Six months ago, six Asian women were murdered at a spa in Atlanta. Months later, I woke up to graffiti of Asian hate on my neighbor’s garage in Union City. I began feeling this sense of hurt and fear for my people, especially for my fragile grandparents, whose fear to go outside was amplified, with COVID-19 surging as well. I was also angry. I wanted to talk. I had to do something. 

I thought about my own origin story - I was born in California and had not visited the Philippines in many years; I felt disconnected. I was more American than Filipino-American. However, my mom, who was born in the Philippines, would always tell me about fond memories and her love for sampaguita, a white jasmine: their national flower. Through her description and stories, I would always think of the sampaguita and its simple beauty. This propelled me to find out more about my culture and take action the way I knew how: reading and writing.

I bought Letters to a Young Brown Girl, a poetry collection by Filipinx Barbara Jane Reyes. For the first time in my life, the main character looked like me. I finally felt that I was worth being represented; this was the moment that propelled me to share my story through poetry. 

I started writing. I had freedom to pen my story that needed to be released. My anger became the spaces between lines and stanzas and it surged when I discussed Asian hate and how representation made me feel valid. Even though I cannot speak nor understand much Tagalog, the few phrases I knew - mahal kita, meaning “I love you” and salamat po meaning “thank you” - brought justice where the English language could not suffice. I decided to title it “I See and Remember the Sampaguita,” as a tribute to my mom and our roots. 

I submitted it to The Adroit Journal but was rejected. Then, The Weight Journal, which accepts work “that releases the WEIGHT,” told me they wanted to publish it. I finally felt I was able to speak my truth and be heard.  It gave me a starting point to share my culture and my own story.