I hang out with a small, tight-knit group of expat Filipino artists in New York City. We put together little fiestas for the soul at least once a month, at either someone's monastic studio or cozy, memento-filled apartment. We eat, drink, talk, laugh, smoke, gossip—or as a Manileño might put it, "make chismis"—and, well, we eat some more. Often, the menu consists of favorite Filipino dishes from our past lives. Oxtail, bitter melon, water spinach—our funky, Proustian madeleines—are easily found in the convenient, pan-Asian markets that seem to have sprouted up overnight all over Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan.

Our nostalgia fests sometimes include watching movies, like Mexican melodramas from the 1950s starring Maria Felix. Her glamorous, kitschy weepies remind us of Tagalog films from our parents' bygone era. In a more perverse mood, we might rent Apocalypse Now Redux. The sight of stately coconut trees ablaze with napalm, or Pagsanjan Falls as substitute setting for Marlon Brando's jungle hideaway, irks and fascinates us. Ifugao shamans playing Montagnards hack a real carabao to death in the Vietnam War film's gruesome climax. Maria Felix is not Filipino, but the extravagance of her emotions reminds us of our own drama-queen mothers. Mexico as the Philippines, the Philippines as Vietnam. It is all too funny and sad, but we can't stop watching. We call these gatherings "Filipino therapy." Without them, I would be less happy, less creative and more insane than I already am.

My expat friends and I are missing something very badly: a home that no longer exists but which continues to haunt us. Even those of us who came to America with our families intact have left pieces of ourselves behind, some bit of history or unfinished business that never lets us go. We can vent and rage, poke fun at ourselves, make chismis, cook, eat and drink all we want—but our hunger and thirst remain unsatiated.

I left the Philippines in 1962, when I was 13 years old. My father had caused a scandal by falling for a young beauty queen. To punish him, my mother took her three children and sailed off to America. It was a bold, defiant move, which later cost her dearly. My older brothers and I had no choice in the matter, no time to prepare for being uprooted so harshly and abruptly. The break, the rupture, the collapse of my family came swiftly and without warning.

It was early evening when we finally boarded that ship and sailed away from Manila and everyone and everything we knew, cherished and loved. My father did not come to the pier to see us off. The night before, we—his stunned, stoic children—had each taken our turns saying goodbye to him in the hushed, air-conditioned privacy of our parents' bedroom. The writer in me wants to imagine that my mother was in some other part of the house, sulking. Or that maybe she was staying in another part of the city, playing hard to get. My father looked ashen and embarrassed, not sure of what to say to me. Sorry I screwed up, little girl? Hurry back, I know I'm going to miss you?

We stayed with an aunt in San Diego for a few weeks and ended up finally settling in San Francisco. The atmosphere in our dreary rental flat burned with silence, resentment and regret. Eventually, my brothers returned to the Philippines and moved back in with our father. My mother saw it as a betrayal of sorts and never quite forgave them. She refused to acknowledge the fact that America had been hard on my brothers—too vast and rude, too bewildering and anonymous. I stayed behind in San Francisco with my unhappy mother. She was the wronged woman, after all. And I, the loyal daughter.

Insistent, cajoling letters kept coming from my cousins and former classmates in Manila. Come back, naman! We all miss you. Don't you miss us? Other letters—more cautious and restrained—were sent by my father. How are you, dear? Hope you are doing well in school. I wrote back—cheerful, chatty letters that never let on how homesick and angry I was, or that my heart was broken.

My way out of loneliness and isolation was to read voraciously, to write poems and stories, to go to movies. Writing became a form of remembering, reading and movie watching a means of escape and understanding. Alone, I sat through pessimistic European "films" that were beyond my adolescent grasp but oddly comforting. The characters were for the most part smart, morose, cynical, looking for something. They carried secrets; they didn't talk much. How could I not see myself in them?

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