So this city can, as most hometowns do, claim bragging rights to me. It can say quite honestly say that it even helped to raise me. Most poets and artists always give credit to the lush mountains or the gigantic waves of a little town or village as being their source of inspiration. But what do I have? Only this little city in an island province in an archipelago of 7,106 other islands-probably more exotic, more inspiring, less commercial. We can choose the city to raise our children in, but the choice of what city we are raised in, is not ours to make. And so we make do with what we are given.
This was the city that welcomed me into the world. My earliest memories were of the city. Of strolling to my cousins' house. Of walking from school to eat lunch at home. Of my mother holding tight as we wove through the confusing downtown area so I could buy school shoes at the tiny Shoe Mart. Of my parents taking us though the city streets the day before Sinulog so we could see all the lights and trucks and preparations. Of people walking to the beat of the marching bands of the processions. Of going to the zoo and wondering whether the croc was actually alive.
This city is my home. Home is the comforting sound of Bisaya the moment I step out of an airplane. Home is the CITOM standing on intersections and corners. Home is the lights that drape the Capitol. Home is the peal of the church bells at 6 o'clock. Home is running into someone I know wherever I am. Home is puso and lechon that doesn't need sauce.
This city is my mystery. For no matter how hard I try, I will never completely know it. I can still lose my way downtown. And find myself scratching my head at the different street names. And if someone asked me to do a 'Cebu' tour, I would be at a loss. I've only ever been to Magellan's cross once. And the Taoist Temple, (which is 10 minutes from my house) I have only seen in pictures. I could not for the life of me point anyone to the South Bus terminal because I have never been there.
This city is my pride. In college, when the few misinformed Manila people used to ask me (in that carefully phrased but still condescending tone) if I was from the province, I would proudly say yes. And then I'd tell them about how the beaches are only 45 minutes away. And the mountains only an hour away. And then I would also brag as to how Cebu has its own culture. How it can't stand Tagalog. How Cebuano music has its own following. How during Sinulog the whole city parties. How there are churches and chapels in every corner as testaments to our love of faith. How we are the oldest city in the Philippines. And then they would start planning their visit to my little city in my little province.
This city makes me worry. There are far too many cars now than there were 5 years ago. And there are far too many yuppies who insist on using the American accent even when they're nowhere near call centers. And a growing number of public officials who need to grow up. And an alarming increase in children begging in the streets. But just because I worry doesn't mean I will give up. I'd like to think that I won't be packing my bags anytime soon to join the exodus of Cebuanos seeking their fortune in foreign countries.
This city gives me hope. Not just because there is talent here. Or that there is progress. Or that my young entrepreneur friends are investing and starting their own businesses here. But everywhere I turn, I still see good, decent, genuinely honest individuals just doing their best to better the world.
This city, with all its quirky one-way roads and eccentric characters, is all I have. And I wouldn't have it any other way. This city is my town. Sorry, I got carried away there. What I meant to say was, it's our town.