Cake

Isiah Kylie Namoro

Cakes are a fan favorite. Usually, cakes arrive in Philippine households during birthdays, graduations,
and on other special occasions. In fact, men and women both young and young at heart find delight on the
colorful toppings and unbearable cravings brought by a three-layer creation that isn’t a building. Aside from the
celebrant, Black Forest, Ube, Mocha, Choco Moist, and Chiffon are the names you would commonly hear in a
celebration. Cakes provide a unique role in memory-building for each Filipino. It is not only a delicious garment
on tables, but more importantly, it is a materialized manifestation of describing how special a person’s
achievement is.

But, would the same go for other countries?

May 28, 2023, as I anxiously ride the bus going to Manila, knowing that I won’t be back for two weeks
as one of the delegates for an International Exchange Program with a school in Hiroshima, Japan, I wondered,
would Japenese People celebrate their special occasions just like us Filipinos? Would there be a cake during
birthdays, weddings, or how about graduations? Yet, of course, my mind dwindled more on the worries on what
I would do once we get to the airport, once we arrive at our temporary homes, and once we meet our host
families. Cakes weren’t even supposed to be on my mind, perhaps, I was just hungry and thought of the cake
we had back home.

Luckily, everything went well during our trip. No one got left behind, even my cravings for cake. Maybe,
the new atmosphere made me excited to try new foods, immerse myself in a culture I’ve only known on the
internet, and leave behind my worries back in the Philippines. It seemed like all that mattered was to have a
good time with the people I will I meet in Hiroshima.

And so, the memorable days began. I still remember during our first meet with all the Japanese
Brothers when all Filipino delegates mumbled with each other who might be with who and what might happen
in the next few days. While all of that was happening, my mind still had one questioned that although this is a
special occassion, would there be a cake? Commonly in the Philippines, a cake would be a nice way to
welcome guests, right?

Then, I met my Host Brother, Takumi. He belongs in a loving family, with a hardworking father, a caring
mother, and two younger siblings that filled the household with so much color. At first, I didn’t know how to get
along with them, of course I wouldn’t tell them about my cravings for cake, nor would I insist in telling them that
I’m looking for one in Japan. Hence, I did what I do best, talk about my personal life.

It was commonly during dinner time that I would tell my Host Family about my personal experiences in
the Philippines. I still remember how their reactions would be filled with awe and excitement as they hear about
the beautiful beaches of Boracay, the unbelievable terraces of Banaue, and the beautiful festivals of Camarines
Sur. It was in the dinner table in which our bonds were formed, our memories made, and our hearts aligned.
The dinner table was a table, but it became more of a throne of love, a cradle of a never-ending bond, and a
vehicle geared towards making as much memories as possible.
 I also went to school in Hiroshima. I tried to bring out my extroverted and outgoing personality in the
school, commonly being given the task to give “Thank You” Messages towards a specific group of people we
have done an activity with. But moreover, the time I had in the school became more of just a gateway for me to
show the best version of myself, that being the real version of myself. I wasn’t as athletic as my other
companions, both Filipino and Japanese, but they made me feel like I belonged whenever we would play
sports. I wasn’t as musically-gifted as my other companions too, yet they made me feel like I could be the next
“Justin Bieber of the Century”. In fact, contrary to what my Filipino school experience would be, I was excited,
every single day, every single night, to go to school and be with my schoolmates. It was as if my cultural
boundaries didn’t matter with the students, all we wanted to do was have fun.

We also went to different places in Hiroshima. I still recall being astonished with the cleanliness of the
streets, the gigantic presence of the MAZDA Stadium, the movie-like aura of the gardens within Hiroshima
Castle, and the futuristic look of the inner city. It was at these moments that I got to realize how grateful I was
for being chosen to be part of the program. The awe that I felt knowing how different the culture of the
Philippines and Japan but still uphold the same values towards the betterment of the human race. It was as if
our cultural boundaries shouldn’t matter, we live in the same place, as the same race, all in the same pace
anyway.

All of these adventures were great, but at the end of the day, I would still be led back to our dining table,
back to my host family, back to the cradle of love. It was at this table that I would tell them all my experiences,
both in the Philippines and in Japan. We would talk, play, laugh, and be in awe in each others’ culture every
day for the past two weeks, all in the dining table. No matter how tired we were, even I felt that their presence
was my rest. They were the part of my day that I looked forward to, the part of my day that would allow me to
unwind and look back on my fabulous days.

Each day, the dining table would be filled with delicious foods ranging from Maki Rolls, Sashimi, and
other delicious wonders that came from Japan. However, on the evening of June 8, a night before I leave, one
dish on the table garnered the pupils of my eye, it was something that I kept on craving, kept on finding on the
two weeks that I was in Japan. From the bus ride to Manila, to the adventures in Japan, who knew that out of
all the places I’ve been to, I would find a cake at our dining table.

But, this cake brought something different than the usual cakes we had in the Philippines filled with
celebration and joy. This cake was filled with tears, gratefulness, and sadness. I still remember that
strawberry-flavored cake written with “Thank you, Isiah”, given by a mother about to cry, accompanied by her
husband who was already in tears, and paired by a warm embrace from two brothers that would miss me. This
cake felt different. This cake told me I was enough. This cake made me feel love.

Perhaps, I was not looking for a cake to fill my stomach, but a cake to fill my heart. Perhaps, I was
looking for a cake that would remind me that no matter what happens, no matter what differences we may
have, I would still matter, be appreciated, and be loved by the people that I also love. Finally, I have found a
cake to celebrate not what I have done, but a cake that celebrates me for who I am.

What do I know, maybe I’m just hungry?