My roommate just asked me to close the windows and shut the blinds because “it’s so hot outside.” Mind you, it’s only 36 degrees (or around 97 degrees in Freedom units).
I say only 36 because dude, that’s everyday temperature in the Philippines. The heat could even go above 40 degrees and, man, we Filipinos just deal with it like badass mofos. We go to malls, we amp up the electric fans, and we exercise our biceps with the pamaypay — we make do, man. Every now and then you’d hear people complaining how it’s so Majinit Jackson, but Metro Manila is Hell and we’re all lovely spawns of Satan anyway.
Yesterday the people at work were ranting against the heat while I was wearing a jacket. “Why the fuck?” they asked me, and I was almost tempted to answer, “I’m Filipino, hun, and this is our sweater weather.”
I suppose this is one of those moments when I just know I won’t ever fully belong to this country. A friend just recently asked me to switch citizenships, but I told him I don’t think I’m ready yet. Swearing allegiance to another country is something I don’t feel like doing yet. Maybe never, maybe soon, but definitely not now. He jokingly mocked me for romanticizing nationalism. Meh, maybe I am.