When I was a college sophomore and doing rounds to discover Cubao on weekends, I met a middle-aged linotype printer, Mr. B., who lived on St. Mary's Street. I was already proactively writing at the time. Writing was so sacred to me then that I revered everything connected to it. I ordered all of my stationery and greeting cards from Mr. B. I remember him as a kind and patient man who tried his best to accommodate all of my nearly-impossible designs using die-cuts, as there was no such thing as computer graphics back then. Mr. B. was married and had children. I would see his wife around his house but have only a vague recollection of having ever seen his children.

Two years later I dropped by Mr. B.'s house to order a set of calling cards for a friend. Mr. B. was not at home, but his wife was. She let me in grudgingly, brushing off my order for a set of calling cards, and as soon as I sat down in the parlor she vented all of her pent-up rage on me. As it turns out, Mr. B. left for the U.S.A. with his mistress and had no intention of coming back. I was shocked, but even then I understood that Mrs. B. had always associated me with her husband and all that he stood for.

That episode contributed to my decision to never migrate to a foreign country, although, much later, I had many opportunities to do so. When one migrates, it is always a form of escape. One doesn't really step forward into a new world. What really happens is that one turns one's back on the world he really belongs in, and leaves everyone he loves, and everyone who loves him, behind.