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I always believed my dad wasn’t raised well. Once, he told me about his father waking him up at four in the morning—when it was still dark out—to deliver a package of some sort via bicycle. The provincial roads weren’t lit at all, and he wiped out and fell by the roadside, unable to findContinue reading “A Historicity of Grandparents”

I cried a lot when I was in first grade. I cried so much that my mother volunteered to take care of the kids during lunchtime just so I could see her. I cried so much that my mother can still rattle off the first grade lunch habits of my friends: who made the mostContinue reading “In Memoriam: Wilhelmina Casuela-Domingo”