Home Is Where Her Poetry Is
/I knew beforehand that she’s a specialist nurse practitioner working for the NHS—the UK’s public health services system—in her hometown of Wolverhampton. The email exchange prior to our Zoom chat hinted at a level of humility uncharacteristic of an award-winning poet—she made it sound like I was doing her a favor by interviewing her, and not the other way around.
Romalyn Ante in a dress by Filip + Inna, featuring beadwork by indigenous artisans in the Philippines.
Despite these clues, I still thought she would be solemn and pensive. After all, we’re talking about someone who won the Poetry London Prize in 2018 and was a joint winner of the Manchester Poetry Prize in 2017—the first East Asian to bag these prestigious awards. She also won the Creative Future Literary Award for Poetry in 2017. Her debut poetry pamphlet, Rice and Rain, was named Best Poetry Pamphlet in the 2018 Saboteur Awards.
This is a poet who can render a phone call with her grandfather or the act of watching a telenovela into an emotional gut punch, whose poem about how her critically ill brother was saved by her mother donating one of her kidneys includes this description of her mother’s grit:
The sun knew what it was doing when its rays
infiltrated your bones, filling them with gold,
forging them to be harder than ivories.
However, the person I met on Zoom turned out to be someone with her feet firmly on the ground—bubbly and down-to-earth, more Pinoy than British, which made for a breezy two-hour conversation punctuated with lots of laughter.
Maybe it’s because she spent her formative years in the Philippines before she and her siblings joined their mother here in the UK in 2005. She was already 16 at the time, and the move from Lipa, Batangas to the West Midlands was definitely jarring for her. She might have left her friends behind, but she too was in a sense left behind by them, thanks to the quirks of the British educational system.
“When I came over, I was quite shocked that the UK government wouldn't recognize my Filipino high school diploma. And that's because I came here as the child of a migrant worker. I had to redo my GCSEs, my A-levels, which are the high school equivalent of the Filipino educational system.
“It was so frustrating because I could see my friends [in the Philippines] going to university. . . whereas I was repeating the same thing that I had [already] done in the Philippines. That was one of the hardest parts.”
Maybe there’s also this lingering feeling that because she wasn’t fully prepared for her departure from the Philippines, the move to a different country has yet to become permanent.
“[I] always had that kind of feeling: ‘Really? Would it really happen?’ Even at the point where we were applying for our visas to go to the UK, I was still [thinking], ‘Oh yeah, I'll go there. I'll study there and then go back to the Philippines.
“And it never happened.”
This longing for home—and the promise of eventual return that migrants invariably make and often break—is the focus of Romalyn’s first book, Antiemetic for Homesickness, released by Chatto & Windus on July 23.
Romalyn was 12 when her mother left the Philippines. Her mother first worked in Oman, then moved to the UK and, after working there for a couple of years, was able to apply for visas for her family to move with her.
Her family’s story is similar to thousands of others in the Philippines, but the emotionally intricate experience of leaving and being left behind is often lost on most people in countries where OFWs work, where migrants are seen as competitors for jobs and opportunities that “natives” feel rightfully belong to them.
“It's very easy for others to assume that, ‘Oh, they're here, they're taking our jobs, or they’re taking all our resources,’ but what [they] don't see is how that distance impacts the dynamics of the whole family, and how that distance impacts [you] as a person, as someone who left your homeland.”
This is another thing that Romalyn’s poetry sheds light on—what one loses when they make the journey to gain a better life for themselves and their family.
“In my book, there's a poem called ‘Anagolay.’ Anagolay is the goddess of lost things in Philippine mythology. And only when I was exploring that poem [that] I realized that actually, yes, we're all losers.
“Sometimes I would speak to [my mum] and say, ‘Ma, you know what—we've always been losers, because if you think about it, the first time you left, I lost a mother.
“As a migrant nurse, you're also a loser because you left your country, your family, the people that you love. And, just by being nurses, we are losers as well. We lose our patients. We lose all these nice connections that we had established with our patients.”
Romalyn points out that her book is more than just about loss though. “We're all losers here, but what do we gain then from losing? I think that's the question that’s explored in [‘Anagolay’ and] in the whole book.”
Conversations around race and migration in the UK tend to be heated, especially in this divisive climate stoked by Brexit. Many British people look at the issue through an us-versus-them prism that puts migrants in a negative light.
What makes Romalyn’s poetry a breath of fresh, calming air is her ability to tenderly adjust her readers’ lenses so that their focus switches to the migrants themselves—their inner lives, their aspirations and what drives them to leave their home for other countries.
