My Lola’s mother’s darker lips are the lips I had tried to hide. They were always a painful reminder of the Pinay I loathed inside. “I want your brown and luscious lips,” a friend of mine once said. Infuriated that they couldn’t be scrubbed pink, I painted them red instead.

My Lola’s mother’s darker lips are the lips that I kept shut. We were taught to never talk back to our elders and we were taught to always stay put. When I knew things were wrong I would let it all pass and keep my head down low. It was always easier when we didn’t make a scene and just let everything go.

My Lola’s mother’s darker lips have started to open up. They’re ready to sing, to scream and shout, to be heard and to disrupt. Our ancestors’ eyes and ears have seen and heard far more than was needed. Unlearning centuries of colonization and colorism, it’s time to answer the calls left unheeded.

My Lola’s mother’s darker lips are now my own to speak with To heal multiple generations of trauma, in Tagalog, Spanish, and English.