NAG-IISANG TIYAK SA ISANG LIBONG DUDA
my first post, with some important updates
Hi everyone.
It's been a little bit. If you don't know already, my name is Remiel. If you are somebody who did know that already - which, I'm assuming you are, considering the vast majority of folks who are reading this are my friends - you must also be wondering, to some degree, how I've been doing as of late. If you had asked me that one week ago today, I'd be telling you I'm having the time of my life. That these are the days I've been looking forward to. On this day last week, I was on a plane back from Vancouver, after an eventful weekend of seeing my friends, the ocean, the mountains. I'd tell you all about the coffee I was able to drink. The food I ate. How enamored I was with the skytrain, and the neighbourhoods filled with eclectic, clashing-yet-homogenous architecture. Tell you about how much we ought to be incorporating laneway homes in Hamilton. I would say to you, in earnest, that this brief respite from work and school, this vacation my body has been aching for, has been everything I could have ever asked for. I'd spend the rest of this piece talking to you about that if I could. But we all ought to come back home, settle down from what once was at some point or another. Wish I could tell you these are peaceful times for me. They are not.
My father, Marlon Batger Alicpala, died on Friday, June 27th, 2025. Four days ago as I write. I feel this timer nestled in the grooves of my brain, see the number of days it has been in the back of my eyelids. I can't see much else these days. Wonder how my mirror reacts to the way my cheeks stain from excessive amounts of salt water. Wonder how well my pillows muffle the ache. I can go on about what the grief is like, but I don't think I'm ready to write about it in a way that doesn't just read off as a messy journal entry. That would be no good for you to read. When I am older, when the grief becomes one that moulds me as opposed to consumes, I will write you something a bit more delicate - for my sake, mostly, and maybe a bit for yours too. In the mean time, if you at all wondered how I have been, I will tell you: I could be much better, but I could be worse. I could be dead, that is for certain, but fate has ordained for me to be left behind instead.
I hate to write about how awful I have been. Let me tell you something else. Before my dad died, I had a whole post drafted and written up. For my first official post of the Substack I was going to do a cheeky little Q&A. I asked my friends - you, probably - to ask me your burning questions to answer. There are some real knee-slappers in there. Wish I could share them to you now, but it would be disingenuous for me to do so in the face of all of this. Truth be told, everything I wish I could tell you now, everything I wrote here for you to read, I wish I could just tell him.
For those of you who have reached out already, who have helped me in any way possible, who have given me words of encouragement and threw a bone or two my way, thank you1. I would not be able to function if it weren't for you. In times like this, my dad, in his traditional Filipino manliness, would tell me to be strong. My strength is not completely rooted in myself; it has come from those who have come before, from those who will come after, and from those who are here with me, for me, now. For that, I am forever grateful.
I will leave you with one tidbit. In the wake of my dad's passing, I've been in regular contact with his folks back in the Phillipines. My dad's immediate family, outside of his children, reside in his hometown. I haven't been back since I was four, so I'm not too cognizant of what it was like. My Lola told me that, while I was visiting, I'd tug firmly on the pants of my titos and titas and say, 'Let's go to the beach!' - for we were just a ten minute drive from the shore. This happened every day without fail. Each time, my father would echo my requests verbatim, for he too was drawn to the sea, much to the chagrin of my folks. It had been decades since I've seen the ocean. I didn't get a chance to speak to my father about my most recent trip, so I will tell this to you now. While I was in Vancouver, my dear friend Maia gave me the chance to see the ocean again with my own eyes. We spent hours walking through Granville Island and Stanley Park in quiet. Being able to see the water decades later left me with feelings I haven't been able to discern until now.
Up until recently, I've spent my adulthood in constant turbulence. Closer friends of mine know what I'm gesturing at. It was only at the beginning of last school year where it felt like I found my groove. But having to play with all the different hands I've been dealt with has made it all the more difficult to discern who, exactly, I want to be. I've gone by different names, different ways to pronounce those names, different fields of study, different vocations. I have gone through the gamut of clinging onto aspects of myself I wanted to be true, and discarding those that do not fit right. Doubtless, the version of myself that reads this a few weeks, a few months, a few years from now will be completely different, exist in ways completely unfathomable. On the day I got to trek the sea wall, though, I have never felt so sure of myself.
For you, dad, I am your son. I am sure of it.
I appreciate any gesture of support or kind words, anything. Feel free to reach out, though please understand I might not get back to you right away. You know how to reach me. My sister and I are grateful, always. Thank you for reading.