Routines of that Manic, Pixie, Dream, Pink Girl

Routines of that Routines of that manic, pixie, manic, pixie, dream, dream, pink girl pink girl

WRITTEN BY MIKAELA GABRELLE P. DE CASTRO

“Why are all of your things pink?”

These are the first words I heard as I climbed up my bus, sighing in annoyance and dropping my pink file-case on my seat. The grade schoolers’ screams and laughs rang through my ears. Traditionally, they turn the vehicle into an obstacle course, constantly screaming each other’s names, jumping, and making the platform shake. Looking at their innocent faces and the excitement in their eyes, I realized I must’ve looked like one of them when I was young. Their merriment juxtaposed my annoyance as it dawned upon me. Before being uncorrupted and undefiled by the reality of the world, I had no inhibitions. The only difference now is while they chased each other, I chased deadlines.

“Everything you paint is just…pink and cute.” I stare up my painting teacher as I shyly let go of my paintbrush dipped in rose, giving her an awkward and tight smile. Glancing over my other classmates’ canvases, I stared down at mine. I understood the world through this singular color—everything had to be perfect, pretty, and organized. Not honing this color, my trademark, would lead to failure and imperfection. Regardless of what people thought of my obsession with this color, it had a symbolic and sentimental value for me, no longer caring if this restricted my versatility. Red was too bold and white was too pure, and I was neither of those. Because I knew pink was more than just cute or feminine. One color was all I needed. “You match the cherry blossoms!”

I stood in the middle of Seokchon Lake in Seoul. After my cousin took the family photo, he pointed his index finger to my face in the camera, describing how my sweater made me blend in with the petals. As we headed to the terminal, I watched businessmen in luxurious pitch-black attires glided towards the station gracefully. It looked like a dance they mastered, a piece composed of elegance and poise; neither harsh nor potent. And so I saw it, they were the cherry blossoms that slowly fell in one direction, with one, singular color. The beauty of conformity resonated to me.

I’m home again. Standing in the middle of NAIA Terminal 3, passport clutched in my hands as I await my luggage. I watch my fellow countrymen in casual and mixed clothing, which contrasted the uniformed black suits in Seoul. Instead of designer bags, they held something more priceless — balikbayan boxes. I shift my gaze towards the OFWs with crumpled scarves around their necks and dirty shoes, watching them cry in joy as they fall in the arms of their sons and daughters.

That’s when I realized my world has more than one color, neither pink nor black, not how I perceive everything to be.

This is home.