The Taste That Followed Us

When we first came to America, the biggest shock wasn’t the weather or the language, it was the food. We arrived at night, went straight to a birthday dinner, and suddenly I was the newest immigrant among fifty others who had already begun adjusting to this strange new place.

The next morning, hunger made everything real. No car, no familiar streets, no Filipino breakfast waiting. I walked half a mile just hoping to find something, and by luck discovered a Walgreens. Bread and drinks, that was survival for the day. The next few days were harder. We weren’t just homesick; we were literally starving until we figured out how to call taxis and reach a grocery store.

But even then, the taste of the food here felt foreign. We kept searching for the flavors we grew up with, the comfort of home. Slowly, we learned to adapt. We figured out how to recreate Filipino dishes using whatever ingredients we could find here. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to remind us of who we were.

Like this turon. I used buro bananas because they’re the closest thing to saba. It’s not exactly the same, but when the sugar caramelizes and the smell fills the kitchen, it brings me back. It’s proof of how immigrants survive: we improvise, we adapt, we recreate pieces of home until they fit into our new life. It’s a reminder that even in a foreign land, even after hunger, confusion, and culture shock, we carry our flavors with us. We carry our identity. And sometimes, all it takes is a simple turon to remind us that we didn’t lose who we were, we just learned how to bring it forward.

The Monster Truck That Returned My Childhood

Driving through Phoenix one afternoon, I noticed a crowd gathered in a parking lot. Curiosity tugged at me, so I turned in. It was a car show, rows of polished classics glowing under the Arizona sun, but the one that stopped me was a towering monster truck, massive enough to make everything else look small.

The moment I stood in front of it, something inside me shifted. I wasn’t just looking at a truck, I was suddenly a kid again in Manila. I remembered invited by our neighbor to watch a monster truck show at Rizal Memorial Field. Those trucks flew through the air and landed like bouncing balls shaking the ground. I was amazed, wide‑eyed, and completely taken by the moment. It was one of those childhood memories that stays with you long after life has carried you somewhere else.

Standing there in Phoenix, I felt that same spark, along with the reminder of how different life was back home. In Manila, neighbors weren’t just people living next door; they were part of your story, part of your everyday life. They were the ones who brought you into moments that shaped you.

A giant truck in a parking lot became more than a spectacle. It became a bridge between two worlds, between the child I was in Manila and the man I am now in Arizona.

The Detour That Showed Me History

There are moments in life when things happen beyond our control, and all we can do is adjust. During one of my visits to Manila, my flight home was delayed. By the time we landed in Hawaii for my layover, the plane to Phoenix had already left. Some passengers were upset, but I had already prepared myself for the possibility. The airline gave us hotel rooms for the night and vouchers for dinner. The food was great, the room was comfortable, but my mind was already thinking about the next day.

My flight wasn’t until the afternoon, so I had plenty of time. After enjoying my free breakfast, I decided not to waste the morning. I hopped on a city bus and headed straight to Pearl Harbor. I walked through the historical sites, I felt the weight of history settle around me, the quiet bravery, the sacrifice, the stories carried by the wind. Then I saw the WWII cannon. A group of tourists were climbing on it, laughing, posing for photos. I waited patiently, letting the moment breathe. When it was finally free, I asked a fellow traveler (me, the accidental tourist) to take my picture.

Standing there, I realized it was one of those rare moments when a bad situation turns into something unexpectedly meaningful. A missed flight became a chance to explore history, to see something I never planned for, and to remind myself that sometimes life’s detours lead to the best memories.

Manila Moments That Still Follow Me

During one of my visits to Manila, I was walking along Roxas Boulevard when I saw the statue of Dolphy. Right away, I remembered that the very first movie I ever watched as a child was one of his films at Paco Cinema with my uncle, aunties, and my sister. The theater was freezing (my first airconditioned place experience), packed with people, and as a small kid I had to squeeze into a tiny spot just to see the screen. When we stepped outside afterward, the Manila heat hit me so hard it felt like waking up from a memory.

Paco wasn’t a place we went every day, but it was a place that shaped so much of my childhood, vendors calling out, jeepneys rumbling by, tricycles weaving through crowds. It was loud, chaotic, and full of life, a complete contrast to where I live now in America, where everything feels quieter and more orderly. Yet every time I pass by Paco, my mind travels back to those childhood days. It’s where my mother bought my school shoes and uniform, where we shopped for our sari-sari store, and where my father drove his jeepney route.

Those memories remind me of who I was, where I came from, and how far life has taken me

 

Held by Grace on the Mountain

Seating on top of South Mountain, looking down at the city, I felt something rise in my chest, something I hadn’t let myself feel in a long time. I tried to spot my home from up there, but all I could see was how much Phoenix has changed. The city has grown so much that it almost feels like it grew faster than I could keep up. And in that moment, I realized I’ve changed too.

