Blogger's note: This was published with the title, "This Azkal barks, 'I am 100 percent Pinoy'", on 18-Mar-12, 2:25 PM under my byline in InterAksyon.com when the Philippines' conflict with China over the latter's nine-dash-line claim was just starting. I intend to write another on the topic as the conflict rages on.
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| Courage @Tian An Men Square, June 1989 |
MANILA, Philippines - I'm 100 percent Azkal. My
mother is a chocolate-colored Pinay, her father's Spanish blood thinned by her
indio mother and sunny Philippine weather. My father's last name can be traced
back to the first emperor of the Middle Kingdom. This imperial connection may
be the reason why everyone says, lakas ng dugo ng tatay mo. Sans his 5'11"
height, I am really my father's mini-me.
Despite my genealogy, I'm 100 percent Filipino, never mind that my looks seem a betrayal (or more precisely in the face of the Spratlys dispute, a treason). My yellow face standing out in a jeepney full of brown faces has repeatedly brought me back to the question: Filipino ba ako? O Tsino? (The language in which that question is always framed should have been a major clue.)
Variations of "what is a Filipino" have nagged me all my life, as people around me -- friends and family included -- point to how different I look. (Only my only brother and I take after our father's looks; the four others are a safe mix -- in this milieu.)
When I was a toddler (and Vietnam War was raging), I remember neighbors coo-coo'ing "Vietcong" to me. When I was in grade school, I remember strangers my age spitting out Tsekwa or Intsik or Bejo at me when I encounter them on the street. (I don't know the etymology of Tsekwa. I would later learn that Intsik may have come from the Fookien words for "his uncle" and Bejo from the Spanish word for "old man.")
In my presence, some colleagues (including Leftists who should know better about class wars) would ascribe to the Chinese a ruthlessness in business dealings (to which I'd like to say, is a function of class, not race, and greed, not DNA imprint). They'd give this commentary in my presence and then apologize to me as if I was responsible for the behavior of capitalists.
I also get it from the other bloodline. Mindlessly assuming that I'm one of them, my "pure" (what a Nazi word) Chinese classmates would carelessly use the Chinese words for Filipino women to refer to their maids -- and this was years before the Oxford Dictionary brouhaha. Even if I knew that there was nothing wrong with being a maid, the assumption that all Filipino women are maids is, number one, false, and number two, insulting; and therefore, number three, hurtful.
But this derision I get from the Yellow side (intentional or otherwise) does not sting as much as when it comes from the Brown side. Maybe because it makes me feel not completely welcome here. Maybe because despite my face, I identify myself more as Filipino. My Mandarin is Greek to the waitresses in Beijing. I got lost in a recent reunion of Chinese friends from high school. They were talking too fast and I couldn't get past the subjects in their sentences. And a tutee once told me my Chinese made me sound like a probinsyana.
The books that sustained me growing up were Chaim Potok, Richard Wright, and John Steinbeck, speaking to me about racism or sexism and other isms that deal with being put down for things beyond your control: your race, your sex, your family (and the class and religion that it naturally passes on to you).
Compared to the racism of the Ku Klux Klan and the Aryan Supremacy groups in the US and the West, the Filipino brand of racism is pretty blunt. The Chinese in the Philippines have been assimilated here. And many have come to celebrate this duality and have called themselves "Chinoys" to try and describe the band they occupy in the race/color spectrum. Like the Fil-Ams in the States.
Again, what makes a Filipino a Filipino? For many, the question may confront them only when they're abroad and people try to guess where they're from: Are you Chinese, Viet, Thai, or Indonesian? Even abroad, people don't mistake me for Filipino. At a bus station from Amsterdam to Utrecht, a young woman approached a young man with a guitar and asked him, "Filipino ka rin?" and started a conversation. A couple of inches away from them, I tried to fight the lonely need to connect and simply listened to their happy banter. Many will meet this question officially when they have to switch nationality/citizenship.
When TV broadcaster Arnold Clavio made the insensitive "Di naman sila lahing kayumanggi" comment, I wasn't too hurt for these East-West hybrids, who are worshipped and adored here. I'm pretty sure these kicking, head-balling athletes are discriminated against in their other home country. That's why they like it here. But I like that the question is being asked again. It sharpens their sense of Filipino, which for better or for worse, includes its distinct type of racism.
Racism is not only about ignorance, it is also about dominance. In the materialistic world, he who has the gold sets the standards of morality and beauty. Identity is more than shared language or experience, it is also shared aspirations. You can claim the land as yours when it has claimed one of your relatives, according to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, not unlike watering the land with blood. For me, the sweat and tears of these mutts will do, playing their hearts out for the Philippine flag.
From 100 percent confounded, I'm 100 percent grateful that my ancestors (from poverty-escaping Chinese and conquistadores Spanish) chose this land, which is kinder to me than if I'd been born in boy-centric China. I'm also 100 percent proud because Azkals (or mongrels or half-breeds) are the future. Products of love despite the differences, we create an inclusive, tolerant world. More than getting the best of two worlds, we navigate at least two realities, living in but not quite belonging to either, more understanding and more forgiving. Think Bono of U2, of Protestant mother and Catholic father. Think Barack Obama, of a white mother and a Kenyan* father. Think every OFW in a foreign land.
