A Legacy in Motion: The Ancestors We Carry

​Hello Everyone!

Bayanihan. It is a Tagalog word meaning the spirit of community, help, cooperation, and unity—but so much more. It came to me late in life, at least the naming of it, but the sentiment? I've always felt it.

Though my face now presents more strongly my Mexican genealogy, I am actually part Mexican and Filipino—a blend I cherish. Both sides of my family are deeply rooted in community care. Both have always understood that joy and survival come when you bring people into your home, show them kindness, and care—oh, and of course, occasionally serve a tough lesson too. ;)

Bayanihan, as a multicultural American, has come to mean so many things to me, but at its root, it is a strong sense of duty and care, given freely, without the expectation of return.

For me, it’s the stories of my great-grandparents in Mountain View. The countless times they opened up their home to people. My memories—though childhood ones—are of family sponsoring family, of hard times when people had no place to stay, of our home serving as refuge when the Japanese occupation of the Philippines occurred. And of course, just your everyday stories of being a good neighbor and good Samaritan.

I think of that last generation with a sense of dignity and respect. They awe me with what this world can be.

And just a little remembrance this week for my Nana.

When I was a child, we lived on what felt like a giant property. The lot had duplex in the back, a main house in the front, and my great-grandfathers garden in between -- Silicon Valley after all was an ochard. The neighborhood was very Filipino, all the houses multigenerational, multiple families on one plot. It was, in fact, a magical place to grow up.

My Nana was a Filipina Chinese woman of very regal demeanor and—respectfully, if I may say, with our family’s classic touch of just a little crazy. Hers was more on the inside. Even in her late 80s, what I saw was a regal woman—very tiny, though. She was short and petite, and I couldn’t have been more than three years old. She used to joke with me. Since my name is David (though pronounced in Spanish), she would say in her thick, thick accent, “You are not David, you are too big. You are Goliath.”

And I don’t know what it was about that, but little good Catholic three-year-old me lost it. Absolutely busted me into stitches.

Anyway, a thought for Nana today. The small, regal woman she was, shuffling through our central garden to visit her great-grandchild.

Much love.

With radical love,
David Garcia