A few weeks ago I went to my local Sears store to return a recent purchase. It was first thing in the morning, so the store was still quiet, almost empty. As I approached the customer service desk I noticed the woman working the counter was not white. Not only was she not white, she looked Asian. As we greeted each other, it became apparent that she was Filipino. I could hear it in her voice. Though hard to hear at first, her light accent was unmistakable. I don't often meet other "pinoys" in my town, though I know there is a considerable Filipino contigency here in Central Illinois. I just usually never meet them.
There are one of two things that can happen when two Filipinos meet: they can either acknowledge that they are both Filipino. Or they can ignore their common thread altogether and remain two strangers in what could be a moment of connection. We chose the latter.
As I walked away I could only think that hearing her voice made me feel like I was home. It's a distinct rhythm and lilt that characterizes the Filipino speaking English as a second language, and Tagalog is definitely a distinct language of its own. Hearing her voice instantly brought me back to the large family gatherings at my Auntie Sylvia's house where on any given holiday or special occasion you'd walk in the door and be engulfed with the fragrant cooking and language that still surrounds who my family is today.
It's a strange thing. Sometimes I forget who I am. I am a first generation Filipino-American, and as such I have had one foot here, one foot there in two different worlds for a good part of my life. However, I've been steeped in white, American culture for so long, that I forget about this whole other side of me. And in one brief exchange at a Sears counter it all came flooding back.
I've spent a good deal of my life wishing I was someone else and striving to become something I will never be. Not because it was something to be desired, but because my "otherness" was always so apparent it was hard to feel accepted. You cannot hide skin color, nor can you easily hide socio-economic status or background. And perhaps this was all self-inflicted paranoia stemming from the hyper sensitive lens of an adolescent. I was, after all, a minority in a sea of pretty, rich, white girls. But now, nearly twenty years later, many things remind me of that "otherness", that "I'm not like you", or "we don't have that in common". But it's not about skin color anymore, just about other things.
Maybe I haven't really grown up at all. Maybe I'm still that insecure adolescent who felt infinitely different than everyone else around her. Or maybe I've just been in the Midwest for too long.
.JPG)
