The students cheered and reached out to us as we walked through the hallways. Confetti covered the floor, and they handed out small candies and stickers. Everyone was talking about the American students visiting their school in the Philippines, but I blended in because I looked Filipino. There were two types of students: the American exchange students and the Filipino students. I was technically both. My parents moved from the Philippines to America for a better life, but I felt caught between being Filipino and American. The Filipino students treated me like one of them, but I didn’t feel like I belonged because I barely understood Tagalog and couldn’t really speak it. I felt more American, so I stayed with my friends, who looked more foreign than I did. They received more attention from the Filipino students. People noticed them. “It’s only been a couple of days, but I don’t feel like a Filipino or American… I’m just someone.” I blurted out as I blankly stared at my host sister. She laughed. “You’re more Filipino than I am. Your mannerism and favorite meal is Filipino. If anything, I’m more American than you…” Her favorite meal was pancakes with sausages and eggs. Mine was pinakbet, a vegetable stew with a strong fish smell. Maybe I was pinakbet: something people avoided at first, but full of flavors they hadn’t discovered yet. The next day, we visited another high school, and I was selected to visit the music class and dance class. I glanced at a piano as I eagerly sprinted over to graze my fingers along the white keys. “Play us something!” One of the students asked as he settled on his seat near the drumset. Letting my fingers dance across the keys, I started playing a jazzy song. More students joined in and followed the same rhythm. I was having so much fun that I forgot about not fitting in, at least for a moment. Then, I hit a wrong note when the teacher walked in. She put music on the board and told us to grab the instruments at the front. I picked up a bandurria, a Filipino guitar, and traced my fingers over the strings. The students who had played with me gathered around and patiently showed me how to play it. Holding the bandurria, I felt a new connection to my Filipino roots, which I didn’t need Tagalog to understand. My friend from the dance class next door urged me to join her. Inside, dancers stretched at the barre while the teacher adjusted the speaker. She introduced me as I timidly waved, and one dancer ran up to me and hugged me quickly. As the teacher hovered over the speaker and asked, “Are we ready with music?” I joined and glanced around at my new companions. When the music began, we waltzed across the floor. I focused on my footing, watching my reflection in the mirror. The rhythm of our feet pacing filled the room, and for the first time that week, I wasn’t thinking about whether I belonged more to America or the Philippines. I was simply moving from something larger than myself. When I returned home, I continued to perform Filipino dance in both school and community events. Through each music and dance performance, the story that preserves my culture evolves with every step I take and every note I play. As I embrace both of my identities, my heritage is a rhythm that connects every part of who I am—a mix of notes, movements, and flavors that come together to form one story: my own.