When I first came here thirty years ago, life was busy but still simple. I was young, hopeful, and trying to understand a world that didn’t always understand me back. As the years passed, everything became more complicated, unexpected challenges, uncertainties, moments that shook my confidence. People think that living in America means life is easy. They see comfort, convenience, opportunity. But they don’t see the nights you cry quietly because you lost your job, or the fear that hits you when your health benefits disappear and you don’t know how you’ll make it through.

I’ve faced all of that. I’ve carried all of that. And yet, seating on that mountain, I felt something stronger than fear, gratitude. Because every time I was close to sinking, God pulled me back up. Every time I thought I couldn’t handle one more setback, He showed me I wasn’t alone. He rescued me in ways I didn’t always recognize at the time, but looking back, I see His fingerprints on every moment I survived.

Up there, with the wind brushing against me and the city stretched out below, I felt emotional in a way I can’t fully explain. I saw the life I built, the battles I fought, the grace that carried me. And I realized that even through all the hardship, I’m still here. Still standing. Still growing. Still held.

Finding the Perfect Spot

We’ve camped at several sites across Arizona with friends and church members, and every trip feels like its own little adventure. Arizona has no shortage of campgrounds, but somehow we always end up missing the perfectly flattened spot where a tent is supposed to go. This time, though, we finally lucked out. The ground was a bit rough, sure, but it was still a good spot tucked under a tree with a clear, peaceful view of the lake.

The real challenge, as always, was the pre‑winter cold. Arizona nights don’t play around. You have to bundle up like you’re preparing for a snowstorm multiple thick blankets, layers on layers, and the determination to stay warm until sunrise.

But the best part of these trips is never the campsite itself. It’s the fellowship. Sitting around with friends, hearing stories, funny ones, sad ones, the struggles everyone’s carrying, the victories they’re proud of. There’s something about being outdoors that makes people open up. And then there’s the cooking: everyone pitching in, chopping, prepping, stirring, grilling. You always end up eating together, laughing together, and feeling like time slows down just enough for everyone to breathe.

Every trip ends the same way, with a Sunday service and fellowship. A quiet, grounding moment before heading back to the rhythm of everyday life.

Creating Home, Wherever We Stand

Looking at this moment, I feel the weight and beauty of our story as Filipino immigrants. It’s more than just a day out with my family in Phoenix, it’s a reminder of how far our journey has taken us. Three of us arrived in America with nothing but hope, courage, and the belief that hard work and faith would open doors we couldn’t yet see.

Now, standing on that hill with two more children beside us, under the wide Arizona sky, I’m reminded of everything we’ve built. The desert felt strange at first, quiet, dry, so different from the familiar chaos and warmth of Manila. But slowly, through challenges, small victories, and countless new beginnings, it became home.

It’s a blend of worlds, the rugged beauty of Arizona and the unshakeable closeness of a Filipino family that refused to lose itself in the process of starting over. We carried our humor, our resilience, our way of loving loudly and standing for each other. And we planted those values in new soil.

Our story isn’t just about leaving home, it’s about creating one. Together. Wherever life takes us.

The Colors I Miss, The Colors I Make

Life has a way of being spontaneous. You see something simple, and suddenly a spark lights up an idea, a memory, a feeling. Sometimes you’re just standing in a quiet corner, and your creativity starts to wander, mixing reflection with imagination until something meaningful begins to form.

Living in America moves fast. So fast that you forget the small things that once made life feel full. Back home, happiness came naturally no effort, no planning, just the comfort of familiar streets, familiar faces, and the warmth of family and friends. Here, you have to slow yourself down and remember who you were before the rush of everyday life took over.

I still ask myself why happiness felt so effortless in the Philippines. Maybe it’s because I grew up surrounded by people who knew me, loved me, and shared the same rhythm of life. Here, my friends are busy, my relatives are hundreds of miles away, and the silence can feel heavier than expected.

But loneliness is something you learn to face head-on. You fight it, you push through it, and you find color wherever you can. And in the end, I’m grateful because my family here gives my life its color. They remind me that even far from home, I can still paint my days with meaning.

The Fourth Stooge!

As an animation artist, your world naturally revolves around art. There’s always that spark, every time you see characters, designs, costumes, or anything connected to TV, film, web, or print. Back in the early days, many of my friends and colleagues in animation made it a tradition to attend the San Diego Comic Convention. It was a playground for creatives, endless things to explore, and of course, tons of freebies.

But as the event grew more popular, the crowds grew with it. What used to feel spacious and exciting slowly turned into a maze of people, where you’d have to squeeze your way through every booth and table just to catch a glimpse of what was new. Even the free stuff eventually became merchandise for sale.

