Recently someone asked me to share my experience as a Filipino American mom. The question was beautiful and generous, but as I tried to answer it, my heart ached. I can talk about mom-ing all day long – how I foster autonomy and nurture self-confidence, how I model boundaries and apologies. I can talk mom all day. It’s the Filipino part that stunned me. So what did I say? Some surface level answer about making my kids take off their shoes in the house and teaching them a few Tagalog words here and there.
walang hiya
I spent the most formative years of adolescence trying to hide my Filipino-ness. Often times denying it all together. What are you? the ambiguous question they asked with all the implications staring me in the face. I’m Filipino, but I’m also Spanish and Chinese and I think some Irish, but I don’t know. The message I was trying to convey – I’m not just Filipino. Because in my mind it wasn’t enough, and that idea was confirmed in the world around me. It wasn’t enough because Filipinos weren’t represented on TV or magazines. I didn’t see us outside of my own families and friends. This was only made more evident by the colonial mentality of those who surrounded me. You’re so Filipino, someone said to me. I was in 8th grade and it was the first time I had heard it like that, like it was a bad thing. Because I ate all the chicken off the bone, because I sat with one knee up to my chest and the other bent underneath me, because I said certain words with a Filipino accent.
I spent the next decade actively and painfully separated myself from Filipino culture purposely not hanging out with other Filipino kids if I could help it. I didn’t date Filipino guys and I was very vocal about it. I stopped listening to hip hop and rap even though I loved it because I thought surely it would expose me as Filipino. Instead I listened to KROQ and died my hair blonde. I wore only flip flops with flowy white skirts. Whatever Lindsey Lohan or Paris Hilton were wearing at the time, you bet I had the knock-off version of it.
I was very successful at pretending to be white. All my friends were white, and often times they would forget that I wasn’t. We’re going to be the only white people there, my best friend said as we drove to the graduation party my family was throwing me. My reply, I know… It took several seconds for us to realize that I wasn’t white.
It may seem trivial. After all, most teenagers go through phases, but this was much more than a phase like goth or emo. In my mind, I thought I was leveling up – that if I only surrounded myself with whiteness, bathed myself in it, I would be spared from the struggles of my ancestors. Turns out, I was wrong. Denying my culture didn’t protect me from racism, but it did isolate me from a community that would have validated my feelings, stood behind me, and made me stronger.
Even when I was pregnant, I dreamed of birthing babies with blue eyes and light brown hair. It wasn’t until my son was born that I started to think about what it means to be a Filipino mom. I could no longer deny it because denying my culture would be denying my son of his, and I didn’t want him untethered in this world like I had been. I wanted him to have roots. So in my 30s I started to wonder what this meant for me who had spent half my life claiming that I wasn’t just Filipino suddenly trying to Filipino again.
There are several ways I am raising my kids differently than my parents raised me. Yet, I still feel so honored to have been raised by Filipino parents who seem to be my anchor, my ticket, to Filipino culture. I often wonder who will go to Seafood city, order pancit from Manilla Grille, or send balikbayan boxes to the PI when they are gone. Maybe it will be me. Maybe then I will understand that being a Filipino American mom means taking care of family. Maybe it means feeding your loved ones not just with food, but with counsel. Maybe it’s holding people accountable and having hard conversations, not holding anything back. Maybe it’s forgiveness. Maybe it’s always having a place to call home. Maybe it’s understanding the value of hard work. Maybe it’s helping the hostess clean up after the party. Maybe it’s generosity, humility, love and goodness. And a whole lot of party games.
That is what I wish I had said when asked about my experience as a Filipino American mom. I wish I would have talked about how my Titas shower my kids with affection and gifts, ultimately spoiling them in ways I wish all brown kids could be spoiled. I wish I would have said that having a big Filipino family feels like unconditional love and protection. It feels like a safety net underneath my feet as I navigate the unfamiliar terrain of raising Filipino babies while having spent so much of my own life denying my inherent culture.
I am mending my identity has a Filipino American mom so that I have something to give to my kids but also so that I have something to give back to my younger self. It will probably take me my entire life to fully understand what it means to be a Filipino American mom, but I’m off to a good start. I know it means mahal, and I hope I live long enough to be a Lola who sings karaoke nightly and tells my apos how lucky they are to be Filipino.
And now, when people ask me the arduous question, What are you? I say proudly, I’m Filipino. You’re not mixed? They ask. Nope. I’m just Filipino.
Risking Delight 