Pagdududa

I’m insecure about a lot of things.

Sometimes I don’t feel Asian enough around other Asians, but I don’t feel Filipino enough around family and other Filipinos. Sometimes when I meet Hispanic people they expect me to know a good amount of Spanish because of the influence on Tagalog. But I don’t even know enough Tagalog to speak Tagalog. And when I’m around white Americans I try to not be too much of a stereotype. I want to be proud of how I pronounce my last name, but I’ve gotten enough confused looks that I know I have to go easy on the accent with certain people.

And those are just my ethnicity identity related concerns.

I’m also afraid that I’m not successful enough at this point in my life. I feel like at 27, I should be able to afford to at least rent my own place, but I can’t. My family worked so hard and have sacrificed so much to give me the life that I have. In Filipino culture, and many other Asian cultures, you pay back those who raised you when you start to make your own money. My family never put a huge pressure on me to do this, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’d love to buy my grandpa his dream car and my grandma her dream kitchen, and my mom her dream house. But I can’t even afford my own apartment.

Sometimes I feel like I should be working harder or sacrificing more to attain success, but would that really even amount to anything?

Sometimes I feel like my art isn’t improving enough or that I should be a better artist with all the years I’ve been drawing. Maybe I should do more figure drawing, or draw from life more, or practice drawing hands and feet, or improve my design sensibility, or actually learn how to make good damn backgrounds… But it’s all just so much? Can I ever really learn all I want to learn?

I wonder if I’m doing enough to help my friends and family. I’m not great at keeping in touch and checking in on people I haven’t seen or heard from in a while. Should I be texting or calling them more often? I don’t even know if I’m helping the people closest to me enough. Can I make my grandparents life easier with what I have now? My mom won’t accept money when I try to help her out, and it’s probably because she knows I don’t make much and still have student loans. Am I being a good role model to my baby cousin? Can I do something to make his fast approaching puberty years easier on him? Does he know that I’m there for him if he ever wants to talk? Are there people I know who are suffering alone because I never made it clear enough that I’m always here to talk?

My family has never been a super emotional heart-to-heart family, but I always knew they loved me and cared about me. But do they know how I feel about them? Should I tell them more or would this sudden vulnerability and mushyness be unwelcome and weird?

There’s so much I could be doing right now in my life, but I’m not—eating better, exercising, practicing art in a more disciplined way, learning new/more skills… I don’t even know where to start or what will help.

My looks have been the one thing that haven’t bothered me as much throughout my life, but every once in a while I’ll wonder if the bumps on my skin are off-putting (it’s called keratosis pilaris and is apparently pretty common), or if my face is too round, or shape not “womanly” enough. And of course I went through that phase in high school where I thought I might be fat, but I’m over it now. I wasn’t even really chunky. I was just comparing myself to others.

All of this is to say, I don’t know what your perception of me was before reading this and how much it’s changed after reading this, but you really don’t know what people are going through internally unless they tell you. I’ve written all of this feeling like I’m at a pretty good place. But even so, I still have concerns and worries. There are some people out there being crushed under the weight of their concerns and problems and hiding it. That puts a lot of stress on a person and can make them lash out at undeserving people. It doesn’t excuse rudeness, but hopefully it makes you rethink how you react to it. Don’t get me wrong, there are some truly awful people out there who you might want to fight fire with fire with, but hold off until you know if they’re just having a bad day or if they’re just actually scum.

In general, be nice. It’s not that hard.

Hindi Alam

One of the hardest things I learned growing up is that doubt doesn’t go away and you never actually feel like an adult as you get older. Sure, some things get easier with time, but others don’t. And the people who raised us are just as flawed and doubtful as we are.

There were so many times in my life that I thought would be turning points, but ended up being nothing. I remember the first one was in elementary school. The fourth and fifth graders just seemed so much bigger and older than the lower grades. I thought when I got to fourth grade, I’d feel different—older, maybe. But then I got there and didn’t feel any different. Then I thought I’d feel something entering my teen years, and then turning 21, then 25…but it all felt the same. Just another year, still being me. After some time, I realized something crazier—everyone feels this way. Even my mom.