“When I was growing up in the Philippines, I wouldn't say that we were poor, but we were just getting by. My grandmother—my Nanay Lola—had renal failure and we couldn't really afford dialysis. I remember very vividly when she died, we had to re-dig her grave plot because we could no longer pay [for] the piece of land where she was buried. It was on a lease or something.
“If a mother or a father leaves her or his family for money, [people’s] initial impression is, ‘Oh, you leave because you just want money. Having a secure job is more important than your family.’
“But [these are] the sacrifices that people make because they have no choice. Who would want to leave their homeland?
“If you're a mother and you leave your children to work abroad, you're actually turning away from the very first instinct of being a mother, which is to nurture and take care of your children. But you're making this big sacrifice that other people might not necessarily understand.
“I think there's a lot of sacrifices and a lot of courage that [my mother] has shown over the years. That's why it's really important for me to write something that would reflect her and other migrant worker's sacrifices.”
From the way she talks and writes about her mother, they clearly share a deep connection and understanding that one doesn’t often find between migrant parents and their adult children. Not many migrant children, for instance, would willingly choose to be in the same field as their parents. Why be a nurse when you can be anything but?
“I came from a family of healers. My paternal grandparents are shamans—manghihilot [and] arbularyo. I’d always see them heal people by the touch of their hands, massages and incantations.”
There’s also a sense of responsibility that informs her pragmatic approach to life.
“I grew up in a neighborhood where [people would] go abroad to work as a nurse or as a seaman. I witnessed how these families rose up from where they were before. They would have new furniture, a new house. Going abroad would give you that financial security; being a nurse would definitely give you job security.
“My grandmother always told us, if you become a nurse, you won’t have to think where to go because nurses will always be in demand. There will always be sick people to heal. And I guess, growing up, I've come to understand that what matters most to me is my own security, my family's security and our stability.”
Nursing might not seem like something that would directly inspire poetry, but Romalyn makes it clear that the two are intrinsically linked. “[In nursing,] you learn to pay attention. And I think that’s a very important skill to have as a poet: the skill of paying attention, not only to your word choices or your relationship to cadences and rhythm, but also to the things that you want to say, the images that you want to use. Nursing really taught me how to do that, so I'm really transformed as a poet by my nursing profession.”
So how did this nurse figure out that she’s also a poet?
Romalyn didn’t start writing poetry properly until she was in her early 20s, when, while re-reading some of her journal entries, she realized that there was music, as well as a wealth of imagery, in her writing.
Writing, however, wasn’t new to her. Even as a child, she had already shown an inclination for writing stories, poems and plays. One of her teachers even told her that she should be a writer, which at the time was outside the realm of what she considered to be a good means of livelihood.
When she talks about the development of her poetic voice, Romalyn names three main influences, none of whom are poets in the traditional sense—her mother, her grandfather, and interestingly, the drunks in her Lipa neighborhood.
‘As a nurse, [my mother taught me how] to hand over certain information in a very specific way, and determine which information you should and shouldn’t need to communicate. I think that really influenced my writing voice in terms of which [parts] I need to say and which ones I can keep to myself.
“My grandfather is a barber by day. By night, if the electricity was cut off because we couldn't pay [the bill], he would gather us around on the terrace and tell stories. I think I got that kind of narrative power in my poems from him.”
And what about the neighborhood drunks?
“They—my dad, my uncles, their friends—would gather together just outside the house, drink and sing, and play their guitar. I'm really thankful for that experience because when I was a child, I clearly remember that when nighttime came, especially towards the weekend, I would hear them gather—the clinking of bottles, their tipsy songs and their music would basically get to me in a way that's quite special for me.”
The unique rhythm, vocabulary and uninhibited spirit of these alcohol-fueled gatherings have inspired Romalyn’s diction and choice of poetic forms.
“In my book, I have this poem called ‘Tagay.’ In Filipino, tagay could mean ‘Cheers!’ or ‘Pour me some more.’ I really like that communal energy about a drinking song. Tagay is also a form of Filipino poetry, which is equivalent to a drinking song. And I used that because I feel that this is a great device to not only show community, our culture, but also because it's close to my heart. It's really true to me.
“One thing I was aware of while writing my book was I didn't want to write poems in certain forms just to show that I could do them. I wanted to use a form that is personal to me, that's important for me. I think it's very important when writing a book to know where you are writing from.”
It’s this awareness that makes Romalyn’s poetry distinct and powerful, the kind that holds your attention and leaves you mulling over it afterwards. She finds verbs and adjectives in the interstices of her everyday life and the memories of the home she left years ago. Her poems are woven with layers of textures and images, balanced by a precision of tone that lends a clarity to the stories she tells.