*corrected from Nigerian
www.interaksyon.com/article/27168/this-azkal-barks-i-am-100-percent-pinoy
Despite my genealogy, I'm 100 percent Filipino, never mind that my looks seem a betrayal (or more precisely in the face of the Spratlys dispute, a treason). My yellow face standing out in a jeepney full of brown faces has repeatedly brought me back to the question: Filipino ba ako? O Tsino? (The language in which that question is always framed should have been a major clue.)
Variations of "what is a Filipino" have nagged me all my life, as people around me -- friends and family included -- point to how different I look. (Only my only brother and I take after our father's looks; the four others are a safe mix -- in this milieu.)
When I was a toddler (and Vietnam War was raging), I remember neighbors coo-coo'ing "Vietcong" to me. When I was in grade school, I remember strangers my age spitting out Tsekwa or Intsik or Bejo at me when I encounter them on the street. (I don't know the etymology of Tsekwa. I would later learn that Intsik may have come from the Fookien words for "his uncle" and Bejo from the Spanish word for "old man.")
In my presence, some colleagues (including Leftists who should know better about class wars) would ascribe to the Chinese a ruthlessness in business dealings (to which I'd like to say, is a function of class, not race, and greed, not DNA imprint). They'd give this commentary in my presence and then apologize to me as if I was responsible for the behavior of capitalists.
I also get it from the other bloodline. Mindlessly assuming that I'm one of them, my "pure" (what a Nazi word) Chinese classmates would carelessly use the Chinese words for Filipino women to refer to their maids -- and this was years before the Oxford Dictionary brouhaha. Even if I knew that there was nothing wrong with being a maid, the assumption that all Filipino women are maids is, number one, false, and number two, insulting; and therefore, number three, hurtful.
But this derision I get from the Yellow side (intentional or otherwise) does not sting as much as when it comes from the Brown side. Maybe because it makes me feel not completely welcome here. Maybe because despite my face, I identify myself more as Filipino. My Mandarin is Greek to the waitresses in Beijing. I got lost in a recent reunion of Chinese friends from high school. They were talking too fast and I couldn't get past the subjects in their sentences. And a tutee once told me my Chinese made me sound like a probinsyana.
The books that sustained me growing up were Chaim Potok, Richard Wright, and John Steinbeck, speaking to me about racism or sexism and other isms that deal with being put down for things beyond your control: your race, your sex, your family (and the class and religion that it naturally passes on to you).
Compared to the racism of the Ku Klux Klan and the Aryan Supremacy groups in the US and the West, the Filipino brand of racism is pretty blunt. The Chinese in the Philippines have been assimilated here. And many have come to celebrate this duality and have called themselves "Chinoys" to try and describe the band they occupy in the race/color spectrum. Like the Fil-Ams in the States.
Again, what makes a Filipino a Filipino? For many, the question may confront them only when they're abroad and people try to guess where they're from: Are you Chinese, Viet, Thai, or Indonesian? Even abroad, people don't mistake me for Filipino. At a bus station from Amsterdam to Utrecht, a young woman approached a young man with a guitar and asked him, "Filipino ka rin?" and started a conversation. A couple of inches away from them, I tried to fight the lonely need to connect and simply listened to their happy banter. Many will meet this question officially when they have to switch nationality/citizenship.
When TV broadcaster Arnold Clavio made the insensitive "Di naman sila lahing kayumanggi" comment, I wasn't too hurt for these East-West hybrids, who are worshipped and adored here. I'm pretty sure these kicking, head-balling athletes are discriminated against in their other home country. That's why they like it here. But I like that the question is being asked again. It sharpens their sense of Filipino, which for better or for worse, includes its distinct type of racism.
Racism is not only about ignorance, it is also about dominance. In the materialistic world, he who has the gold sets the standards of morality and beauty. Identity is more than shared language or experience, it is also shared aspirations. You can claim the land as yours when it has claimed one of your relatives, according to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, not unlike watering the land with blood. For me, the sweat and tears of these mutts will do, playing their hearts out for the Philippine flag.
From 100 percent confounded, I'm 100 percent grateful that my ancestors (from poverty-escaping Chinese and conquistadores Spanish) chose this land, which is kinder to me than if I'd been born in boy-centric China. I'm also 100 percent proud because Azkals (or mongrels or half-breeds) are the future. Products of love despite the differences, we create an inclusive, tolerant world. More than getting the best of two worlds, we navigate at least two realities, living in but not quite belonging to either, more understanding and more forgiving. Think Bono of U2, of Protestant mother and Catholic father. Think Barack Obama, of a white mother and a Kenyan* father. Think every OFW in a foreign land.
*corrected from Nigerian
www.interaksyon.com/article/27168/this-azkal-barks-i-am-100-percent-pinoy
