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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

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Sunday, August 17, 2025

entry arrow9:00 AM | The 50 Gratitudes*

* Which feels like a portmanteau of “gratitude” and “beatitudes”—i.e., thankfulness for supreme blessedness. Today, I turn 50. I think it’s important to celebrate it with fifty things I am grateful for:

1. That I’m alive at 50. Everybody wise tells you it’s a privilege to get older. Not many people are given this gift. This is especially true for me because I never thought I’d reach this age, to be frank about it. The thought of dying has been a constant shadow entire life. When I turned 33, the so-called “Christ Year,” I remember crying almost every day—even when I was riding a pedicab—because I really felt deep in my bones that death was knocking on my door from all manners of demise, either by affliction or accident. It was a difficult mindset to shake off. But I think what I was scared about was the idea that I had not reached my full potential yet, and had not made my mark on the world, no matter how small. This scared me and not “death” itself. That dance with mortality somehow ultimately faded when I entered my 40s, but what a grim dance that had been—a tango of cartwheeling emotions all wrapped in the name of personal legacy.

2. My resolute stubbornness to do my own thing—sometimes to my own “detriment” [but not really]—is something I am actually grateful about. [Sometimes I call this “instinct.”] For example, I was enrolled in first grade at North City Elementary School in Piapi, and my homeroom teacher was a wonderful woman named Mrs. Limpiado. Within weeks of the schoolyear just beginning, she had to leave for somewhere [I think the U.S. for a much-needed reunion with family], and she was soon replaced by another teacher, who was probably not bad—but I did not stand for that replacement. At seven years old, I absolutely refused to continue going to school, unless Mrs. Limpiado came back. One time, I even peed on the classroom floor just because. My mother was flustered at my uncanny stubbornness. “You will have to repeat Grade 1 next year if you don’t go back to school!” she implored. But … I … did … not … care. So I stopped school that year—and by the next year, we had moved to another house in another barangay, and my mother enrolled me at nearby West City Elementary School. Guess who was the new principal at my new school: Mrs. Limpiado.

Note 1: This stubbornness would have other versions in the coming years. I can endure whatever hell that comes my way when my mind is made up about something.

Note 2: This is why I am older than my classmates in grade school and high school. I never minded the teasing I got for it. In my mind, being adamant with my refusal at 7 was correct.

3. My adult ADHD diagnosis in 2022—which made me learn to forgive myself, and made me make sense of things in my life I never understood before.

4. Friends who understand why I am what I am. [See #2.]

5. Also former friends who don’t. It’s … fine. I’ve long ago accepted that I can’t expect everyone to like me. I don’t like everyone either.

6. Second chances. And third chances. Even fourth.

7. To live in Dumaguete. To be here, and to call it home, is such a blessing. The fact that this city thrives on culture and the arts, and is so near both sea and mountains, is something most of us living here take for granted. Not me. I love that I can be at the foothills of Valencia town in the morning [perhaps also at the Sunday tabo at the población, when I can wake up for it], then proceed to Dauin for some beach fun in the afternoon, and then attend a piano concert at the Luce in the evening. This is the magic of being in Dumaguete.

8. Henny Penny, that mighty red chicken in our grade school textbooks, who taught me to read.

9. My grade school teacher Ma’am Bennie Vic V. Concepcion, who first recognized that I could write—even though I had no idea.

10. High school classmates, who become forever friends.

11. Kokak and Tedo from college days.

12. Friends—Krevo, Hendri, Razcel, Willy, etc.—who take me to strange and beautiful places that I would never venture into on my own. White rabbits all of them, and I am their Alice.

13. My writing mentor, Timothy Montes, who made me join the Silliman National Writers Workshop in 2000—although I didn’t know anything about it. [He also made me join The Weekly Sillimanian.] Teachers who push you should always be celebrated.

14. The fact that I’ve traveled the world extensively, for free. And usually because of my writing.

15. Japan, which bled me of my homesickness.

16. New York in the autumn.

17. Sagada in 2008.

18. Meals that make you adequately full and happy. And chicken curry, fern salad, fried bangus, and escabeche—the food my mother used to cook to make me happy.

19. That rare really good cup of coffee that lifts you from the doldrums.

20. “Film school” courtesy of Goodluck Store near the tianggue.

21. Reading really good books, and being in a daze after finishing them, and being so envious of the writing. Call Me By Your Name, Giovanni’s Room, The Pillars of the Earth, Interpreter of Maladies…

22. Dean Francis Alfar telling me I could do speculative fiction.

23. The films and books of Nora Ephron. When she died in 2012, I had no idea I would be so heartbroken. Her life is the one I want to emulate the most, to be honest, including her writing mantra: “Everything is copy.” [Two essays that she wrote—”What I Won’t Miss” and “What I Will Miss”—are the inspiration for this very essay you are now reading.]

