- by jason iloreta, RVC Fellow, Cohort 4
When I was younger, my Mom would recite some old superstitious phrase in her native Filipino dialect of ilocano, usually after we left some family party and were on our way home.
I’d be sitting in the car with my family, my legs dangling over the seat’s edge, and she’d say in a sing-songy voice:
“Tan tan Jason. Saan ka agbatbati. Agawid tayon.”
Which in english literally means: “Let’s go Jason. Don’t you stay behind. Let’s go home now.”
The saying comes from this ilocano belief that, if a baby became sick after the family had gone out, it was because their spirit was left at the last location. So the elders would come, take the clothes of the baby, bring it back to the place the spirit was left, and called to it to return back home. My mom would recite this multiple times in the car ride home—once each for my 3 siblings and I—to make sure our spirits came back with us and we didn’t get sick.
At 5 years old I thought, “What a silly thing to believe.” Sickness because the so called “spirit” was left behind? Please! We got sick because our snotty selves shared drinks with backwash in it or because we tried to see how far our spit could go before hitting the ground—sometimes it did—and then sucking it back up like in the movie “Big Daddy”! Germs not a lost spirit, I thought. Still my Mom would sing, and those words soon became eerily comforting to me.
Today, at 32 years old, I find myself thinking about this superstitious phrase. I understand it more now and perhaps differently than intended. I see it as a prayer. A prayer to find what was lost. A prayer to welcome back what was once left behind. A prayer of healing.
In some ways, I think these last two years have been just that. Each new experience I leaned into acted as a prayer for parts of me to return. Some parts I lost. Some forgotten about. And better yet, pieces I didn’t know belonged to me.
You see, prior to the fellowship, it wasn’t that I was broken per se, but I also didn’t feel whole. My friend Sarah once said, “Jason I don’t know who you are anymore. It’s like you shrunk.” She was right. I wasn’t myself. I felt off. A big reason for that was because, at that time, I just started the coming out process. I’ll spare you the details of what hiding in the closet for nearly 30 years did to me. Let’s just say, my closet wasn’t cute. She didn’t look like this 2 years ago let alone 10 years ago—oof, those cringey bright green and yellow plaid shorts! My closet made me sick not sickening, but I digress.
Stepping into my identity only ramped up in the weeks prior to the start of this fellowship. I mean, shoot, before jumping into Mamudou’s car to go to our opening retreat back in June of 2022, I had just turned the ripe age of 30, recently flew back from my first gay-cation in Vegas with new gay friends, and finally came out to my Mom. Literally, the day before the retreat, I came out to my Mom on the phone. Don’t worry, it was a positive call. I felt higher than cloud nine like nothing could bring me down.
Even though I walked into our retreat house that day wondering “What the hell did I get myself into?”, I also knew things would keep getting better. And they did. Within the first few hours I learned that many of you were part of the queer family, that all of you were affirming of that identity, and what a shock that was! I had never been around so many gays, theys, and supportive straights. Like the space was so queer. I mean, I learned my star sign, sun sign, and what rising moon meant in less than an hour. It felt safe to be queer. In fact, in one of our break out groups I mentioned coming out to my mom the day before, essentially coming out to the group myself. Meg responded with, “Yay. congrats! Omg, I could cry!” They kind of did cry and I had no idea how to respond to them.
That retreat was a pivotal moment for me, both as a fellow in this program and as a regular human being. I arrived just starting to welcome parts of me I thought I would never meet or ever could. I left with more of me than I could ever imagine. This pattern continued throughout the next two years. For the first time I could speak candidly about my dating life, my queer interests, dress queerfully. I could insert myself in scenarios and discussions surrounding the intersections of queerness, non-profit sector, and general social issues.
I could be myself.
I’ve heard it said by multiple people in the social psychology arena that suppressing bits of you is the thief of joy, of peace, of connectedness. I did not understand what that meant until these last few years.
My suppressed queer self was not the only bit that started to show up. Parts of me that got lost along the way returned: the confidence to ask questions during work trainings, the courage to stand up for MY own needs, for example. With this grounded sense of self, I was able to tap into that vigor to learn and be better for not only my organization but for myself. I even started playing basketball again—in a gay league at that!
And, for the first time in what felt like a very long time, I welcomed the belief that I too deserve my hopes and my dreams.
Peace. Joy. Connectedness.
I am so thankful for this fellowship, for the trainings we did throughout our time, and for my coaching sessions with Christian. Yes, things got hard at my organization as does in any grassroots, start up non-profit. But I don’t think I could have survived those experiences without this refortified foundation.
And you all contributed to that. My fellows, the fellowship team, even the RVC support staff. Each of you. In encouragement and laughter, you all helped usher back pieces of me I abandoned so long ago. Every moment with any of you felt like a prayer calling out to myself to return home. And return to myself I did.
Ending our time together is bittersweet. I’ll miss being with you all so frequently, but I look forward to seeing where we all end up a year from now, myself included.
As we say goodbye to our formal fellowship space, I will take with me what you all have so graciously given, as I call out,
“Tan tan Jason. Saan Ka Agbatbati. Agawid Tayon.”
I will reach out my arms with the same joy, love, and laughter you all embraced me with and tell the bits of myself returning, both old and new, “Welcome home Jason. I’m glad you’re here.”