What Does It Mean to Map Myself

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My Realities in 1000 Words: A Mapping of Self

For me, it begins with a phrase: my realities in 1000 words. Not just a writing challenge—but a way to trace the shape of my life. Each word holds weight. Each sentence tries to gather pieces of memory, grief, pride, confusion, and clarity.

This is a draft, a brainstorm, the opening thread of what could be a longform memoir. I’m walking backward into memory, carrying light with me.

Batangueña Ako: May Puntong Ala-eh

I was born and raised in Batangas. I speak Tagalog with the puntong “ala eh”—an intonation you can hear before you know where I’m from. That lilt is a fingerprint. It anchors me.

Everywhere I go, I carry this intonation. Our loudness whenever we speak or converse. The way we stretch our vowels, we have our own vocabulary for things Tagalog, how our prefixes identify our lineage.

Malitam: The Bukid to my Bayan

They called it Malitam, though on maps it used to be known as Libjo Aplaya. But to me, it was simply the bukid—open fields, coconut trees, dirt paths lined with bamboo fences. In my childhood, there were no boundaries between shore and field. I woke to the croaking of chickens, played patintero under the full moon with coconuts threatening to fall overhead, picked aligasin for breakfast, poured utaw coffee over rice, and followed my uncle as he baited crabs with bamboo traps.

Malitam was where Inay taught us the quiet kind of strength. She was strength made flesh—both physically and emotionally. A beautiful single mother, always in motion: cooking, cleaning, caring. She brought us to the bukid, where she felt most at home.

Much of that place has been erased. The refineries came. The sand was taken. The land was fenced off. But the Malitam in my mind remains—a layer of truth, not erased, just buried.

On Tatay: A Complicated Silence

My father’s presence in my life was defined more by absence than anything else. He struggled with alcoholism, and the consequences of his choices rippled through our household—bringing uncertainty, emotional labor, and, at times, fear.

He’s the kind of figure you carry in memory with heavy complexity. His failures didn’t strengthen me; they forced me to become strong without a blueprint. I include him in my map of self not to redeem him, but to be honest. My realities in 1000 words include the pain he caused and the gaps he left behind.

Without intending to, he taught me that love requires presence. And in his absence, I grew up with no clear model for what a heteronormative relationship should look or feel like. That too is part of what I’m learning to name as I write

Inay: The True North

If I could draw one landmark on this map of self, it would be Inay. She was our compass. She taught us by doing. She never needed a spotlight; she was the warmth in the background, always steady.

She’s gone now. But she shows up every time I do the laundry, every time I organize my closet, everytime I go the Batangas market and buy her favorite kakanin.

What Comes Next?

This site—pageawriter.com—is where I plant new stories. Where I let memory grow again. I don’t know what shape it will take yet. Maybe it will be a memoir. Maybe just a growing garden of short reflections. If you're reading this, you’re part of it too. This shoreline, this bukid, this voice.

The Body Keeps the Map. Now in my 60s, I have a slower body. There is a daily ritual of medications: Thydine, rosuvastatin, cilostazol. A pre-diabetic diagnosis – not just health facts—they’re part of the terrain. I pace myself these days.

I have many questions, openings rather then endings. What stories will I tell? What will I reveal? Can my realities in 1000 words become my realities in a thousand pages one day?

Realize that I am counting.