24. The Hive who made me feel welcome when I badly needed friends after a breakup.

25. The sight of Renz coming towards me.

26. The sound of Renz laughing over some movie or television show. Usually RuPaul’s Drag Race.

27. Under the Tuscan Sun, especially the movie.

28. Avatar: The Last Airbender, the original animated series, which Renz made me watch, and which honestly is one of the best written television shows in history.

29. Clair de Lune by Debussy. Especially when I hear it out of the blue in the early morning.

30. Being able to watch Lady Gaga live in concert. [Because I was not able to catch Madonna when she toured Asia.]

31. All the boys that broke my heart. [Read my collection, Don’t Tell Anyone.]

32. People who don’t mind that I can’t remember names, even though I do remember my experiences with them.

33. The days when you can roll in bed all morning, with no meetings to anticipate, and with absolutely nothing to do. [It’s also nicer when there’s soft rain outside.]

34. My collaborations with Hersley-Ven Casero, which have been very productive.

35. Newly-dagit friends in Dumaguete who inspire me, and make me experience my city in a new way again. Like having literary lunches!

36. Dear friends who once told me, “Let’s help you make your dream come true,” and then they did Dumaguete LitFest with me! You should always cherish friends who tell you they want to help you make your dreams come true. That’s very rare.

37. Dessa, Lana, and Karl, who asked me to come back to teaching—even though I didn’t want to.

38. Tita Melisa who gave me a home and a bubble, especially during the pandemic.

39. The pandemic, which—although horrific in places—also taught me I could live very simply, and still be satisfied. It taught me not to strive for positions, or for property. All these things don’t really matter.

40. Dad jokes, and laughter that splits your sides.

41. The fact that I still believe in God, despite Christians.

42. My father.

43. My sisters-in-law and my nieces and nephews.

44. My brother Rocky.

45. My brother Alvin.

46. My brother Edwin.

47. My brother Dennis.

48. My brother Rey.

49. My mother.

50. The fact that—see #1—I have finally absolved myself with all needs of “legacy.” It’s an impossible ask, and one that is totally beyond my control. But I love that I have done my best to pursue the very specific things I love, and I am grateful that some of these have touched the lives of people.

* * *

But legacy is something I cannot help but grapple with, especially now. Truth to tell, I have been the recipient of three recognitions that promise me there is some personal legacy at play. Years ago, I was Hamiling Bayawanon. In 2021, I was given the KSSLAP Award by the Cultural Center of the Philippines in recognition of my writing life and my cultural work, and I’m included in the literature volume of the newest edition of the CCP Encyclopedia of Philippine Art. This year, I am recipient of the Outstanding Dumagueteño Awards, also for the same recognition. When I received the notice regarding that last one, I remember posting on Facebook: “I think I’m still too young for this.” But a friend later told me that age has no bearing on these things, that they are recognitions for our contributions to the community—and that they should be received with gratefulness and humility. And I finally agreed.

I’m glad that I’m still relatively young and able bodied while I’m getting these awards and opportunities. I do not want to be too old and too physically infirm when accepting these accolades, as I see it sometimes happen. And also because—and this is my bombshell if you’ve read this far—I really have no idea how much time I have left.

Call this as shades of #1, but truth to tell, I am aware that my body might soon betray me.

I mentioned my brothers and my mother last in this litany of gratitude, not just because they’re family, but also because there is a physical ailment that we share that we have only discovered in the past decade. My mother hails from Bayawan, but her ancestors—like many in that southern Negrense city—are from Panay. There is a rare type of genetic movement disorder that comes from Panay called Lubag Syndrome, an X-linked dystonia-parkinsonism that primarily affects men, particularly those from this island, which they inherit from their mother. The condition is characterized by a combination of dystonia—which is involuntary muscle contractions causing twisting and repetitive movements—and parkinsonism, which can induce tremors, rigidity, and slow movements.

Four of my brothers have it now in varying degrees, and I have a fifty percent chance of also getting it. I will not deny I am a bit afraid of this possibility—but at the same time, I do not want to worry about things that may be beyond my control.

What I have now is just my present, and how I will live it. I want to travel. I want to finish my books. I want to use what time might remain of my able body to finish the work I have set out to do. Part of this project is also letting go of things that does not matter at all in my life, like toxic people, and surround myself with people I love and respect. Another part of this project is expressing my gratitude, hence this birthday list. How many years do I have left? Five? Ten? I have no idea. But I am grateful that I have so far lived a relatively good and simple life, filled with many goodhearted people—and at 50, I feel a fierce urge to really live.


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