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
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