To be Filipino

A few days ago, we picked up my aunts who went for a bit of vacation in the Philippines. They’d been there for two months, and you could tell that they felt that it was time to come back. Ever since their return though, I’ve been having this really bad feeling in my gut. I feel unsettled. I feel…distraught.

On the highway, they were already filling my mom in on all of the stuff that happened while they were there. Even though I was concentrating on the road, I still had one ear open to what was going on. The apparent difference in the level of wealth was surprising to me. I don’t think that family there is by any means “poor”, but money related issues seemed to be the focus of discussion. I was almost shocked at some of the things I had heard–mostly regarding “have not” type stories. I’m not ashamed or anything, but, it’s just foreign to me. At the same time though, this is all part of my heritage.

I was born Canadian. If anyone were to ask me about my nationality, I’d state flat out that I’m Canadian. This is where my pride is. However, inevitably, the person asking will follow up saying “No, that’s not what I meant. You know what I mean.” Indeed, I do, and still my first gut reaction is to say “Canadian” anyway. My focus on my Filipino heritage is more secondary than anything. I usually don’t have to focus on the fact unless, perhaps, I have to explain what a tabo is to my roommates, or other Filipino-isms. I mean, this is all a part of who I am and not something I give much thought to, know what I mean?

Anyway, the thought of poverty makes me sad, but also glad enough to be fortunate enough to be born here. My friend Jenelle said “best thing is to thank God that we are here and our families sacrficies to keep us here,” which is sound advice. Not only am I thankful to be born on this side of the Pacific, but moreso, I am so glad to have grown up in such a rich multicultural society. The levels of tolerance here in Toronto and the surrounding area can’t be duplicated. I’m thankful for being here, but conversely, I wonder whether this leaves me unprepared for the world outside of here.

I’ve hardly had to put a huge amount of thought into the fact that I’m a minority. It’s not actively shoved in my face. So, all in all, I’ve felt just like another average Canadian. But then, you hear stories in the news that almost make you suddenly all too aware of who you are. Have you heard yet that story of that little kid in Quebec? He was eating his food with a fork and spoon, which is normal for Filipino culture. The teacher told him something along the lines that he was eating like a pig and separated him from the rest of the kids. When the mother got wind of what happened, and told the principal of the school, she was told that when in Canada, they should eat like Canadians do. When my family heard of the story, they felt indignant, saying that they should have respected other people’s cultures. I agreed, but at the same time, I felt bad at the story. I mean, here’s a kid who was shamed into not wanting to eat anymore because of some cultural habit. Now, to be fair, the school claims it was not about the eating, but about the child being unruly…but…if that was it, where did all this mess about the eating habits come about? Something must have been said. My heart felt heavy for the kid. That could very well have been me when I was a lot younger.

Oh, then there’s the whole story about Jeffrey Reodica who was shot in the back three times by a police officer. I don’t know the details, nor do I claim to. Yes, the murder is disheartening, but the part of the story that hit me harder was hearing about the slur “go back to the Philippines and eat rice” apparently uttered by someone involved in the incident. What the hell.

As I’m typing this, my mind is having a lot of trouble processing just what that slur meant to me. This all happened here in Toronto: the very place I’m claiming to be tolerant. I just don’t get it.
**EDIT: In retrospect, I shouldn’t comment on this case at the moment.**

See, all of these sad stories are making me think about what it means to be Filipino, and moreover, Canadian-Filipino. It’s good to have to meditate on such things every once in a while, but the fact that it is the intolerance that is making me question who I am, is making me sad.

As usual, all I can do now is to continue to do my best, and hope that my future children will experience the tolerance that I was fortunate to have lived through, and perhaps that that tolerance will have been changed into true acceptance.

Possibly related posts:

1. Filipino voices