Filipina.
At a young age, i was moved from the Philippines to America.
The country was,
as any other,
unforgiving
and my parents struggled
financially with our stability. I, on the other hand, was struggling as well, which was weird since i was only nine. At the age of nine, i lived in Connecticut, a very closed minded place full of people who were all the same.
And i was not the same.
I lacked the big eyes, the pale skin, the height, the hair. And i was disgusted. I was disgusted because i did not fit in. I did not know who i was and to this day, as a junior in high school, far away from my nine year old self, i still do not know.
But i did know that i was not normal and the sheer lack of normality scarred me. I had friends who mocked me, who called me ching chong, who compared me to Mulan when i was not even chinese, who laughed when they heard i ate rice with every meal.
I was afraid.
I wanted to be like them. So i built up this wall, a bulwark that kept me safe by mocking my culture just as they did and not even bothering to try and learn about the island country far away from where i was.
I became more American than Filipina and to be honest, that was who i was.
I was American. I was raised in America. But i was not like everyone around me. And that haunted me for years, so much that it made me hate my appearance. I fell in love with caucasian boys and desired white skin and a white family.
I refused to learn my native tongue in fear that my friends would make fun of me.
I made myself American, true American.
More American than Filipino.
When i moved to California, i was, for the first time, exposed to my culture. Newark, California was a place where many filipinos resided.
And they were proud to be Filipino.
Never in my time there was anyone ever made fun of for their tan skin, their short stature, and the food they brought to school.
In fact they relished in it. They were curious, they embraced it with open arms and minds and were proud to be who they were.
And for once in my life i felt like being Filipino was not bad.
I was exposed to the culture.
We were kind people, respectful and full of creativity. Our culture oozed beauty and grace, beauty that was not in your face, but beauty that radiated from within- in kindness, hospitality, and widespread love.
We took pride in our food, in our customs, in our closeness to God, everything.
And i was not disgusted to look in the mirror.
I embraced my skin color and my inner beauty.
And what i have learned is so extensive i cannot possibly iterate it.
I have learned that we were once ordinary island people. We resembled closely to the polynesian people who had chiefs and were adorned with tattoos. When the Spaniards came we adopted their religion and their culture and married into their families.
We all look different. Some are tall, some are dark skinned, some are pale and some are short in stature.
But we are all Filipino.
A week ago, i watched the movie Moana.
The Polynesian culture and the people who were so in love with their culture encompassed me, making me fall in love with the sea, and my culture all over again.
I wanted to be Polynesian.
But i was not.
And my identity was a confusion again.
I did not know who i was but i, yet again, wanted to be different.
I wanted my culture to be as rich as theirs.
But over the past few weeks i have been thinking.
My culture, although not as widely praised or pronounced as the polynesians, was rich and beautiful.
In fact, it is one of the most beautiful things i have ever seen in my life.
And i am Filipina.
I come from people who were once islanders adorned with paint and led by a chief.
I come from those very same people who married into Spaniard families.
I come from the children of those people and the foreigners.
I come from a rich culture full of people who do not live off of money, but of love.
And i have come to love my home that months ago, if you had asked me, i would have said i hated with a passion.
But it is a part of me.
The mixture of spaniards and my ancestors of Austronesian/Malay/Negrito descent is a part of me.
I am a part of filipino parents who have worked so very hard to get me an education, an education that i took forgranted for the sole reason that i didnt educate myself on who i was.
But this is who i am.
I will not be swayed by the white skin that i wanted for so long or the other cultures that i wish i was a part of.
Because that is not who i am.
I am the downpour outside of my Nanay and Tatays house.
I am the Volcanos that sleep under the ground i walk.
I am my islander ancestors that are buried under years and years of breeding with foreigners that are now also a part of me.
I am the songs in tagalog, in ilocano that lull me to sleep on Christmas nights.
I am the white sanded beaches with the waters as clear as day to the crowded cities to the small villages filled with people who do not fear the lack of money they have.
I am the people who work every night to find a better living.
I am me.
I am a Filipina.
