By Sarah Meier We, the Republic of Taxi Cab Ballads. Hardwired to finish not sentences but song lyrics, adept at navigating the universe of the romantic cliché armed with the sentiments of ’80s crooners and early-’90s R&B. This is the world I came of age in—one in which some form of the humble harana could survive eras of extremes (be that internment or the internet), and courting continued to be fair game for both kings and jesters alike. As the pistons of progress chug along, however, the Pinoy love story threatens to morph into something far more progressive and Western than society may be prepared for. Indeed, it seems like love these days finds itself caught between the crosshairs of tradition and Tinder. But who am I to discount a more modern rendition of love? Is love not, in itself, the absence of judgment? Is love not simply and purely love, regardless of the hows, whys, and wherefores? Perhaps it is romance I mourn. Love, you see, is always alive. This collection of short stories is an ode to those who have broken the mold and chosen truth above tradition, defied expectations and risked relationships, wrestled with creed and criticism, all for a chance at elongating a moment in which, in a world full of fear and judgment, they finally felt the infinite possibility of their purpose revealed in the existence of another creature, despite there being no guarantees. It is simultaneously an ode to the kind of love that narrowly skirts past obligation, that takes root in stability and the familiar. A love that may or may not be romantic in nature, but one that is seemingly impenetrable in its unlikelihood to change. This, a love that composes the bedrock of our martyrdom, perpetuates almost exclusively on the belief that sacrifice is rewarded. See, depending on where you sit, both conflation and cowardice can look like love. Practical The floods had totaled their property, and the promise of a bountiful harvest looked bleak. Her eldest daughter was pregnant again, and her youngest son was on the verge of suspension for fighting at school. She came back to the province from Manila, braving the stormy and treacherous waters of the nth typhoon to hit this year. Her husband was nowhere to be found. Out drinking again, she supposed. The temptation to become an overseas caregiver was stronger than ever but something continued to bring her home. Theirs was never a romantic love, but it was dependable. She cleaned houses in the city. He worked the fields. Their kids had an education. It was more than they could ask for. Matriarchy She was a wild thing, not quite like anyone he had ever met. Raised in a manner that both attracted and confounded him, a woman of the earth, he knew she would be the mother of his children. But her beliefs did not fall within the devoutly Catholic confines of his mother’s home. And so they left it, and built their own, where they live to this day. She sometimes wants to ask him if he misses his mother, but doesn’t dare. Conflicted He had known he was gay from an early age and was never shy about showing it in his manner of speech and swagger. His heart was big. Too big, perhaps. He fell in love deeply and ungracefully, but from the outside you could never tell. Never was he seen in the arms of another. Never did he speak about the few he felt so passionately for. But every day he went to Mass, and sought forgiveness for his sin. The sin of loving someone his church told him he could not. He watched the news and smiled sadly—another country had legalized gay marriage. He quietly wished all the people celebrating on the screen eternal happiness, then, preparing to say goodnight to the most unwavering of his loves, turned off the news and reached for his Bible. Swiped He was raised by women, and knew their limits, but somehow could not help himself from testing them. He was magnetized by the Madonna but challenged by the whore, and found himself titillated by the thought of perfecting the dance with one woman that could offer both. She was from the University of the Philippines, this one. Her rebellious streak was all the more exciting because of the weight of her last name. He would swipe his way onto other women, but she would continue to drive him mad. This, he thought, must be love. Leftovers She put down her phone, the glow of kind comments on her last post fading with the light on the screen. She was in demand as a motivational speaker and her businesses were more successful than she could have imagined. There were offers for partnerships and ambassadorships coming in on an almost daily basis. A picture of him and her as the main story on a global business news site was a big deal for the Filipino community, her country that she loved so deeply. It was for us that she dunked her sauce-stained dress in a basin of suds. It had been new and spotless when he threw the plate of food in her face in public that afternoon. Harana I found his iPod on the floor of a Manhattan bar. I knew it was his, only because of the folder of songs entitled “OPM.” Never had Original Pilipino Music been so instrumental in determining the course of my life. We somehow connected, via Facebook or e-mail, and as a reward he promised me 10,000 songs. Of the thousands he sent, one was his. He rhymed about forbidden love, and how he’d wait a lifetime and beyond for a chance at receiving mine. This was in 2009. Seven years later, we were married. The last story is mine. The previous ones may be yours. May we make our life choices from a place of love and not fear. May our country find its way to a place where it can do the same.