A Walk in my Fil-Am Shoes

by Marion Condeza

I was standing at the door of my grandparents’ home, basking under the blazing sun and taking deep, reflective breaths of the stagnant, humid air. I listened to palm trees swaying everywhere as the wind blew them and little, happy-go-lucky children running around in their ruffled school uniforms. It was my first trip to the Philippines in ten long years, and I really appreciated every detail. I let every moment sink in.

I turned back inside and saw my grandfather’s cousin with a wide genuine smile as she looked back at me. She gestured towards the amazing breakfast she had made just for me. She was so sweet and caring that almost I couldn’t believe it.

I didn’t know I had so many relatives. Plus, I was an important guest to all of them when we barely knew anything about each other. They had so little, but presented me with large home-cooked meals and gifts such as my grandfather’s precious, old songbook. I could tell they tried their hardest to please me.

It was an odd feeling to be so loved by these strangers. All the while, I was discovering that we shared a deeply remarkable ancestry— a past before my birth that my parents’ few stories barely touched upon. I found I had a family that was so huge it practically dominated my parents’ entire hometown. I felt a fervent place in my heart finally awakening, overtaken by immense acts of love I never asked for.

A lot of pride filled me through my visit to the Philippines. Nevertheless, something was wrong. Everywhere I went, I felt I didn’t quite fit in. Actually, it was quite obvious.

Entering a large gathering of Filipinos, I would get heads to turn as if everyone knew at that moment I walked by that I was from somewhere far from out of town. Tiny barefoot children in large hand-me-down dresses couldn’t stop staring at me—the tall girl with A&F shorts, big hoop earrings, and manicured nails. I felt so uncomfortable. And I couldn’t break the awkward silence of these brown-eyed youngsters.

As a matter of fact, there was no Filipino dialect I could have used to talk to anyone in. Every day, we visited new family members, and it was increasingly frustrating sitting around for hours— forced to listen to laughter and chatter I couldn’t understand. Upset and dying of boredom, I wondered, Why didn’t my parents teach me their dialect, Bisaya?! Even meeting my half-brother for the first time was extremely tongue-tied. He made the excuse that he was too shy, and whenever I tried speaking to him his difficult attempts to respond were half-hearted just because he thought his English wasn’t so great.

I was crestfallen at hearing how everyone assumed I was quiet and reserved. There was so much I wanted to talk to them about their lives, history, and culture! But if I simply ever asked, “What did he/she say,” or “What does that mean?” people were likely to ignore me or laugh. Was it because they couldn’t explain? Or because I would never understand? Obviously, there’s something that sets me too far apart from their culture.

I am Filipino. It’s funny how when asked my nationality, I reply immediately with that answer. If it was actually valid, my trip to the Philippines would have been much more easygoing and fulfilling. There is another half of my identity I need to acknowledge—and that is being American. As a Filipino-American, I am not only mixed with different cultures, but unique experiences, perspectives, and troubles.

One trouble that has come to my attention is that most first generation Filipino-Americans cannot speak their parents’ native tongue. Knowing I wasn’t alone as a child, I used to think that it was no big deal, English was enough. Then, I began to hear my Filipino friends gossiping. I sat by my aunts or uncles praying deep words I couldn’t understand. I noticed parents singing in Bisaya with our karaoke machine. As the days went by, especially after visiting the Philippines, I wished more and more that I wasn’t disconnected from their lively communication.

I regret not learning at an early age when it would’ve been easier, but I am sure I am not alone. What should be done for Filipino Americans and other Asian Americans else feeling shut off from so much of their own culture? Such miscommunication can really complicate self-identification and limit relations with other people. Please, don’t ever let it limit any of yours. There are many different languages and people in the world out there, but never let that stop you walking in another person’s shoes.

Thank you so much— for walking in mine.