Sibuyas

In Filipino cuisine, onions are commonly used as a base for cooking. Called “sibuyas” in Tagalog, they often accompany garlic in dishes like sinigang or pinakbet, a vegetable dish originating from Ilocos, my parents’ provincial region.

Admittedly, thinking of what to write for this OA theme was difficult: Her Story? What even is my story? My mind ran through an array of hooks: should I write about my parents moving from Manila to Nigeria before settling in the U.S.? Should I write about my cousins desecrating my cherished tennis racket in their backyard when I was eight, them proclaiming it as “fun” while I stood by and watched helplessly? Should I write about feeling out of place at the climbing gym? 

While sibuyas are common in many dishes, they’re not always called for in recipes like adobo, our unofficial national dish which features garlic, soy sauce, and vinegar. 

Growing up, I didn’t think my life was worth anything writing about, particularly because life seemed so uneventful, sometimes chaotic. And as an empath, it’s easy for me to absorb the narratives and emotions around me, particularly those focusing on exclusion, shame and injustice. Simultaneously, I know when I center others it’s easy not to center myself—because when I don’t center myself, then I can’t get in trouble; then I look like I know what I’m talking about; then I look like I belong. Because then, I can give off the illusion of being “perfect.”

Though there are many varieties of sibuyas, the concept in cooking is often the same: outer layers are peeled away and depending on the recipe, might be minced, sliced, or diced. Onions are strong: sometimes I face the fan toward me to prevent sulfur from stinging my eyes, and even after I discard the onion skins and whatever other unneeded parts, the smell permeates the air.

I care for so many others, but sometimes my cup is so damn empty that there’s nothing left for myself. And I don’t blame this reality on anyone in particular, because I know that such deeply embedded rituals of giving until there’s no more is a habit long-passed down by folx merely trying to survive and feel like they belong.

Growing up, I was often embarrassed to bring these dishes to school. With sandwiches and Lunchables being the norm, bringing rice felt “backwards” and “different”—even if I wasn’t the only Filipino in my class. And cooking adobo for the first time on my own in college, I put entirely too much vinegar into the dish then decided I didn’t know how. That was the first—and last time—I cooked Filipino food for a while.

Exhausted from feeling tethered to survival-centered habits, the small shifts felt painful to start. However, honing in on my core—not surprisingly—has resulted in less resentment, more intentionality, and more peace. I’ve become more self-reliant—not in a “pull myself up by my bootstraps” kind of way—but a slowed-down version focused on her 6-year-old self, the one who put away her books and her imagination to perform for the world.

Craving a sense of comfort during COVID isolation, I started to try cooking Filipino food again. Though I mastered sinigang and adobo right away, I also found myself bending traditional recipes, such as—gasp—adding sibuyas to my adobo recipe (the horror)!

I’ve told different variations of my story before, and every time I tell it I come to a deeper, complex understanding of myself. And this in itself has been its own form of resistance, particularly in the fight against perfectionism and mindsets that aim to erase identities of people of color. Just like time and intention softens an allium’s sharp pungency to give way to deep umami, maybe part of my healing wasn't waiting for my story to look “perfect,” but rather allowing my imperfect self to stew and simmer within the right conditions—the right environments and with the right people—to get to where I am now.

It’s funny how separation can inspire connection: the resentment I once harbored as a kid for eating “different” food has since evolved into a deep pride for the recipes and the culture I represent. Understanding how my shame reflected internalized colonialist attitudes, centering healing has allowed me to embrace more parts of my identity, which includes the act of making dishes for those I care about. 

I harbor deep respect for family and tradition, and at the same time I realize that if I don’t foster my own sense of self, there will be no me to share the stories that I love so much. And perhaps this is part of my story: peeling back the layers, getting to my core, and understanding that just because I might think of my story as basic, it might not really be so basic at all.  

Kain na tayo!