Still, it was always fun to see attendees in their costumes and discover the latest trends in the art and entertainment world. But over time, I felt myself enjoying it less. The magic was still there, it just wasn’t the same.

This photo was from my last Comic-Con in San Diego. I was lucky enough to run into the Three Stooges, well, not the real guys, but close enough to make me smile. For a moment, standing there with them, I felt like I had stepped right into one of their shows… as the unofficial fourth Stooge.

The Statue I Grew Up Passing By

Every time I visit Manila, I almost always find myself wandering back into Rizal Park. Growing up, this place was part of my life, close to home, close to school, and close to so many memories. I passed by it for five straight years in college, never realizing how much of my own story was quietly tied to these grounds.

Most visitors enjoy the open spaces and the breeze, but many walk past the park’s historical gems without noticing. Behind me is one of them, La Madre Filipina.

Created in 1911 by sculptor Ramon Martinez, this statue once stood proudly on the Jones Bridge. After the war damaged the bridge, it was moved here to Rizal Park, where it stayed for decades, almost hidden in plain sight. In 2019, during the bridge’s restoration, La Madre Filipina was finally returned to its original home, now standing 20 feet high on its base.

Its journey reminds me of something simple, when something meaningful stands right in front of you, take the moment. Look closer. Appreciate it. Some stories only reveal themselves when you pause long enough to notice

When the Tide Changed My Direction

Looking out at the ocean, the memories rushed in like the tide, fast, familiar, and unexpectedly tender. Back when I first started working in the Philippines, I was just like so many other Filipinos dreaming of opportunities beyond our shores. I imagined myself in Hong Kong, Singapore, maybe the Middle East, places close enough that home still felt within reach. And just like my childhood dream of becoming an architect, life nudged me in a different direction. I found myself in the animation industry instead, building stories frame by frame.

Still, I wondered about other possibilities. What about America? I asked myself once. But the thought felt too big, too far, too unreal. The United States was literally on the other side of the world, an ocean away from everything familiar. I never pictured myself crossing that distance.

But fate has a way of quietly rearranging your plans. It doesn’t ask permission, it simply opens a door and waits for you to notice. I could never have imagined that one day I’d be standing on a foreign shore, traveling across the ocean not as a tourist but as someone brave enough to try his luck in a new land. It was a blessing, yes, but one wrapped in challenges, sacrifices, and moments of doubt.

And yet, here I am. The waves in front of me feel like the same waves that touched the Philippines, reminding me that even the farthest places are connected. My journey wasn’t the one I planned, but it became the one I needed, proof that sometimes life takes you exactly where you’re meant to be, even if the map looks nothing like the one you first imagined.

The Day I Finally Walked Into My Childhood Western

Growing up, I watched more cowboy movies than I can count, American westerns, Filipino westerns, anything with dusty streets and wooden saloons. I was always drawn to those old towns: the weathered boards, the rusty signs, the oversized stars and metalwork that looked like they’d been hammered together by legends. Never did I imagine that one day I’d actually be living in the Southwest, surrounded by the very landscapes I used to only see on TV. When I first learned Fox Animation Studios was in Arizona, I felt like destiny had tapped me on the shoulder. I wanted to breathe the same air, walk the same ground, and see the world that shaped the stories I loved.

It took me a while to finally visit this ghost town, but standing there, in front of those giant metal revolvers and the old wooden walls, I felt that familiar spark from childhood. It was funny, really, here I was, a grown man in boots and a hat, posing like a background character in a Western, yet feeling the same excitement I had as a kid glued to the screen. Arizona has a way of making the past feel close. And in that moment, it felt like the little boy in me had finally stepped into the movie.

A New Studio, A New Story

I arrived in Arizona on August 21, 1996, stepping into a new chapter of my life to work on Anastasia, the very first feature film of Fox Animation Studios. After two days of trying to shake off the jet lag and settle into a new country, they called me in to start. I was still exhausted, still adjusting, but I showed up because this was the opportunity I had dreamed of.

On that first day, I looked calm and relaxed at my desk, but inside I was nervous. I hadn’t touched a pencil in three months, and suddenly I was handed a musical sequence: Anastasia singing and dancing, with Pooka bouncing along beside her. It was a beautiful scene, but it was also a test. My hands felt rusty, my mind was racing, and I could feel the weight of starting over in a new studio, a new culture, a new level of expectation.

Even with five years of experience and 55 Hanna‑Barbera titles behind me, I knew I had to adjust quickly. Fox had a different rhythm, a different creative energy, and I had to push myself to rise to it. I had to prove not just to them, but to myself that I belonged there.

But once I started drawing, something familiar returned. The nervousness didn’t disappear, but the joy of animation pushed through it. That moment, captured in the photo, shows me smiling and focused but it doesn’t show the courage it took to sit at that desk, pick up that pencil, and begin again.