We were all raised with the same clumsiness of an imperfect person trying to figure out how to do things right. (Most of) our parents try to raise us to be better and more prepared, but how can they prepare us for a future that even they’re even unsure of? They can’t. So now we’re all out here stumbling through life, thinking that our parents have unlocked the code to being an adult and waiting for the day when we figure it out too.

I think it’s time to admit that not a single one of us has any idea what the fuck we’re doing.

The people we think are ahead of us in life are still struggling in other areas of their lives and walking just as blindly as we are into the future. Everyone’s a failure until the one day something sticks and they aren’t anymore. And, just to let you guys know, this is a reminder to myself just as much as it is to you. Don’t compare the traumas and struggles of other to your own. There are always going to be less deserving people ahead of you and more deserving people behind you and none of that is in your control. Also, your perception doesn’t always tell the truth. So keep your eyes on your own paper and don’t stop trying. Failure is the greatest teacher in life and those with the biggest successes have probably also seen the most failures. The only way to really fail at life is to stop trying all together. And don’t forget to take breaks when you need them because resting is just as important as working.

I hope all of you out there at a low point in your life start to see results to your efforts soon. And I hope those of you doing good continue to do so. If you’re reading this, you matter to me.

Siesta

Before April 2020, I probably hadn’t finished an art piece for over three years.

There’s something in American culture that depicts non-stop hard work in a romantic sort of light. Blood, sweat, and tears. The American “Dream”. Every American loves an underdog story. I mean “started from the bottom, now we’re here,” am I right?

While work ethic is definitely an important thing, non-stop work can be just as detrimental as non-stop play. Expecting people to never stop working is damaging.

When I first graduated in 2016, I was excited and terrified. Many college graduates probably feel the same. The possibilities and expectations are overwhelming when you’re first released into the “real” world. We are given what we think are the right tools to go forth and create the rest of our lives. I remember the first steps I took as a non-student were energy-filled and motivated. I designed business cards and stickers to promote myself, I put together my website (this very one) and paid for my domain name, and I started researching places that I could work or apply to. I wasn’t fully confident in my work yet, but I kept in mind what a couple of my professors had told me—it’s not necessarily the talented ones who make it, it’s the persistent ones.

But after days and weeks and months pass, and there are only rejection letters or silence, my motivation starts to dwindle. My family would constantly ask about my job search. After all, I had a 4-year degree and got good grades, a job should come easy to anyone who puts forth the effort, right? Expectations make for heavy burdens. They wanted to see me working. They wanted to see me making money and forming my life. So did I.

I didn’t have much confidence in myself in the first place, but the rejections and expectations were starting to destroy the hope I had left in myself. It became so much that eventually I resigned to doing nothing. I fell into a depressive episode. My chest tightened looking at my business cards. A brush in my hand felt like it weighed a ton. I started to read a lot more comics to find comfort in other realities. Months passed like this. My savings started to dwindle as student loans raged on.

About a year after I graduated a family member had gotten me an interview for a retail job. It was a huge relief, though not ideal. I got the job and mostly hated it. But after a couple months a position had opened up at a friend’s workplace. An art related job. Things were finally starting to look a little brighter. I scrambled together a portfolio of work from college, a handful of business cards, my best interview outfit, and the most confident fake professional voice I could manage… and got the job.

At first it was great—not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, but at least it was related to it. I was learning new things and brushing up my Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop skills. But slowly, I started to become accustomed to the job and couldn’t find as many new things to learn. Slowly, the company started to show that they didn’t care much about artists. Slowly, people left the company and more work started being passed to those of us left with no additional compensation. And before I knew it three years had passed and I hadn’t gotten a single raise.

The job started to exhaust me emotionally. I came home tired and unable to do anything else but eat dinner and watch some TV before not getting enough sleep. I tried to apply to other places, but kept getting the same familiar rejection letters and silence. I knew that my portfolio wasn’t up to date, but I was just so tired. But at least I was working, able to pay off my student loans, and had health insurance, how could I complain?

