Abubot to Labubu: When Keepsakes Get Marketed

Filipinos have always had a unique relationship with the things we own. It's not just about possessing an item; it's about what that item represents. We hold onto everything—from heirlooms passed down through generations to something as simple as a button that fell off our uniform, or the receipt from that meal we've been eyeing for months.

These things are not just objects. They carry a piece of us, a memory, a feeling, something too valuable to let go of. For us, the abubot or the anik-anik isn’t just clutter; it’s a testament to the moments we've lived.

That crumpled price tag from a pricey shoes we splurged on? It’s not just a symbol of what we spent; it’s a reminder of the time we saved for it. The ticket stub from the movie we went to with friends? It's a snapshot of that day, that moment. And yes, the burloloy on the shelves—those small knick-knacks and dolls—have nothing to do with their real value, but everything to do with the memories attached to them.

However, the Filipino abubots have been gradually losing their nostalgic allure with the rise of modern anik-aniks. These new items—like figurines, plushies, or acrylic displays—are often purchased impulsively or influenced by passing fads, lacking the deep sentimental value that once made our keepsakes so special. Instead of embodying the moments we’ve cherished, they now mirror the fast-paced, consumer-oriented culture we navigate.

What was once a symbol of cherished memories now risks becoming mere decoration, stripped of meaning. While these new anik-aniks might grab our attention momentarily, they often lack the emotional depth to truly resonate, leaving us yearning for the timeless connection we used to have with the objects we held dear.

The Changing Value of What We Keep

Sometimes, the most ordinary or forgotten items can hold great significance. On X (formerly Twitter), one post showcases a pedicab—a staple of Filipino transport—filled with anik-anik, items many would dismiss as "patapon" or trivial. However, the owner finds joy in these collected items, showing that even the things others might overlook or discard can represent personal pride and memories. It’s an excellent example of how we cherish what is meaningful to us, even if others don’t see its worth. 

SEE MORE: https://x.com/hubineer/status/1855485622808387765?s=61&t=xqp_quoFnrMp4HCw-WznIA

Similarly, another post reveals a person preserving the packaging of a Magnum ice cream bar—once a luxurious treat when it was first popularized in 2013. What might seem like trash to some is, for this individual, a keepsake. It’s a reminder of a moment in time when indulging in a Magnum bar felt special, almost like an event. That packaging, now kept as a token, becomes more than just a wrapper—it’s a symbol of indulgence and self-care that was ingrained in Filipino culture. 

SEE MORE: https://x.com/muntingbagay/status/1852642905476976695?s=61&t=xqp_quoFnrMp4HCw-WznIA

But somewhere along the line, something changed. What was once rooted in sentimentality has been overtaken by a newer, faster impulse—consumerism. What used to be about the things we kept because they reminded us of something real, something important, has now become about acquiring the next shiny object.

We now see it in the rise of Sonny Angels, Hirono dolls, and the Labubu toys that fill every corner of the market. These collectibles aren’t born out of necessity or nostalgia—they're driven by a need to possess, to show that we, too, have a piece of the latest trend.

Ironically, as much as I want to criticize it, I am part of this, too. I catch myself scrolling through listings, thinking, just one more won't hurt. It's an obsession that slowly shifts the meaning of the objects we collect. And it's not just about owning these items anymore. The price tag of these collectibles often comes with a hefty cost—ranging from Php 600 to 1,500 or more depending on the rarity and series. Despite the steep prices, we still find ourselves willing to save and splurge just to be part of this ever-growing trend.

Entertainment and the Role of Objects

These objects are no longer just about preserving memories; they’ve become distractions, forms of entertainment that fill our spaces and, in a way, our emptiness. There’s a strange comfort in having something to hold onto—a concert ticket, a figurine, or a price tag from that one item we were too scared to buy but eventually did. These things act as anchors in our lives, something tangible we can revisit when the world feels overwhelming.

These small items help us navigate our days, reminding us that we are alive, that we matter, and that something is worth remembering. They are little trophies of existence, not achievement. 

It’s not that we don’t value the memories, but sometimes it feels easier to hold on to the material remnants—the receipts, trinkets, and tags—than to face the deeper emotions behind them. The objects act as a shield, preserving the feeling without confronting what they really represent.

In collecting these seemingly insignificant items, we try to hold onto a connection to the past, to moments we can’t get back. We find comfort in their familiarity, thinking that by keeping them, we can keep the feeling alive. But in doing so, we risk losing the essence of what made those moments special. The objects start to overshadow the meaning, turning the memory into a collection of things instead of a lasting emotion. 

The Power of Commodification

The most unsettling part of all this is how consumerism has seeped into our most sacred traditions. What started as a deeply personal connection to memories and experiences has been hijacked by the market. The powerful, who have always dictated trends, have found a way to sell us back our own culture.

The collectibles we once sought because they were reminders of something personal are now commodified as the thing that we need to have. Whether it’s a Sonny Angel or a Hirono doll, these items aren’t just about memories anymore—they’ve become about status. They tell the world that we’re part of something bigger, something exclusive. 

This is further exemplified by the recent rise in influencers and personalities who wear brands like Labubu and Cry Baby as a fashion statement. A post on X captures this shift perfectly: a user commented under a tweet of a rich personality, adorned with Labubu accessories and Cry Baby toys, saying, “These fake anik anik people... all I see is consumerism and corny rich people trying to fit in.” This critique underscores the growing tension between the original, sentimental value of these items and their current commercialization, where people use them not for personal meaning, but to show off wealth or status. 

SEE MORE: https://x.com/droidhymns/status/1852190450657984578?s=61&t=xqp_quoFnrMp4HCw-WznIA

In the end, we’re not just buying trinkets. We’re buying the illusion of connection, the illusion of experience, wrapped up in a neat little package for us to collect and display.

Filipino Values and the Future of Memory-Keeping

All of this—the abubot, the anik-anik, the labubu, even the price tags and receipts—has deep roots in Filipino values. It’s about family, memory, and connection. We keep these things because they tie us to the past, to each other, and to the things that matter most.

The unfortunate truth is that in our quest for more, we risk losing what made those things valuable in the first place. The challenge, then, is to find a balance. How do we hold onto our traditions, our memories, without letting them become just another commodity?

Can we preserve the essence of abubot and burloloy in a world that’s more interested in selling us the next best thing? Maybe the answer lies in remembering that it’s not always about the thing itself—it’s about the moment, the feelings, and the memory it holds. 

And perhaps, in a world driven by consumerism, that’s the one thing we should never lose.