A Filipino restaurant is bone marrow

and vinegar boiling

perfectly over the sound

of the most dramatic Tagalog
 
soap opera you’ve ever been forced to watch. 
I come here, when I can afford it,

when my homesick can only be cured

by my mother’s hands
The server is a young woman,

possibly in her 20’s with a posture

that’s been carrying the weight of her father’s expectations. 
She calls me, “Ate” every time I come in.

It means older sister in Tagalog.  
I can tell by the way she responds

to her mother that she still lives at home,

because Filipino women without husbands

have no business being out on their own,

she wears a crucifix on her necklace

to remind her a man died for her once,

her priest, her mother,

her father, and her aunties

won’t ever let her forget it.  
And she doesn’t know.

But I’ve been there.

Wanted to believe that

I could behave and sit still.

Find a nice boy to marry

to shut my mom up and wear tradition

and religion on my wedding day, 
but I needed to be free.  
And I wonder what young women

like this know about freedom.

What it’s like to not have a predetermined destiny.

To not always have to say the right thing,

and dress the right way

and be the dream

that someone else dreamed for you. 
But this glass house
 
contains a boy

with too many stones

and not enough heart 
to tell his mother he’s trans.

Because I swore I would never tell my mother.

Because she wouldn’t understand. 
Because this is will make the pot boil over.

And this young woman could’ve been my mother in past life 
The woman behind the counter says,

“Hi Ate.  how are you today?”
I smile.

Hold back my painful desire

to tell her I’m different now.
 
I went and got free.

I am not your sister,

but I’m still part of the family.

But the smell of this adobo

is whispering my mother’s name

and I can’t unclench.  
My mother grips tradition

and Catholicism so tightly

she has no more knuckles for this. 
I do not correct her.

Continue this transaction like we normally would.
Do not try to axe at the root

of this family tree we swing under

I decide to never tell my mother

I can’t be her daughter

Do not throw these stones from your glass house, boy

the only chain you have left

Don’t anger your ancestors

Don’t shame this family anymore

Do not come out again

Don’t do this to us
So, I do not correct her.
Instead I settle into this excuse

rather not uproot this tree from the ground
Rather not show her that she might be the one who is free
and 
not me
We complete our business and she says, “Thanks Ate”

But I’ve been used to being free for too long.

My jaw shakes loose of the weight it’s been holding

dislocates from my mouth

and drops into the young woman’s hands
“Kuya” I say.

which is a respectful title for

“older brother”.
I do not expect her to catch me.

My muscle memory braces itself for the shatter

for the shards of stained glass

church windows I’ve just smashed.
She says, “Have I been saying it wrong this whole time?”
And this is where I have to come out again.

A decision to make to erase the history we’ve created together in our connection

to erase my own history

or to be loyal to who I’ve been 
I choose to be loyal.
I say, “no.”

Wait for the confusion, the hate, the back turned that I know so well
She says, “Oh, Sige—Kuya”
I smile.
And wonder how I will tell my mother that I am still her child.