women the same question. After much prodding, each woman timidly asked for two items: fish and vegetables (Hussam, 9:50). It almost seems ironic that these refugees have endured brutal persecution, have had their homes taken away from them, and have literally escaped death –– but their only request is for fish and vegetables. Not a house, and not money, but fish and vegetables. An ordinary request for such extraordinary circumstances.

       ​Their request for a suitable meal highlights a fundamental unit missing from recent global efforts—humanity. In their quest to provide relief, global efforts have overlooked the basic right to decent food, depriving the Rohingya of natural human dignity. After all, isn't it a basic human right to eat food with taste? 

       Providing nutritious food for consumption is necessary for the survival of the Rohingya. However, doing so alone provides only a transitory solution. It is crucial for global efforts to also provide the means by which refugees can live purposeful lives. Simply put, Rohingya adolescents also need food for thought. Education is critical for “young Rohingya to one day voluntarily return…to Myanmar with the safety…they deserve'' (UNICEF). In Jordan, where many refugees fleeing the Israeli-Palestinian conflict currently reside, education has recently been embraced as a means for self-sufficiency. One method for increasing self-reliance includes The Resilient Youth, Socially and Economically Empowered Project, a Jordinian educational initiative that has enabled almost 25,000 refugees to achieve economic independence and stable livelihoods through employment (Mercy Corps). Rohingya refugees could perform similarly if given these opportunities. Self-reliance, gained through education, may be the key to the establishment of a lasting Rohingya community built on human dignity.
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         Amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, global efforts are doing what they can. However, “what they can” is not enough. The fact of the matter remains that the Rohingya are a forgotten people, chained by Myanmar but kept there by the rest of the world. In order for true change to occur, there must be a paradigm shift in public opinion for the Rohingya Refugee crisis, as there was for crises like the Russo-Ukrainian War. Ultimately, it is up to the media––from news channels to social media posts to online essay competitions––to make change a reality. 

         “Ox!” my mom exclaimed, carefully putting down the “O” and “X” square tiles in her conquest of the Scrabble board. My sister and I shot an exasperated glance at each other, somehow already sensing the mountain of points that those two letters held inside them. As expected, my mom earned a considerable 27 points, smiling broadly at her simple, yet effective use of the triple-word score tile. 
       
​        My mother's influence on me is best summed up in these "Scrabble" moments. In a world where words are thrown around arbitrarily, she shows me the value of words and the power that they wield. Ironically enough, my mom’s first language wasn’t even English. My mom is an immigrant from Tuguegarao, Philippines, a rural town far from the crowded New York City. She pronounces “cop” like “cup,” “war” like “ware,” “picture” like “pitcher”; if you’re lucky enough, you might find her "opening the tv" instead of turning it on, or "closing the lights" instead of turning them off. But where my mom lacks in pronunciation, she compensates for with purposeful language. Where she misunderstands in meaning, she makes up for in care. I notice the depth behind her phrases, the compassion in her words, the kindness that belies even the simplest of sentences. She might say “What’s your name?” to a foreign person on the street and her words magically become “I see you. I understand.” She might ask me, “Want boba?” and however silly it may sound, I’ll know that she understands my need for comfort. These small incidents have shaped my perception of words, teaching me to listen rather than hear, and to admire rather than judge.

        More than that, however, she has been my lifelong teacher, mentor, and best friend. Be it by bringing me with her to the Philippines, enrolling me in preschool Chinese classes, or speaking to me in Spanish, she has taught me the beauty of culture and language. Be it by listening to my Original Oratory speeches, reading stories to me, and singing with me in carpool karaoke, she has taught me the beauty of speech. And be it through Scrabble, Words with Friends, or even the New York Times Spelling Bee, she has taught me the beauty of simple, yet effective communication.

Thank you, mom.
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