I am Filipino. I am a part of the Filipino-American diaspora, and more importantly, I’m proud to be a part of it. Biologically I’m mixed race (Filipino/white) but I identify as Filipino because blood quantum is a tool of colonialism. Blood quantum says nothing about the people I was raised around, the culture I am most emphatically a part of, the food I eat, or how society treats me. That quarter of me that’s Filipino has dictated a lot of my life, but the biggest impact has been how society views me.
My name, my eye shape, my values, and even my preferred flatware all instantly other me when it comes to white America. And in a way it should, because I’m not white. My skin is fair only because I spend the vast majority of my time indoors. A few hours in the desert sun with no sunscreen is all it takes for people to compare me to lumpia. But that’s only a bad thing when it comes to racism. The Philippines is rich with culture and heritage that colonialism wasn’t able to stamp out. And I’m proud to be a part of the largest diaspora in the world. I’m proud of my roots, of the people who came before me and fought to give me the life I have now. I’m proud of the food I eat, and I’m proud of the rich storytelling history that stems from the islands my Apo came from in the 50s.
My status as a mixed-race individual hasn’t been easy, though. For one thing, centuries of colonialism have absolutely ravaged countless Filipino families, and mine is no different. It’s easy to disparage Filipinos because of their very real struggles. What people don’t realize is a lot of those struggles are rooted in colonialism. For centuries there was an effort to destroy our way of life, and it’s been devastating to behold.
I myself am married to a white man. I’ve dated all kinds of people, but the reason I married him is, specifically, he was the first white person I dated who wasn’t racist. We didn’t start dating because he fetishized me. Instead, he took an interest in my culture and has been learning about it. At least three times a week, we eat Filipino food, which he enjoys. If I make something not to his taste, he doesn’t insult it. He says that it’s outside his realm of experience or that it’s not to his taste, but that it doesn’t make it bad so much as different from what he grew up with. He respects my identity and understands the very individual struggles faced by Asians when it comes to systemic racism.
One of the effects colonialism has had on my family was the attempt to stamp out everything that made us Filipino. It was felt that if we kept our heads down and tried to integrate, we’d be safe. But that didn’t solve anything. As an adult, I’ve sought to learn about my heritage. I’m trying to learn the languages that my family spoke. I seek out new recipes to try, to give me that feeling of connection that I so deeply crave. I hang out in Filipino spaces because nothing else has provided the validation that those spaces provide. I’m reading the stories that abound in Filipino circles because no one understands my struggles the way other Filipinos do. My mom sought to be as white as possible, but I reject the conformity she tried to put on me. I am proud to be Filipino, despite the ugly parts of our history and experience. I am seeking out what it means to be Filipino because nothing else has provided the sense of community that I get from that.
This plays massively into the media I grew up consuming. For a long time, I had next to no representation in anything I watched or read. There were stories being told about Asians, much less other Filipinos. It’s why so many of my characters are at least part Filipino. I want everyone to see us as the badasses we are, surviving in a world that has tried to eradicate us for centuries. I’m tired of the narrative that we’re somehow lesser, and I’m looking to offset that. I want to tell stories that feature us, stories that lift us up and give people someone to admire, instead of forcing us to insert ourselves into narratives that don’t even give us a passing thought. Just because I grew up without people like me to look up to doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. I might only be one person, but I’m trying to bring some much-needed variety to genres that don’t often see people like me featured in any capacity. And it’s good for everyone, just not Filipinos. Diversity in books and other forms of media is good for us all, not just those of us who are under-represented. It exposes people to new experiences and thoughts and ideas they might not have considered before, which helps all of us. The more normalized people like me become, the safer the world for people like me becomes.
These conversations can be hard to have. But marginalized voices like mine only continue to suffer the more we put them off. There is nothing wrong with white narratives, after all. I’ve spent my life enjoying books about people I’ll never be, and that isn’t going to change. But having diverse voices only expands our horizons, something we could all use. It shows us the ways life that might differ from our own that aren’t any lesser for being different. There are so many rich histories out there that it hurts everyone to not write about them, and that’s what I’m trying to do. One story might not change the world, but telling a story only I can tell, which includes my Filipino heritage, can help pave the way for others to find their voices. And through those ripples, we can find out more about the beauty of the world and all it holds.
I am proud of who I am. I am proud of those who came before me to pave the way, even those that failed me so deeply. Because the burden placed on our shoulders by colonialism is a heavy one, and not everyone is equipped to bear it. But the burden of colonialism doesn’t have to be that way. I embrace who I am and what my existence means because we should be proud of who we are. There is nothing wrong with being Filipino. And rejecting my heritage because of false beliefs about being lesser is something I’m not willing to do. I have every right to be proud of myself, and where my family comes from.