Growing up in Manila, I always considered myself a city girl. I was accustomed to traffic, malls, technology, and hearing people speak Tagalog and English. That was pretty typical of me, and I assumed that was all I needed to feel at home.
But whenever my classmates talk about people in the highlands, they would laugh and exclaim, "Baka may buntot pa 'yung mga tao doon!" (perhaps folks in the mountains still had tails.) I didn't really believe it, but I laughed with them anyway. It was easier to join in, than question them. In our minds, people from the mountains were strange, weird, old-fashioned, and far different from everything we knew.
That is why I was so upset when my mother told me that we were heading to Apayao to see my grandmother on my father's side. I didn't know very much about my father's family. He died when I was a child, and my mother hardly mentioned him.
The journey to Apayao felt long, with jeepney trips, uneven roads, and even a short hike to a tiny village surrounded by woods and rice fields. When we arrived, I noticed wooden cottages on stilts, children running barefoot, and people speaking a language I don’t understand.
My grandma, Nanang Goria, greeted me with a bright grin and a dish of traditional tinolang manok. She spoke gently, occasionally in Tagalog, but mostly in Isnag. I just nodded most of the time, unsure of what to say.
My cousins spoke in their own language during dinner. I felt like I was left out. I didn’t think they were being mean - but it made me want to stop trying. I whispered to my mom, "I don't belong here."
A few days later, while helping my grandma clean an old cabinet, I discovered something unusual - a notepad wrapped in cloth. The pages were adorned with short poems and letters written in Isnag. The first page contained a remark in Tagalog:
“Para kay Erlinda - sa tamang panahon, matututunan mo rin ang wika ng ating lahi.” (“For Erlinda - in time, you too will learn the language of our people.”)
It was signed by my father.
For a moment, I just stared at it. I could not read the rest, but I felt something stir in my heart. I showed it to Nanang Goria, and she read some of it out loud. I listened - not just with my ears, but with my whole being.
That night, I asked her: "Lola, could you teach me our language?"
Every day after that, we sat under the coconut tree and I learned Isnag words. “Napet” means bitter. “Nalsam” means sour. “Napgad” means salty.
At first, I struggled, but I eventually began to appreciate it. I used new terminology in the market. When my cousins shared songs, I sang along with them. They began assisting me more, even clapping when I got the words correct.
It was more than simply learning to talk. I was starting to understand where I came from and who my father really was.
As we prepared to return to Manila, I climbed up a small hill and took one last look at the village below. The wooden houses, the winding paths, the voices in a language I had once ignored - all of it now felt like home. My father's notepad was in my luggage, and I felt a renewed sense of pride in my heart. I told my grandmother, "I used to be ashamed of this place. I unfairly viewed it as a place left behind. But now… I think this is where I really started to understand who I am. She grinned and explained, "Apo ko, language is memory. It is who we are; and now that you are repeating his words, a piece of your father has returned to life."
Looking back, I used to laugh when I heard stories about mountain folks. I used to hide from my roots. But now, I know the truth: our native language is not something to be ashamed of. It’s a treasure that connects us to our past, our family, and our land.
I thought I was just learning a new language. But somewhere along the way, I discovered more than just words. The word I found was not written in any dictionary. It was in the laughter of my cousins, the stories of my Nanang Goria, and in the voice I never thought I would carry - my father’s.