“My opening poem in the book, ‘Half Empty,’ is written as a medicine label information sheet, with drug contraindications, cautions, etc. Under the Cautions section, it says:
– your husband may look for another lover while you’re gone
– your child may forget your name
– you may not be able to fly back home in time for your mother’s
burial
“That’s the price we pay for leaving. Being in this country is not easy for us.
“My aim was to kind of lift that up to the light—this is us, these are our wounds. And by doing that, I am hoping that people would understand us more. I've always believed that poetry makes you understand; it changes something in you. And I'm writing my poems for my Western readers, as much as for the Filipino community. “
Her talent is undeniable, as confirmed by the awards and accolades that have come in ever since she started joining poetry competitions. However, she attributes some of her success to timing and luck.
“I really believe that if it's your time, it will be your time. In 2017, I decided I wanted to write a book. I didn't really have an actual network of poets, being in Wolverhampton, but some organizations helped me along the way—Writing West Midlands and the Jerwood/Arvon Mentoring Programme. They helped me develop as a poet. They didn't see the poems that I entered [in competitions], but I had the kind of confidence that came from thinking that, if these people believe in me, surely there's something in my writing that's powerful.”
Most importantly, though, she stresses the value of hard work. As someone who writes in her second language and has never formally studied poetry, she had to put in a lot of hours learning the technical aspects of writing a poem. The promise shown by her earlier efforts earned her prizes that included mentorships under British poets Pascale Petit and Ahren Warner.
“When she talks about the development of her poetic voice, Romalyn names three main influences, none of whom are poets in the traditional sense—her mother, her grandfather, and interestingly, the drunks in her Lipa neighborhood.”
When she received a Developing Your Creative Practice grant from Arts Council England, she flew to the Philippines to work on her book. There, she was mentored by renowned poet Marjorie Evasco.
Antiemetic for Homesickness is described as being “steeped in Philippine folklore.” Did her stay in the country serve as some sort of immersion program to provide her with material for the book?
“I wouldn't say that it's about immersion in the culture because I've always believed that it's in my DNA. It was more about recollection. All the sensory inputs were there.”
What she did learn was baybayin, the ancient Filipino alphabet, and Filipino poetic forms such as the aforementioned tagay and the uyayi.
“The uyayi is the cradle song of Filipino folk poetry, but it's not just a lullaby. It's also a form in which mothers can communicate the hardships of life to their children.”
While many of the images in her book came from her own experiences, Romalyn doesn’t categorize it as autobiographical. “I still needed to work my imaginative energy. I still needed to pump it up,” she laughs.
That energy is at a high even now, and necessarily so, with her book coming out in the midst of a pandemic. Romalyn isn’t fazed by the challenge though.
“We’re living in a time that will become a monumental part of history. Ten years from now, I would like to see it as an important period of my life, when creatives became more innovative and when people became kinder to themselves and to other people.
“I am quite excited to launch my book, even though I will have no live audience reading. My brain has started to imagine ways in which I could give it to my readers, and I can't wait to share it with you.”
Readers have so much to look forward to; the stunning book cover alone is enough to draw their attention. Romalyn’s editor, Parisa Ebrahimi, and the cover designer Anna Morrison made sure that she was part of the design process. This means that objects featured on the cover, including a handsome sunbird and an abaniko flower, are linked to a poem or two in the book.
“I felt that my book cover should be lush because my poetry has been described as that. And I wanted it to have a forest kind of look because two poems in my book reference a wooded landscape.
“In one of those poems, a number of lines say,
Now, no matter how far I've travelled, I can’t recall the path
back to the village I left—the one skirted by a stream and
named after five hundred croaking frogs.
“I feel that as a migrant who's trying to find her way back home, I am walking in the forest, searching for a clearing that will open up to my home, to the places I left, to the family I left, the loved ones I left.
“And I wanted the book cover to be like that.”
Romalyn also chose the font color of the book title—gold, which, according to Chinese astrology, should bring luck to earth dragons like her.
Not that she needs it. The book is already creating waves in the literary world, and has been named Poetry Book of the Month by The Observer. The three years of hard work to bring the book to life is finally paying off.
“Before, this book was just a seed, and now it's finally becoming a shoot. I trust that this book will find its way to my readers. I hope that it will help them as much as it helped me, and that they will accept this as my gift.”
Antiemetic for Homesickness is a book that articulates the sense of loss and yearning that come from leaving one’s homeland, and reveals the richness and complexity of lives that are often overlooked. It is indeed a perfectly timed gift for a world in dire need of kindness and empathy.
To purchase: https://www.penguin.co.uk/authors/1084075/romalyn-ante.html
Joy Watford
Joy Watford is a tech editor and freelance writer based in Cambridgeshire, England. She enjoys making lowbrow art and kakanin, and has an unhealthy obsession with sushi and crime podcasts.
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