The Maranao in Manila

In homage to those who stand in between — still standing.

For some of us, identity doesn’t come from crossing borders — but from standing between them. It’s a strange thing to carry a name from one land while being raised in another. Stranger still to grow up in a city where your last name stands out — not because it is revered, but because it is unfamiliar.

I was born and raised in Manila. My father was Maranao — a man of purpose, bearing and deep roots.

But my earliest memories aren’t of Lake Lanao or torogans, the traditional Maranao houses. They’re of jeepneys, morning paper vendors, and the sound of tricycles racing each other to the next corner. I learned to speak, think, and dream in Tagalog — and only later began to hear the quiet, circular rhythm of Meranaw.

Still, I knew I was different. Not quite like the kids next door. But not quite not like them, either.

When people heard my surname or asked about my father’s roots, there was often a pause. A curiosity. A softening — or, at times, a stepping back. In grade school, it meant explaining why I wouldn’t join the Christmas program. In college, it meant sidestepping alcohol with a polite smile. At work, it meant fielding questions asked more out of confusion than offense.

“So… pwede kayo mag-asawa ng marami?”

But the most compelling version of the Maranao in Manila wasn’t me — it was my father.

A true-blooded Maranao, he was every bit the man shaped by his people: firm in faith, unwavering in principle, and deeply committed to the dignity that came with his name. He came to Manila to study — hoping to bring home world ideas. Instead, fate led him to stay longer, after choosing the fairest one this side of the river.

Staying didn’t mean forgetting. In his own way, he introduced imperial Manila to the rhythms of his culture and the aspirations of his people — quietly, firmly, without apology. He made a home, raised a family, and chose, with steady clarity, to watch the sun set from just beyond Kilometer Zero — the country’s point of reference — at the heart of the city he learned to love.

He showed me you could be faithful to where you’re from, even as you bloom somewhere else.

But the harder part — the quieter ache — came from the other side. From the Maranao homelands in Lanao del Norte and Lanao del Sur — places like Baloi and Radapan —the place I imagined as home. The place that gave me half my identity — perhaps more — yet sometimes looked at me with hesitation.

There, I was from Manila. Too soft-spoken. Too unfamiliar. Too unsure of the customs I was supposed to know by blood. Not rejected — but not fully embraced either. A relative, yes — but one who still needed translation.

Sometimes, the questions came gently — couched in affection, or even teasing: “Kailan ka mag-aasawa ng Maranao?” “Bakit hindi kayo nagkatuluyan ni…?” They meant well. But beneath was a quiet math: that to fully belong, love, too, must follow the map.

Between these places, I learned small rites: praying in a quiet stairwell between meetings; reading a face before a handshake; choosing halal on a street that didn’t know the word yet; learning that translation is love — and that belonging is built by courtesy.

Perhaps I’m not alone. Many of us were born between histories — raised in cities far from our roots, yet still called back by blood, by name, by memory.

I am the Maranao in Manila. Not a mistake. Not a placeholder. Not half of anything. But wholly becoming.