Other aspects of the job and life started to chip away at my interior. (Another story entirely.) I woke up dreading the day ahead and came home drained. Eventually I had started to feel so hopeless and stuck that I wouldn’t eat dinner, I would just want to sleep. On weekends I would try to recover from the week, but it was never enough. But I had to work. What would my worth be if I had no job and wasn’t even making art?

Then COVID-19 happened.

And I was furloughed.

Tossed aside by my job in the midst of a pandemic, I was scared and lost. Unemployment was impossible to reach. I had no income. I wasn’t working.

For a week or two all I did was sleep, read, or watch TV shows and movies. I felt guilty for not doing something more, but it was doing wonders for my stress-ridden body. And around that second week I picked up a tablet and started doodling. At first it was just vague sketches of how I was feeling. At the same time I had finished watching a TV show and there was a character I really liked, so I decided to draw her. And I did. And after that I drew something else. And after that I drew again. And again. And again.

Before I knew it I had been drawing for a month straight and I was happy and fulfilled.

I was happier than I had been in a long time just because I had the energy to do something I loved again. I would never wish a pandemic upon anyone, but quarantine saved my life.

I guess my point is, we live in a culture where hard work and productivity is valued. But what is the point of hard work if it eventually reduces you to just a stressed working cog? When I first started working at the company I mentioned, I worked hard and tried to be as fast and efficient as possible. But toward the end it all felt so thankless and stressful that I only did the bare minimum. I wasn’t even able to enjoy my personal life as much.

Rest is not laziness. Yes, it is always good to work toward something, but not at the expense of your health or personal life. How much money you make is not how much your soul is worth. There are so many other aspects to a person that make them valuable.

To anyone who reads this, your productivity is not your worth. You are enough as you are.

Kwentuhan (My First Blog Post!!!)

Hello everyone! Or no one, as I'm not expecting many people to read this, haha. But anyway, I decided that I wanted to start blogging to get into the swing of writing again. I used to really love writing, but never ended up finishing anything even though I enjoyed the process. Drawing was always my number one passion, and writing was just kind of a hobby I took on whenever the inspiration struck. But I'd like to change that a little.

I'm not exactly sure what this blog will look like as it grows, but I know that I want to talk about topics that are important to me like art, mental health, books/reading, culture, and maybe some current events and social climate stuff. And I'll probably throw in personal anecdotes and experiences along the way. (By the way, I don't consider myself an expert in any of the listed topics. Maybe just art, since it is my profession. This blog will solely be a reflection of these topics through my lens and also somewhat of a public diary for me.)

With all that being said, let me introduce myself:

My name is Nia and I love stories. My name “Nia” comes from the first two letters of my legal first name “Nicolette” and the first letter of my passed grandma's name “Aurora.” My family comes from the Philippines, but I was born here in the US. The vast majority of Filipinxs have nicknames, many of them don't have a real reason for the nickname they have. Sometimes it's just the whim of another family member. In my case, I was named after my dad's sister. Her name is Nicolette too, but she also went by Nikki and Cricket. So those were off the table for me.

Probably all children are raised on stories, but I feel that coming from a Filipinx family, stories are especially important. I remember when I went to the Philippines as a kid, I wanted to go play outside. My family didn't want me to stray too far, so they told me, “Hoy, you see that tree over there? There's a giant that lives in that tree. He's very smelly and smokes a lot. If you get too close he might scoop you up and take you away to the mountains! You don't want that do you? He might try to marry you!”

Now, they could have just said, “don't go too far, ha?” or “don't go past that tree, okay?” But they didn't. They told me a story. A story that truly terrified me as a kid, and a story that I took as truth. And although I don't like being scared, I don't think I would have remembered that time if it weren't for that tale. Also, in retrospect it's pretty fun to think about. I learned in more recent years that the “giant in the tree” was actually based on Filipino mythology. There's a creature called a kapre , also known as a tree giant, that is usually dark-skinned and terrifying, but will sometimes try to make a love connection with human women. They are usually invisible, but will become visible to those it befriends.

This myth actually inspired one of my illustrations. I thought, what if Kapre aren't actually invisible, but just able to camouflage to the trees really well? What if they're actually just guardian spirits of the trees?

I love stories. I love to read them, I love to tell them, I love to draw them.